Waiting For The Bomb

 

I wrote the below in 2018, as part of attempt number one million (give or take) to get my shit together and turn all my assorted bombing materials into a book. Like all previous attempts, that attempt was derailed. This time the culprits were (1) an involuntary sharp detour into writing about autism which then proceeded to hijack the entire project and (2) going into business on my own and shifting into insane workaholic mode.

In any event, when Barbara told me she wanted to link to my long defunct blog, I thought it might be nice to add something new. I chose this piece because I really like it. It seemed a shame to leave it to molder on my computer forever. That being said, it hasn’t been updated for the events of the last year, in part because I just can’t think how to do so. Since I imagine many of you are in the same position –not knowing just what to do with the events on and since October 7, 2023—I trust I can count on your understanding.

***

This title is a misnomer. Even in the depths of the Second Intifada, people weren’t actually waiting for a bomb or some other version of terror attack. It’s more like an edgy feeling, a sense of wary anticipation.

It’s happening.

It’s happening every day.

It’s happening everywhere.

It might happen to you! You might be next! Have you bought your ticket?

It’s the lottery from hell.

***

When I look back, it’s hard to even imagine, much less remember, how we dealt with this waiting and how it affected us. This, even though we’ve gone through it countless times since then. It’s a state of affairs we call the Matzav, the Situation. It gets better, it gets worse; it never fully goes away. There was the summer of rockets which led up to a full-blown war in 2014. The Knife Intifada in 2015-2016. The other wars which pop up every few years. In the South, the primary target of the rocket attacks as it’s such a convenient target, it’s more a permanent state of affairs. Sometimes there are more rockets and sometimes less but there is no such thing as a year without rockets. They have to think as well about the tunnels under the border—where are the exits? How will they be used? There are periodic surges of incendiary and explosive balloons, rocks thrown at moving cars, moving cars rammed against people, and riots on the border. A veritable cornucopia of terrorist options.

Actually, there has been an uptick in attacks recently. A few more knife attacks. A few more shootings. A few more car rammings. I’m not afraid, but I’m a little more aware. I’m a little bit more on edge when I leave the house in the morning, when I walk from my car to the office, when I’m running errands, when I’m out with friends.

Not that the edge will help me, mind you. But then, if someone decides to blow themselves up three meters from where you’re standing, not much will.

***

A month after I moved to Israel and eight months before the bombing, I was interviewed by journalist Erik Schechter for an article which appeared in the September 10, 2001 edition of the Jerusalem Report. The article featured those hardy souls who had decided to make aliyah despite the recession and the Intifada. Erik asked me if I were afraid of being caught in a terrorist attack. My response: "I’m not afraid, but I do realize that it can happen to me". This was the truth. I did realize that this could be me. I still realize it. This realization is my way of dealing with the Situation. But there are lots of different ways of dealing with the Situation. Everyone has their own approach. Each approach makes its own sense to me.

There are the people who learn self-defense, or who get gun permits and who are always armed. If it happens to them, they’ll be ready. There are the people who watch the news all the time. Knowledge is power! There are the people who avoid the news as too depressing, and why think about all this unpleasant stuff until it’s actually required? There are the people who put their faith in God, with the tacit understanding that God will prevent it happening to them. There are the people who know that it will happen to them or to someone they love. If it does happen, their fear will have been entirely justified. They had a Premonition! And there are the people who tell themselves that it can’t happen to them because they are sensible enough to stay away from obvious targets or because…well, just because. How could it possibly happen to them?

And there are the people like me, who accept that they are helpless. The people who understand that shit happens and sometimes it happens to you. That recognize that they aren’t special. They didn’t get a pass. And if it does happen, there will be nothing they can do about it.

***

One might assume that I think this way because of what happened to me. Perhaps prior to the bombing I was in the “it can’t happen to me” category? But no. As a case in point, in the months prior to my move to Israel, when I was still safe and sound in Rockville, Maryland, each and every time a terrorist attack in Israel hit the news, my father made a point of calling to ask me if I had heard about it and did I really think this moving to Israel thing was a good idea. Initially my response was that all the bombings were in Jerusalem, and I was going to live in Tel Aviv, (albeit with an initial six months in Jerusalem for Ulpan, but never mind that). Then came the bombing at the Dolphinarium, in Tel Aviv. This time when he called, my response was that I could just as easily get killed in a car accident on the Beltway, aka I-495, the highway encircling Washington DC and its inner suburbs. There were accidents there all the time and I was on the Beltway on a daily basis. What are you going to do? If it’s your time, it’s your time.

