Random Thoughts on Everything

puhh, puhh, puhh!

Why do we stuff messages in a wall? Why knock on wood for luck, or spit three times to ward off the evil eye and prevent tragedy from happening. Does wearing a red string bracelet really keep you safe?

How many of us remain unmarried because we sat down at the corner of a table? Or maybe worse … married a tailor … as you do after crossing your legs. Raise your hand if you willingly chew on a length of thread when that tailor (or some other) stitches a button back on your shirt whilst it’s being worn. Who exactly is the unseen force you’re apparently telling, ‘this is Prada I’m wearing and not a shroud for my grave?’

Perhaps at this very moment you’re reading with salt in one hand and jam in the other, both a popular choice for keeping away evil spirits. Who knew, so many of the little devils play hide and seek in new homes? Their naughty mates waiting to leap out from the folds of new clothes that hang in your just finished wardrobes. And if 2024 wasn’t bad enough, the yellow flowers in your kitchen bring sorrow and a barren womb. But fear not. The rather messy way to beat demons, involves your jar of jam. Open it to distract them from doing bad things, and if the demons prove tricky, sprinkle them with the salt stored in your pockets.

Of course there is no science nor logic to behavioural tics such as entering a room with your left foot first. Most superstitions were born long ago and nurtured in irrational fear. When parents tell their children not to whistle in the house, few respond to the inevitable and whiney ‘why not,’ by whispering, ‘because it might blow evil into your bedroom.’ No sane parent wants to encourage a 4am wake up call from junior, claiming that the demons who just ripped the head off his sister’s favourite unicorn, are now demanding jam whilst stomping their muddy boots all over his dinosaur duvet. A sleepy parent then has an immediate dilemma. Do they say go back to bed, it’s just a dream, or creep downstairs and arm themselves with a jar of Tiptree’s finest. How ridiculous will they feel charging the room and yelling, ‘step away from that stuffed toy.’

If only they had warded off evil by hanging a hamza or placing a closed prayer book under the child’s mattress for safety. When caught out by demons, Kenahora is the magic word you should utter to halt an evil eye. This expression used to be a favourite of elderly uncles and aunts, and it often came with a heavily pinched cheek. These were the same relations who spat on a handkerchief and attempted to wipe smudges from your face, bemused when you pulled away and ran off, leaping past obstacles at the speed of an olympic hurdler.

I began this piece by asking why we leave messages in a wall. The wall I mean is the Western Wall in Jerusalem where worshipers push heartfelt wishes into the ancient cracks and pray for a positive outcome. It’s a phenomenon that goes back to the 18th century, some Rabbis approve and some do not. Twice a year all the notes are removed and rather than destroy them by burning, the wishes are honoured with burial in the Jewish cemetery on the Mount of Olives.

As I typed ‘Western Wall,’ on my laptop here in London, my phone pinged, ‘come to Mamilla Mall for a concert and candle lighting.’ said the banner on my screen with spooky timing. Mamilla Mall is only minutes from the Old City’s Jaffa Gate. The entrance here leads down past tiny shops and dusty stalls to the ancient Temple’s Western Wall. I immediately imagine the uneven Jerusalem stone, the sweaty aroma of mixed spices, thick, sweet, coffee and faded kaftans. Sunshine seeps through the overhead canopies and ultra orthodox men will be weaving their way to prayer, stitched black and white into a tapestry of Arab, pilgrim and tourist.

Puhh, puhh, puhh, I spit three times, pray for peace then knock on wood before I chuck copious amounts of salt over my shoulder.