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Letter
from an Alumnus
A Very Bad Time In Israel
January 24, 2002 - 11 Shevat, 5762
By Daniel Green (Darche Noam Alumnus)
I rarely write so extensively on life in Israel,
however recent events have been so difficult to
deal with that I needed to share them in more detail.
Perhaps I just need a way to express the emotions
inside. It's been a very bad time in Israel, and
the sadness and pain is on everyone's face here.
The only blessing, perhaps, is the amount of rain
we've received - the Kinneret is finally starting
to be replenished from its much depleted state.
And rain, at least symbolically, seems to have a
cleansing power to help wash away the many tears
that have been shed throughout this small country.
I learned of the Ben Yehuda attack moments after
it occurred. I was reading late into the night in
our apartment in an old neighborhood of Jerusalem
when I heard the wail of sirens pierce the quiet
night. One or two sirens on occasion is normal,
but this was incessant. I knew something terrible
had happened. Not having a TV, I quietly tuned into
the midnight news which confirmed my worst fear.
It was a cold, dark night, my wife was sleeping,
and as the reports of casualties mounted, I felt
increasingly sick inside. Thoughts of the families
broken apart, the senseless loss of young life,
the fear and panic - the devastation.
I called Montreal and Toronto to reassure family
that we were home safe; we had hosted many friends
for Shabbat lunch (some of whom were in Jerusalem
on a UJA mission) and were too tired to go out that
evening. It had been a beautiful Shabbat in Jerusalem
- peaceful and uplifting. That tranquility, however,
was to be only ephemeral as it was shattered by
the massive attack.
It was difficult to get up on Sunday morning and
face what was sure to be a grim reality. I left
home early to attend a morning class in Talmud before
going to my office in the downtown core. The bus
I take to work stops right at Zion Square (20 meters
from where the attack occurred). I had feared coming
into town that morning - not for my physical safety,
but for what would await me. As I descended from
the bus and stepped onto Jaffa Street, I froze at
what I saw.
The entire area was like a disaster zone. I stood
immobilized, my jaw dropped, and my eyes filled
with tears. I don't recall how long I stood there,
but an old Yerushalmi man came up to me a gave me
a nudge. I must have been dazed for as I looked
at his old weathered face he said "nu?" And then
he walked on.
I didn't know how to process the scene. How many
times had we been to Ben Yehuda? All of us who have
visited Israel congregate here at one time or another.
How many coffees had been savoured, falafels eaten,
souvenirs purchased, people encountered from far-flung
places, laughs and smiles shared in this place?
And as I slowly brought my eyes into focus, there
was not a window intact as far up as you could see.
There were perforated holes in the air conditioning
unit - pierced by the bomber's crude but lethal
ammunition, and store signs were shattered. The
damage was pervasive. There was what has become
ubiquitous throughout Israel now - a makeshift memorial
with candles and flowers. Teenagers were saying
tehilim (psalms), clean-up crews were at work, and
municipal and electrical teams were milling about.
And although there were people everywhere, I recall
hearing nothing other than the sound of broken glass
being swept off the cobblestone pedestrian mall.
I thought of all the people and families who were
struck, of the carnage and destruction. And I had
to sit down.
It's hard to write these things, because in the
year since we have been in Israel, despite all the
hardships and the ongoing conflict, we feel like
we have been so blessed and happy here. It is difficult,
perhaps, for North American Jews to imagine that
life here can be so rich and meaningful when the
only images people abroad see is of violence and
terror. The tumult and trials of life in Israel,
to be sure, is a long way from the tranquility of
suburban Toronto or the West Island of Montreal.
But there is still an overwhelming sense that there
is an important purpose being here, that one's life
matters in a very deep and real way here. And so
the attacks sent shockwaves throughout the country.
There is a pervasive hurt and sadness that we and
the people feel here. And it doesn't want to let
go.
I arrived at my office soon after witnessing the
aftermath of the attack and was in a daze. (My office
is but a minute walk from the spot of the attack.)
So too were all my colleagues. I didn't know how
to process what I had seen, and everyone was in
semi-shock; we were together, but yet so alone.