He stopped calling after attacks. What was there to say? If it’s your time, it’s your time.

I was right about the Beltway, by the way. And if you think the Beltway is bad, you should see Israeli drivers. I’m in far more danger from them than I was or am from any terrorist.

***

Speaking of the Beltway, let me tell you about a car accident.

A few months before I made aliyah, there was a terrible car accident on the Beltway. A dump truck was cut off by another car, lost control, hit a concrete barrier and was launched airborne. On landing, it crushed two passenger vehicles. Five people were killed instantly. I neither witnessed the accident nor saw any footage of it on TV. Nonetheless, that accident haunted me for weeks. The whole mental image of death just smashing into you from the sky, while you are rendered completely powerless, shook me to the core. There must have been other tragic accidents while I lived in the DC area, but that’s the only one I remember. To this day, I can’t think of it without catching my breath and twisting up inside from terror. Without remembering that I too am helpless.

So yes, if it’s your time, it’s your time. Even in Jerusalem. Even in Tel Aviv. Even in Rockville, Maryland.

And also yes, I totally get why my bombing freaks people out.

***

Don’t get me wrong. Knowing that pithy “if it’s your time, it’s your time”, is different than really knowing—fully internalizing—that if it’s your time, it’s your time. I knew a terrorist attack could happen to me when I came here. But it was a different sort of knowing than the knowing I have now. It was a little more theoretical. A lot more bravado. It included a heavy dollop of “how cool am I, brave enough to live in a Dangerous Place”. Take for example, a particularly cringe-worthy email I sent to my email list a few days after my arrival:

“A funny (and short) note-just a few minutes ago I was sitting here in the computer room, sending out resumes, when I started to hear a series of booms. I immediately assumed “gunfire/bombs”. I didn't panic; just kept on typing. I thought of going out to look and then thought better of it. I actually started feeling more like an Israeli: now I know what it sounds like to be in a quasi-war zone.

Some other people passed the computer room door, saw me, and said hello. I decided to confirm my suspicions.

"Is that gunfire?"

"No! Fireworks".

I went out to look, and—lo and behold—they were indeed fireworks.

Funny, how in the States it would never occur to me to assume that the sounds were gunfire, and here it didn't occur to me to assume that the sounds were fireworks.”

Today, I live in a Jewish neighborhood which abuts an Arab one. They use fireworks all the time as part of weddings and other celebrations. During the summer months I hear fireworks several times per week. In fact, in all of my years in my “quasi warzone”, I haven’t heard gunfire once. I have no idea what real gunfire sounds like. I think it’s safe to presume it’s a bit like fireworks.

***

The shift between knowing and KNOWING happened gradually. The average Israeli is connected to Israel by a thousand human threads: family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, classmates, the men and women from their army unit or volunteer corps. There are fewer degrees of separation between themselves any given victim of any given attack and better odds that said victim will be somehow connected to them, and perhaps even close.

Save for my Israeli cousins, I was largely disconnected; my only connection to a bombing or a terror attack a tenuous one. My year at Ben Gurion University of the Negev corresponded with the series of terrorist attacks which (somewhat ironically) accompanied the Oslo peace process. One of the victims of these bombings, Sarah Duker, was the sister of one of my fellow program participants. But those connections were years old. I hadn’t, for instance, maintained contact with my classmate who in any event was back in the States.

But here and there, slowly slowly, as we say here, I accumulated connections. I was being woven into Israel’s fabric. I made friends. I rented an apartment and had neighbors. I started classes and had classmates. I found a job and had co-workers. With each thread, the matzav came closer. It was part of the assimilation process, like learning to appreciate cucumbers and tomatoes for breakfast, learning how to argue Israeli style or getting used to Israeli news programs in which panels of journalists and experts discuss issues by shouting at and over one another.

There was the woman in my class who had witnessed a bombing. A kinda-sorta victim of terror. But one who, unlike me, was great at wringing a Dramatic Arc and Ending out of a trauma. She, previously secular, Found God and Meaning in the Bloody Devastation of a Brutal Terrorist Attack! I did nothing of the sort.

