The year was sometime in the 1970s when I was living in Israel the first time. Rosh Hashanah had passed, and the “days of awe” were almost over. The morning before Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, I decided to go to Mahaneh Yehudah, Jerusalem’s dynamic, colorful, outdoor Jewish produce market, just a few blocks from the center of town, to do my fruit and vegetable shopping, as I always did each week.

As I entered the crowded, covered pathway, my ears were suddenly shattered by loud, whirring sounds. A strange smell penetrated the air. Further into the narrow alleyway, which was known as the main walk-through market street, I walked. Under my feet, there appeared to be a carpet of feathers.

Crate upon crate of live chickens were stacked in front of every tiny butcher shop. At each store, the scene was the same. Mobs of people stood anxiously next to the crates. A man, bearded and wearing the traditional black coat and hat, stood with a prayer book in one hand. One at a time, people pushed forward to be near him.

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