We didn't do much work that day, especially after
the news of the Haifa attack reached us. That night
we just stayed home, quietly, and wondered where
all the madness would lead.
And then, two days later on Wednesday, another sad
and strange thing happened. Perhaps it was not so
strange for a veteran Israeli, but as a new arrival
it was bizarre. Once again I was on the bus on my
way to work and the traffic was unusually heavy.
So heavy in fact that I got off the bus and decided
to walk to the office (remember Jerusalem is not
exactly a bustling metropolis). As I neared the
center of town, streets were blocked and police
were everywhere.
Now what? I asked an officer. Another suicide bomb
attack, this time outside the old Hilton Hotel (only
two minutes from the office). I was barely phased
this time for reasons I didn't understand. I saw
the barricade, scrums of journalists and film crews,
and a multitude of security officials. I glanced
up King David Street and I saw was debris strewn
on the road. I abruptly turned away, walked to work,
and asked my colleagues how people deal with this
madness.
Sometimes, they said, you can't and you just wallow
in a daze of sadness and frustration and anger.
Other times, you dive into distractions, work, a
book, time with family. The sad truth, they said,
is that this is a reality of life here. I asked
a young cab driver the same question later in the
day. He was my age, born here, and he just shook
his head and said "This is our home, we have nowhere
else to go, and they will never accept us - even
if we give them everything they want, what do you
want me to say?". I didn't have any words.
Wednesday, however, was not an ordinary day. Despite
the morning attack outside the Hilton, and the forceful
rains that were continuing, we had an extraordinary
encounter of sorts - with Moshe Katsav, the President
of the State of Israel. As new arrivals here, we
were invited (through an organization to which we
belong) to the President's house for a reception.
Countless times I had passed by his official residence,
but only now were the doors open. A beautiful garden
greeted us, and then a magnificent hall, with mosaic
floors and Chagall glass windows. It felt as if
we were entered a realm separate and apart from
the tragedy of the week, a place that was above
the madness. How many of our ancestors throughout
history had dreamed of coming to Israel, and had
passed on never seeing that dream fulfilled. And
there we were, in the official reception hall of
the President of the State of Israel.
The President spoke passionately about Israel, about
its struggles and challenges, and the history of
the Jewish people. He detailed how, throughout history,
we had been attacked numerous times and yet, in
the end, prevailed. He spoke of how Israel, against
all odds, had absorbed three massive waves of immigrants
(the remnants of the Holocaust, the Jews expelled
from the lands of Islam, and the Russians - for
whom so many of us North Americans had championed
their cause). He said there only remains one great
wave to come - that of Western Jewry. He dreamed
with us of the day that it would happen; because
then, he said, Israel's permanence would never again
be questioned. The impact Western Jews could have
- their democratic values, education, wealth and
skills - could transform the country in ways never
imagined. He reassured us that Israel may be shaken,
but that Israel would never fall. We rose and sang
Hatikvah. It was quite a powerful juxtaposition
to the week's other events.
Indeed, it's been a difficult week for all of us,
not just us here, but Jews everywhere. We've heard
from many friends who sat, with tears streaming
down their faces, when they heard the news of the
attacks. And although it may be easy, we cannot
forget that others are suffering terribly too -
the Palestinians. Even though there is little sympathy
for them right now in Israel, even in the face of
tough measures the IDF is taking, there will have
to be a tomorrow and somehow, however difficult
it may seem, we will have to come to some resolution
of this painful conflict. But this is not the place
for politics.
So as Channukah approaches, I just hope and pray
that the soft, gentle lights that we kindle will
warm us all, and lift our spirits a little. We should
all pause, wherever we are as we light the candles
this year, hold our loved ones a little closer,
and remember the many families who have lost their
loved ones. And we should also remember that the
glow of one tiny candle is brightest when it shines
in complete darkness.
Daniel Green is a 33-year-old former Montrealer
(who has also lived in Toronto) who recently moved
to Israel. He lives in Jerusalem, where he practices
commercial law. |
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