There was the car bomb that blew up in my neighborhood! By the bank! And I was planning on going to the bank at that exact time! Well, give or take a few hours. But still….

There was learning how to differentiate between normal loud noises and normal siren activity and bombing loud noises and terror attack siren activity. Here’s how it works. If you hear a loud noise, and don't know if it is a bombing, listen for sirens afterwards. If you don't hear a lot of sirens, it isn't a bomb. If you do, it probably is. Check the news updates to confirm. If you don’t hear a loud noise but you do hear a lot of siren activity, it could be a non-bomb terror attack. Or a bombing you didn’t hear. Or, if you are in Jerusalem, the prime minister being transported somewhere.

This isn’t an exact science.

There was the first Jerusalem terror attack after I made aliyah. One of my cousins called me afterwards to check that I was okay. They continued to call after each subsequent Jerusalem attack, which were happening constantly. As I made friends and classmates and co-workers, I had more and more people calling me.

There was the first attack that happened in a city in which I had someone to call. I joined in the wave of Israelis obsessively calling each other after every event. Are you okay? I felt super Israeli doing so. I called everyone I knew. Anyone who, in this or an alternate reality, might have been in the city in which the incident occurred. I was making my good-citizen contribution to the crash of the cell phone network which in those days happened like clockwork after every major attack.

There was learning the phrase hefetz hashud, a suspicious object. There was learning to never, ever leave my bag unattended as the police would blow it up. There was the absorption of the local lore of “things which have been used as bombs”. I didn’t know which ones were true and which were urban legends, so I believed them all. There was the watermelon. An old refrigerator. A radio. I learned to view each lonesome abandoned item, no matter how seemingly benign, with suspicion and as something which could conceal a bomb. There was the first visit to the States after my aliyah and finding myself in a state of mild panic from the sheer volume of unattended objects. I tried to convince myself that it was okay. Hefetz hashud’s are rak b’yisrael!

There was getting used to security guards everywhere. At every entrance to every mall, supermarket, restaurant or event. I learned to automatically present my bag for inspection. My friends and I laughed at them a little. Seriously, those kangaroo cops are going to stop a terrorist? As my Hebrew improved, I read stories about them doing just that, frequently dying in the process. Guard after guard after guard. I heard that they made minimum wage.

There was the replacement of my initial fake bravado with real acceptance, real knowledge, that this could happen to me. I thought about the risk every time I got on a bus. I tried to figure out what part of the bus was safest—the front or the back. I could never decide and in a sort of mental paralysis fueled by my confusion, would end up in the middle, where I would be screwed either way. I would be on edge the entire ride. As I had no idea what to expect from a terrorist, I defaulted to viewing everyone getting on the bus with suspicion. Simultaneously, out of some exhaustion, because I was on two, four, six, eight buses per day, I recognized the futility of this. I told myself: mah la’asot? What else is there to do? I have to take the bus. God will protect me or he won't, and if that maybe sketchy-looking guy over there is a terrorist, there’s nothing I can do about it now.

I would continue to watch him, just the same.

There was the adoption of the critical mental math required for decision-making about things I thought I needed to do but maybe I didn’t need to do. Maybe I could do something else? Maybe I could do without? It was a constant calculation in my brain. Sometimes in the background. Sometimes in the foreground. Attacks happened everywhere. Including places I went to and places I had been recently. Places I had been to the very same day of the attack, a few hours before. Places I went to several hours after. Attacks tended to happen in crowded places, the types of crowded places I frequented or might choose or need to frequent. The questions, arguments and counterarguments would swirl in my brain. Is it worth the risk to go to this crowded place? Is it worth the risk to go downtown? Do I even have a choice? I mean, I have to eat, right? I have to buy groceries, right? I have to go to class, right? I have to get from point A to point B, right?

I have to live, right?

I learned –or tried to learn—to balance between two often diametrically opposed concepts.

Living.

Staying alive.

You would think this would be simple. You would be wrong. It’s not nearly as easy as it sounds.

