After a few months of residing in Jerusalem, I made my first trip to Tel Aviv. On a sweltering August day, my friend and I were dropped off to the El Al office on Ben Yehuda by cab from the ugliest Central Bus Station in south Tel Aviv, whither we had traveled from Jerusalem.
And all I could think was, "Dude, Tel Aviv is such an ugly, godawful city."
The muted brown buildings and the heat that horribly dilapidated Central Bus Station megalith, an unsightly, menacing void. This was my first exposure to Tel Aviv; how could I not find it anything but ugly?
Go back to when I was a Jerusalem resident.
It was also distinguished by these very unattractive, almost communist-looking apartment complexes that were scattered around the city, particularly in the more charming neighborhoods of Emek Refaim, Arnona, Rechavia, and Ba'ka. I adored Jerusalem because of its climate, abundance of trees, historical neighborhoods, vast open spaces, and large parks. nonetheless, contemporary Jerusalem? Indeed, ugly. However, no city is flawless, and I accepted the ugly alongside my preconceived notions of beauty as an inevitable aspect of life in Jerusalem. As I learned more about Israel's past and the hideous architecture in both cities, I grew to appreciate both of them throughout my stay in Israel.
The ugliness of those buildings belied something deep and timeless: they symbolized a poor, tenacious nation that was born out of 2,000 years of yearning, three years after the greatest tragedy in Jewish history—the systematic murder of one-third of the world's Jewish population—a nation that had to make due with what it had and construct homes for hundreds of thousands of newly arriving Jews. and serve as its people's motherland. In order to accommodate the influx of Jews, hurriedly designed and built structures were required; their purpose was utilitarian rather than aesthetically pleasing. Many of these structures are still standing, and despite their lack of aesthetic beauty, they serve as testaments to important goals and functions.
Many of these structures are still standing, and even though they lack aesthetic beauty, I find great beauty in their intended use, testament, and purpose. You can't look at them and not think about the family that lived there and how they must have felt to realize, "finally, we are home," knowing that some of them had been uprooted from their homes in Arab countries and others had arrived in Europe immediately following the horrors of the Holocaust. These structures served as their first authentic residence in a Jewish nation on the ancient Jewish homeland.
It's true that such "ugly" structures are being gentrified in modern Israel, but to me, the "ugliness" stands for Israel's miracle. And in my opinion, these structures are still stunning. I spent a lot of time living in them, and to me, those buildings became both my home and my experience of being a Jew in a country that I can't even begin to comprehend as extinct.
Love my "ugly" Israel, I do. I treasure it. It is, in my opinion, the most beautiful country on earth, and its "ugliness" just serves to highlight its beauty.
And all I could think was, "Dude, Tel Aviv is such an ugly, godawful city."
The muted brown buildings and the heat that horribly dilapidated Central Bus Station megalith, an unsightly, menacing void. This was my first exposure to Tel Aviv; how could I not find it anything but ugly?
Go back to when I was a Jerusalem resident.
It was also distinguished by these very unattractive, almost communist-looking apartment complexes that were scattered around the city, particularly in the more charming neighborhoods of Emek Refaim, Arnona, Rechavia, and Ba'ka. I adored Jerusalem because of its climate, abundance of trees, historical neighborhoods, vast open spaces, and large parks. nonetheless, contemporary Jerusalem? Indeed, ugly. However, no city is flawless, and I accepted the ugly alongside my preconceived notions of beauty as an inevitable aspect of life in Jerusalem. As I learned more about Israel's past and the hideous architecture in both cities, I grew to appreciate both of them throughout my stay in Israel.
The ugliness of those buildings belied something deep and timeless: they symbolized a poor, tenacious nation that was born out of 2,000 years of yearning, three years after the greatest tragedy in Jewish history—the systematic murder of one-third of the world's Jewish population—a nation that had to make due with what it had and construct homes for hundreds of thousands of newly arriving Jews. and serve as its people's motherland. In order to accommodate the influx of Jews, hurriedly designed and built structures were required; their purpose was utilitarian rather than aesthetically pleasing. Many of these structures are still standing, and despite their lack of aesthetic beauty, they serve as testaments to important goals and functions.
Many of these structures are still standing, and even though they lack aesthetic beauty, I find great beauty in their intended use, testament, and purpose. You can't look at them and not think about the family that lived there and how they must have felt to realize, "finally, we are home," knowing that some of them had been uprooted from their homes in Arab countries and others had arrived in Europe immediately following the horrors of the Holocaust. These structures served as their first authentic residence in a Jewish nation on the ancient Jewish homeland.
It's true that such "ugly" structures are being gentrified in modern Israel, but to me, the "ugliness" stands for Israel's miracle. And in my opinion, these structures are still stunning. I spent a lot of time living in them, and to me, those buildings became both my home and my experience of being a Jew in a country that I can't even begin to comprehend as extinct.
Love my "ugly" Israel, I do. I treasure it. It is, in my opinion, the most beautiful country on earth, and its "ugliness" just serves to highlight its beauty.