Gravesites of rabbinical sages mean big business for peddlers

The route to Yonatan Ben-Uziel's tomb is peaceful and pastoral. The road is lined with pine and cypress trees. The leaves rustle in the clean wind. It seems the ideal setting for a cleansing visit to the holy man's grave.

But as you approach, the peace is shattered. The parking lot is full of cars and buses. Hordes of people mill about, coming to and from the Second Temple-era sage's grave. The real bottleneck is near the entrance. That's the point of sale: candles, religious objects, amulets, scarves, CDs for the technologically adept, cheap jewelry and gewgaws, hair ornaments, paintings, toys, bottles of arak and Kiddush wine.

That market-like feeling is exacerbated by the bellowing from the megaphone at the main stall. Instead of "Tomatoes for a shekel" - or 10 - you hear "Mazal tov Esther daughter of Eve who won the sacred key that will bring her a mate this year," or, "Blessings on Ayelet, daughter of Jacob, may she be cured, amen."

The blessed key is then shoved into the hands of the customer, in exchange for NIS 20, who also gets a piece of paper with a recommended prayer to recite at the gravesite. Other objects cost anywhere from NIS 5 to NIS 90, and mark you, the kiosks are humming.

To gain the blessing of the deceased sage, the custom is to circle the grave seven times, amulet in hand, and to light a candle. The central stall also sports a list of names - "some of the people who succeeded," citing the type of salvation they sought, and their phone numbers. Among the requests are a mate, a blessing on children or a pregnancy, parnusseh (livelihood) and debt relief.

It's customary to visit the tombs of righteous men during the 10 Days of Repentance, which are the first 10 days of Tishrei. But the grave of Ben-Uziel has long become a magnet for singles seeking succor, and it does well on ordinary days too. According to the Tourism Ministry, which shares responsibility for the site's management and maintenance, Ben-Uziel attracts 1.5 million visitors a year. That's a lot. (The gravesite of Rabbi Shimon Bar-Yochai at Mount Meron, which attracts more than 200,000 for the Lag B'Omer hilula - public celebration for a sainted rabbi - gets some 2 million.)

Black market in religious trinkets

The brisk trade at the gravesite of Ben-Uziel is no exception. The same thing happens at other sages' graves, even though it offends many - and is often illegal. "It hurts worshippers when a site turns into a market stall," says Rabbi Yosef Schvinger, head of the National Center for the Development of the Holy Sites.

Israel Deri, the Center's director for Israel's northern district, says the frenzied trading characterizes perhaps three to four sites, and adds that the center opposes it. "It's a disease," he says. So why does the gravesite look like a market? That's complicated.

The National Center for the Development of the Holy Sites is responsible for running 132 sites, some of which are sages' graves. There are more sainted rabbis' tombs around Israel: a guide written by Rabbi Yisrael Gliss mentions 267 of them.

Graves not under the Tourism Ministry's purview are maintained by trusts. One such grave is Rabbi Meir Baal Haness' tomb in Tiberias, at the entrance to which trading is loud and lively.

Schvinger explains that the state hasn't managed to gain control over many sites managed by trusts since before Israel's establishment. The legal process is protracted and difficult. But even if the state does take control, that doesn't ensure that things will improve. A religious source shrugs that the state doesn't care about spiritual uplifting, and suggests that visitors simply ignore the howling peddlers.

Nor are the state and trusts the only ones battling to control the sages' graves. Recently violence erupted at Rabbi Shimon Bar-Yochai's tomb between criminal elements wanting to take over the retail.

In fact, unless the local council issued a license, any retail is illegal. Danny Saida, head of the Merom Hagalil religious council, says that after the fight, the stalls were closed down for a few days. But then they reopened. "A golden opportunity to regulate the whole thing was missed," Saida mourns, adding, "the local council says the place is a big national site that's too big for it to handle."

Nor was that the first fight at Bar-Yochai's tomb, says Saida. There's no law enforcement and the criminals keep returning, taking over the selling. It isn't peanuts, either: tens of millions of dollars a year change hands at Bar-Yochai's grave alone, Saida estimates. "I assume that millions more are turned over at the other graves," he says.

Local council spokesman Eli Sabag commented that right after that last bout of fistcuffs, the council ordered the hawkers to vacate the site, and placed inspectors there. He too admits that the peddlers returned, though, and agrees with Saida that the council doesn't have the resources to combat the problem.

Another reason for the absence of supervision is a battle between various bodies about management. Bar-Yochai's grave is formally under the wing of the National Center for the Development of the Holy Sites. But in practice it is co-controlled by embattled Sephardi and Ashkenazi bodies.

All parties pin their hopes for a quieter future on a new administration established, a few months ago by order of the High Court of Justice, specifically to supervise the spot. The administration is manned by a representative of the state, Rabbi Shmuel Rabinowitz (also the rabbi of the Western Wall); representatives of the Sephardi and Ashkenazi movements; and a representative of the National Center for the Development of the Holy Sites. The local council still has no representative there, but will.

Somebody else's problem

The battle for control over Ben Uziel's grave is different, and equally complex. The local council gave one family a permit to peddle there 15 years ago, confining the license to selling religious artifacts, ice cream and candles from vehicles parked in the lot. In practice, all sorts of stuff is sold at the very entrance to the tomb. The council knows and deplores it but the bazaar barrels along. "The family cleans the place up and paints it, but that isn't enough," Deri complains.

The local council says it's the state's problem and says this isn't on its agenda: It can't handle everything, adds council secretary Menahem Paz.

Schvinger says it's forbidden to sell anything at all at the gravesite itself and that it's the local council's job to enforce the rules, since it licensed the family to sell - not that he supports that permit in the first place.

Some of the sainted rabbis' tombs are serene sites of sanctity. The grave of Habbakuk is one such. The Tiberias tomb of the Sephardi Rabbi Meir Baal Haness is not. It looks like Tel Aviv's old central bus station: stone benches and tatty tables bearing scraps of food and stalls selling junk everywhere. The toilets are filthy.

As dusk approaches, a peddler starts hawking his stuff at a discount: "Two for ten!" he cries. Asked what a person should do to go into business there, he stiffens and says it's impossible: His family has been there for 40 years. "Go to somebody else's grave, where nobody's doing business," he suggests.