I found myself having serious internal debates about whether the sale at a store downtown on clothing was worth risking my life for. I really needed clothes for work, I was dead broke—really scraping by—and the sale was really good. In the end, I went and bought some clothing without incident. I found myself having an earnest discussion with two friends after leaving a movie. While we were enjoying the movie, other people were being killed and wounded at Café Moment. The question arose: do we go downtown for coffee and brownies?

Friend A: Isn’t it inappropriate, given how many people were just killed and injured?

Friend B: Tomorrow it could be us.

Me:

I said nothing, even though I thought that Friend A had a good point and even though I could have added “and what if this is the day the terrorists decide to go for a double feature?” Friend B, you see, was a guy, and not just any guy but The Guy, a guy I was crazy about, a guy I thought might be The One. This was a week before I learned that the attraction was one-sided; he had actually flipped over my best friend. As of that moment, outside the movie theater, I thought I might have a chance.  I wanted to spend more time with him. My silence tipped the scale in The Guy’s favor. He persuaded Friend A.

You see how not simple it is? You want to stay alive but living keeps on getting in the way.

***

Now that I think about it, what I said earlier about all of the approaches making sense to me isn’t entirely accurate. Some of them do. For example, having a gun and knowing how to use it really might help you defend yourself against a reasonably close-range assailant with a knife or a gun. There have been cases in which attacks have been stopped by armed citizens. But not all of the approaches can withstand scrutiny. Specifically: “it can’t happen to me because I stay away from obvious targets”. Sorry, but that’s impossible. Everywhere and everything is a target. There is no safe here. Previous targets have included such ordinary, benign, and nearly unavoidable sites as supermarkets, public transportation and sidewalks. Shopping malls. Family restaurants. Falafel stands. Universities. A pool hall. A Purim parade. An elementary school. A synagogue. A Passover Seder. People’s homes.

Or a shuk. Souq in Arabic. Roughly equivalent to a farmers’ market. Just more spectacular.

Can you imagine your local farmers’ market being blown up?

Here, they are. Over and over again.

***

The Guy, Friend A and I went to the café. Again, without incident. In the end I was bombed downtown, in an ordinary crowded place: a bus stop next to the shuk. I went to the shuk because I needed to buy food. I was at the bus stop because I needed to get home. Ordinary, benign, and unavoidable acts. And while it wasn’t like I was expecting it, when I did pull the proverbial short straw and got blown up, it also didn’t come as a surprise. I woke up. I looked around. I was surrounded by red. “Oh, I was in a suicide bombing”, I told myself. My mental tone was cool and observational.

Of course, that could also be shock deriving from the blow to the head.

This isn’t an exact science either.

כי איתי אל Ki Iti El

אל תירא מפחד פתאם, ומשאת רשאים כי תבא. עצו עצה ותפר, דברו דבר ולא יקום, כי עמנו אל. ועד זקנה אני הוא, ועד שיבה אני אסבל, אני עשיתי ואני אשא, ואני אסבל ואמלט.

Do not fear sudden terror, or the holocaust of the wicked when it comes. Plan a conspiracy and it will be annulled; speak your piece and it shall not stand, for G-d is with us. Even till your seniority, I remain unchanged; and even till your ripe old age, I shall endure. I created you and I shall bear you; I shall endure and rescue.

This is my favorite prayer. It is in the prayerbook, though we never say it in synagogue. When we get to it, I read it to myself. Even when I am not in synagogue, the prayer stays with me. Its words have implanted themselves in my brain and accompany me wherever I go. Ki imanu El, for G-d is with us. Ki iti El: for G-d is with me.

The bombing has given this prayer special meaning. The fact that I am not dead, of course, is cause for gratitude. And still I find that this enormous gift of my life pales in the face of the countless small gifts I have received since. These small gifts are what make our lives worth having and living.

Ki iti El. About three weeks after I was released from the hospital, I had a meltdown. The stress of the last five weeks hit me like a ton of bricks. I could not call anyone because it was Shavuot and most of my friends were observant and would not answer the phone even if I called. I sat holed up in my room with the door closed and trying to cry quietly as any loud outbursts would freak out my roommate. Suddenly, my friend Yael showed up at my front door. She came to my room and sat with me. With her there, I became a sodden, hysterical, irrational mess. She did not tell me that it would all be all right, even though it would be. She did not tell me that this too was for the best, even though it might be. She did not tell me that I really was very lucky, even though I was. She told me that it was about time that I lost it and that it was normal and that no, none of this is fair. Sometimes you do not need someone to make you feel better, you need a friend to let you be sad. And sometimes, when you are all alone, you need a friend to miraculously appear on your doorstep.

