It is almost impossible to overstate the energy poured into covering heads there. Of course, the climate makes a practical case: sun that scorches in summer, cold winds that slip through stone alleys in winter. But beyond practicality, the head-covering is an identity badge, a spiritual fashion statement, and a coded message all in one.
As the Jewish year 5786/תשפ”ו begins tonight, perhaps the best way to greet it is to take a smiling, ironic, affectionate look at the city’s millinery madness – a parade of hats and veils that somehow express both our divisions and our shared humanity.
The Kippah: Small, Large, and Woolly
Let us start simple: the kippah, also called yarmulke (a Yiddish–Turkish hybrid of a word), or more neutrally, “skullcap.” Round, or occasionally squared off in the Bukharan–Uzbek style, it comes in many sizes. In recent seasons, the trend has moved toward big knitted domes, thick enough to look like woolen soup bowls planted firmly on the head. They cover more surface area – perhaps a gesture toward piety, or perhaps just fashion.
These oversized kippot are so popular that Palestinian women’s cooperatives had taken over much of the knitting business. Globalization once meant containers from China; now, local hands do the work. Who knew, reconciliation might begin with crochet hooks and skeins of wool?
And the women? Many wear similar knitted head coverings. It’s part fashion, part equality statement. Jerusalem feminism, it seems, can be measured in centimeters of crocheted yarn.
When One Hat Is Not Enough
But in this city, a kippah alone rarely suffices. On Shabbat in ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods, behold the shtreimel: a vast circle of mink tails radiating outward like a brown halo. Imported from Poland by way of aristocratic fashion, it declares dignity, wealth, and belonging to the chosen community.
Then there are the Stetsons. Yes, straight from the American West, broad-brimmed and proudly perched atop the kippah. They are not in the Scriptures, but they make their point: a new sheriff has come to town, and he prays three times a day.
Between shtreimel and Stetson, the range of Jewish male identity continuously covers centuries and continents.
Veils, Wigs, and Women’s Tricks
Women in Jerusalem take the art of covering further. The scarf tied with elegance, revealing just enough hair to say “I am pious, but also stylish.” The Orthodox Christian women, especially Russian and Romanian, prefer full concealment: the whole head swaddled, a signal of devout modesty. Catholic nuns go for neutrality: simple veils, no drama, no frills.
Among Jewish women, the wig has its mysterious role. A married woman may remove her natural hair from public view only to replace it with another head of hair – often shinier, curlier, and far more expensive. Some prefer a shaved head beneath, others elaborate buns and braids. Add the current fad for desert-sheep curls, henna-red dye jobs, or the ultra-modern shaved skull, and the streets become a living catalogue of follicular creativity.
To cover, uncover, recover, and disguise – all in the name of modesty. Irony itself might blush.
Clerical Hats and Monastic Hair
Christian clergy in Jerusalem make a walking haberdashery museum. The Greek Orthodox priests wear cylindrical hats, reminiscent of ancient Temple garb. Russian clergy favor a diamond shape, Romanians a hat with twin side slits. Armenians prefer long, pointed, black moiré hoods, while the Syriac and Coptic monks sport black veils covered with twelve crosses – the apostles – and a thirteenth cross hidden behind the neck for Christ.
Add the Latin Franciscans in brown hooded habits, Anglican bishops in pink shirts, and Ethiopian clergy in galabiahs with plaid shawls, and you have the world’s most colorful fashion show, marching toward eternity with gravity and flair.
As for the hair: monks and priests, much like their lay counterparts, are fond of messianic manes and luxuriant beards. Even the humble scrunchie finds its way into monasteries, holding back long locks for men who otherwise renounce vanity. In Jerusalem, irony is never far: ascetics with hair ties.
Peyot and the Harvest of Identity
In Jewish tradition, the side curls – peyot/פיות – are another field of expression. Some wear them long, spiraling down the cheeks like tendrils of grapevine. Others trim them into discreet hints. In Yiddish, they are peyes, and children learn early whether theirs will be harvested or left to grow wild. Jerusalem sidewalks are full of tiny boys with bouncing curls, already rehearsing the art of visible difference.
The face and head are indeed “fields”, not “cemeteries” as “Yiddish “feld/פעלד” may suggest. To cultivate them is to declare allegiance. To shave them is to protest. To grow them is to belong… and hope.
Fashion or Betrayal? The Linguistic Irony
Hebrew itself makes the irony explicit. The word for clothing, beged (בגד), shares a root with begidah (בגידה), meaning betrayal, disguise, or deception. In Jerusalem, appearance both reveals and conceals. The garment both expresses faith, religiosity and hides frailty.
Well, does the habit make the monk? Does the turban make the imam? Does the kippah make the Jew? Or is it, more dangerously, that the garment allows us to misrecognize one another, to hide what we truly are, to betray our shared humanity?
The Global Thread
There is also a practical irony: most of these “sacred” identity markers are not made in Jerusalem at all. The wigs are often imported from Asia; the fabric for robes comes from Vietnam; the scarves may be woven in China. Even the simple kippah now emerges from Palestinian sewing circles.
What we think of as “my” tradition is already stitched from the labor of others. Every hat, veil, and robe carries within it the fingerprints of people we will never meet. These coverings could remind us, if we let them, that identity is not a wall but a web, spun across borders.
Extravagance and Poverty
Meanwhile, extremes stand side by side. A shtreimel worth thousands of dollars on one head; a family in torn clothes walking just behind. Velvet, fur, and silk; beside them, bare survival. The extravagance of bizarre headgear risks becoming grotesque when set against the poverty of neighbors.
The new year cannot be greeted with fashion alone. It must also reckon with compassion.
Togetherness in a Fractured Time
Signs of belonging should not only say, “Here I am.” They should whisper, “Here we are.” Jerusalem desperately needs this second voice. At a time of war and exclusion, the temptation is always to retreat into costume, to defend the group by tightening the hatband. Yet the deeper calling is the opposite: to let the garments remind us of our shared fabric, to gather us, not scatter us.
Simplicity for 5786
Perhaps this is what the new year offers: simplicity. Pshuta ver’gila/(פ-שוטה ו-רגילה) – simple and straight. A year less cluttered with extravagant headpieces, more open to recognition and dialogue. A year to strip back the violent reflexes of exclusion. A year to walk with uncovered honesty, even while the head remains covered in wool, silk, or fur.
The Tattered Cloak of Unity
A small story closes the circle. When Jesus was mocked by soldiers, they cast lots for his tunic (John 19:23). It was not torn; it remained whole. For Christians, that seamless garment became a symbol of unity – and, indeed, God cannot be fragmented.
In Jerusalem, where every community wears its garment as a badge, the seamless tunic whispers another message: appearance is fragile, but unity is deeper, difficult to reach and maintain. The new year commences, whether we knot our scarves or polish our shtreimels.
Hats as Blessing, Hats as Irony
So, as the year 5786 dawns at sunset, perhaps the kindest wish we can make is this: may our coverings not blind us to each other’s faces. May our garments be less about betrayal and more about dignity.
For the truth is both simple and absurd: in a city obsessed with essence, the way we cover our heads often says more than the way we use our hearts. But maybe that, too, is part of the divine joke. God sees beneath the hat and overshadows the hairless skulls, if any.
So – hats off, hats on – happy New Year, shanah tovah/שנה טובה! May 5786 joined to Gregorian 2025, Byzantine 5734, Muslim 1444 and Assyrian 6775, bring us something more durable than fashion: a glimpse of each other’s goodwill, uncovered.