Ki iti El. My cousin Talia happened to call that very same Shavuot afternoon. Talia is not just my favorite cousin in Israel; she is my favorite cousin anywhere. She lives in Tel Aviv and virtually never comes to Jerusalem, so her support up to this point had been primarily via the phone. But that day, out of all the days, she called to let me know that it turned out that a friend was coming to Jerusalem and could give her a lift. Could she come visit? By the time she arrived, I had recovered from my hysteria, but was still so panicked and overwhelmed over various issues that had accumulated and had to be dealt with. Talia not only knows how things are done in Israel, but she knows what you should be thinking when you do them: yihiyeh beseder, it will be okay. She listened to my litany of woes, chided me gently for panicking, and then proceeded to dispense instructions. Try this. Speak to this person. Request this. Do not hesitate to ask for what you need. It is all going to be okay. By the time her friend came to collect her, I was calm and had plan.

Ki iti El. It is the friends who filled my prescriptions and the strangers who filled my refrigerator. Ki iti El. It is the man who heard about me from my bosses. He called me when I was still in the hospital to tell me that he only had one eye, and that he had a perfectly normal life. His call came less than an hour after my father broke the news to me that I might not regain sight in my right eye, and while I was lying in my bed, wondering what my life would be like, and if I would still be able to paint. Ki iti El. It is the family in Atlanta, Georgia who heard about me and arranged to have a beautiful cake delivered to my house, along with a card telling me to be strong. The cake arrived as I sat in my front hall, waiting for my friend Edith to come and take me to an emergency eye appointment. I had started seeing spots in my vision and we suspected my retina had detached. I was terrified, but the note gave me courage. Ki iti El. It was the check for $100 from my Aunt Pearl, accompanied by a note warning me in the strictest terms that the money was to be used for something fun. Both the note and the check were waiting for me at home after I got back from an appointment with a specialist who told me that I really had to do something to reduce my stress levels which were so elevated that my short-term memory was being affected. I used the money to join a gym. (And not to take on a lover, or five, as he suggested).

Ki iti El. I moved out of my parent’s house when I was 18, and spent four years working 60 to 80 hours a week to make ends meet. Then I worked my way through college—another five and a half years of lean times. Since the day when I moved out of my parents' house, I cannot remember a time when I was not haunted by the specter of financial disaster. Quitting my job and moving to Israel only intensified my fear. Within twenty-four hours of landing in Israel I was calling accounting firms, and within two weeks I had two part-time jobs. In such a manner I managed to get by, but when I was injured, I was sure that the game was up and financial catastrophe was on its way. I lay in my hospital bed and did mental calculations of how long my savings would last me, and how I could manage to establish myself in the country if I had to use them all up to get myself through until I could go back to work. But in fact, my savings stayed intact. So long as I needed, both the State of Israel and the Jewish community in Israel and abroad made sure that I had I needed, plus extra so I would not need to worry. I cannot say how many times since those days in the hospital I have bought some piddling little item—a notebook for $5—and have found myself whispering a prayer of thanks. How fortunate I am not only to have the money, but also to be in a position where I do not have to think twice about making the purchase.

Ki iti El. For the first time ever, I feel secure. I am not alone. I do not know what will happen to me in the future, but have faith that, whatever it is, I will receive what I need. I may not get everything I want, but if ever need something desperately, it will be provided.

Ki iti El. For G-d is with me. G-d created me and He bore me; He endured and rescued me.

Collect the Whole Set

Here is a question for the masses: what do people do with all the photos?

One of the odder elements of life as a poor, sad, heroic victim of terror was that of being turned into a tourist destination of sorts. People just loved taking photos with me. I was not alone. One of my physicians told me of another physician, a volunteer from the US, who insisted on being photographed with every last poor, sad, heroic victim of terror that came through his department. My doctor was not sure what was stronger, his horror or his embarrassment.

So again, what do people do with these photos? I mean, it is not as though the people being photographed are particularly attractive. (If you do not mind, we will save the "beautiful souls" and "brave spirits" and other similar claptrap for someone else's blog). Are they like trading cards? Can you collect the whole set? Do people swap them? "I will give you my brave widow and traumatized soldier for your orphan with a head injury"? Are there point values involved? Who sets them? I have a friend who was also injured in a bombing, but much more seriously than was I. She is now in a wheelchair where I have only minor signs of injury (though they are visible to Israeli men turned on by scars). Is she worth more points than I am?

As for me, I have long since entertained this mental image of folks going back to the States, downloading their photos to a DVD and regaling their friends with a slide presentation of their trips to Israel. "This is me at the Kotel. This is me in Tiberias. This is me with Gila, the Poor, Sad, Heroic Victim of Terror ®…. She's so brave."

It goes without saying, of course, that one cannot talk about Victims of Terror without proper attention being paid to our bravery. Random true story: someone once commented to my father, with no small amount of outrage, that it was terribly wrong that all of the newspapers were writing about me, and not about those who died. My Dad's response: it is kind of hard to interview the dead ones. Obnoxious, but oh-so-true.

Any thoughts?

Loneliness

This was written about nine months after the bombing, in December 2002 or thereabouts. It was a particularly low point, to put it mildly. Even though I know that half of you will not believe me and will write stuff like "oh, I hope that things improve soon", things really and truly are much better now. I have long since completed my classes and now have loads of free time to see friends, vegetate in front of the TV (am now waaay into Israel's version of The Biggest Loser) and otherwise goof off. With the exception of the odd surgery and hearing aid fitting, the bombing is a part of my life to the extent I allow (aka-writing). I have friends. They call me. I call them. They invite me to do stuff. Sometimes, I even go. Most importantly, I developed very good bombing-groupie radar and can effectively avoid those types from the getgo. Now that adds to quality of life.

*********************************************************************************

The mass of former slaves, wandering in the desert after their escape from Egypt, complained bitterly of what they had left behind: safety, comfort, water and cucumbers. I sit here in my apartment, safe and comfortable, ready streams of water for the asking and my refrigerator just chock-full of cucumbers. Nonetheless, I find myself envying those wanderers. Not for their misery, but for the fact that they had others to share it with.

If there were one thing that could set me running back the US, to my own Egypt, it would be the loneliness. I miss having friends. I miss being sought out and important. I miss people calling me to invite me out to do things. I miss having plans and what to do on the weekends and feeling good because I am the type of person who virtually always has what to do, and with whom to do it. I have been living in Katamon, home of one of the most active social scenes in Jerusalem, for a year now, and I find myself quite alone. I have virtually as many friends now as I did when I left Ulpan—not many.

I did not expect it would be like this. At the time I left Ulpan, I thought I would go out and meet people and make friends…maybe even (finally!) start dating again. It just has not happened. That is not to say that there are no good reasons for my situation. There are. The first, and most obvious is my preparation for the CPA exams: from July to December I spent three to four nights a week in night school and the other nights studying. I admit that I was obsessed, but I was set back six months by the bombing and I just refused to be set back again. I decided, the cost be damned, I was going to pass the exams on my first try. I succeeded, but the cost was very high indeed. I had no time for a social life for those six months.

The second reason is the bombing. As ironic as it may seem, considering how people have fallen over themselves to reach out to me, the bombing has gutted my social life. First, months of doctors and paperwork and stress and speaking to groups and everything else bombing-related has left me so drained of energy and patience that I simply do not have the strength to try and deal with new people. Second, my hearing loss has made socialization both less fun and less rewarding. Finally, I find that I do not trust people as much anymore. You would not believe how many people want to know me only because I am a Victim of Terror, and not because I am me. One woman I know actually stopped inviting me for Shabbat dinners (and stopped accepting my invitations) as soon as I asked her that she no longer announce to the entire table that I was injured in a bombing.

I know and accept that there are valid reasons for this isolation I find myself in. And yet knowing that there is a reason doesn’t make me feel any better when I realize that, for the last week, no one has called me apart from Galia, Debbie and Yael. People I know are doing things, going out, and having Shabbat meals. No one thinks to include me.

The last week has been particularly difficult. I decided to take advantage of my break from classes by going out and doing something about my social life, or lack of it. Sitting around and whining and feeling sorry about myself isn’t going to help, right? G-d helps those who help themselves! Except that sometimes He does not. I went to services and asked the few people I knew to introduce me around. They all looked at me as though I had suddenly sprouted another head. I went to a lunch with people I barely knew; everyone was so busy talking about the people that were not there that they had no time to talk to me. After months of internal debate, I forced myself to call a shadchan. Twice. She never called back.

Last night I hit rock bottom. I was supposed to go to a Hadassah “Evening of Entertainment” in honor of the hospital. I had an appointment at National Insurance in the city center immediately before and intended to travel to the hospital from there. When the time came for me to catch the bus to the hospital, I found myself trapped in a vicious mental circle. I could go to the event, by myself, where if I met anyone it would be because one Hadassah lady was introducing me to another Hadassah lady as GilawhowasinjuredatMahaneYehuda. Alternatively, I could go home and spend the evening, Thursday night, the kickoff to the Israeli weekend, by myself. I found myself wandering up and down Ben Yehuda, close to tears, trying to figure out which would be the less pathetic and heinous way to spend my evening.

I do not miss the salary, the larger home, the food—the stuff from the States. The lack of security I feel on public transport here as compared to in D.C. is offset by the greater security I feel walking around my city at night. What I miss is the being wanted. I find myself comparing. If I were in the States, I would not be by myself so much. People would be calling me. People would be inviting me to do things. I would not find myself standing alone after services, feeling like the worlds’ biggest loser, watching everyone else chat and smile and be liked. I would not be coming home at the end of the day, and finding that I had no messages.

Those bitterly crying slaves had no idea how good they had it

What Luck?

Life is not fair but we desperately wish to think it is. We are not all equally blessed…but who on Earth can comfortably stomach the concept that he has been shortchanged by G-d? This is why we spend so much time justifying reality. That is why we put forth so much effort inventing and then trotting out our "this is really a good thing, this is for the best" mantras. I am no different from anyone else. In respect to the bombing, if not in respect to various other aspects of my life, I have my own collection of mantras. I was blessed. What happened to me was for the best. I am a better person for what happened. If G-d were to come to me today with an offer to repeat this period of my life, but without the bombing, I would turn Him down. Usually, these mantras satisfy my craving for blessings. Nonetheless, every so often, I find myself questioning the fairness of it all.

My moments of doubt are both entirely random and entirely predictable. If you were to record what passes through my mind when I attend a simcha (a joyous occasion, ie. a wedding or baby naming)—at some point or another, you would find the bombing. But my moments of doubt feature at other times as well. They like to come visit late at night, when I am alone in my apartment—writing or watching television. They remind me that I am going to go to bed alone. They listen in when I hear about someone my age that is ten times more successful than I am. They join me in contemplation every April as I switch over my to my summer wardrobe and ditch the closed toe shoes and nylons—nylons in Tel Aviv in the summer being madness—and have to once again get used to showing off the scars on my leg to the world.

Generally, the moments sound like this: "How much did this cost me?" I can itemize and I can measure what the bombing gave me but I also know that nothing is free. Everything has its price, its opportunity cost. What opportunities did I lose? All of the time I spent in treatment, all the energy and focus I had to put into just keeping my head above water and myself marginally sane, all of the months I spent with an obviously scarred face. That year I spent being introduced to all and sundry as "Gila-the-woman-who-was-injured-in-the-pigua" instead of "Gila, the nice, single Jewish woman who just made aliyah from the United States". The six months I spent retaking courses I was already nearly done with. The three years post-bombing that my career choices were heavily influenced both by mental exhaustion and by my fear that I could get bombed again and my fear that another employer might not be as nice. If it were not for the bombing, maybe I would be married too? Maybe I would have children too? Maybe I would be more successful and further ahead in my career? Maybe I would have an apartment and a nice car and would be completely settled and established? Maybe I would not be so afraid of "what catastrophe is waiting for me next—what will I need my savings for" that I might feel secure enough to buy an apartment or a nice car? What future was stolen from me?

A few weeks after the bombing, a close friend of mine—the friend who "got" the guy I was crazy about—came to visit me. She brought a pint of Ben & Jerry's. She had great news. She received a job offer with a fantastic salary. She wanted to celebrate and since my going out was a bit problematic, she decided to bring the celebration to me. I was genuinely happy for her. I was also very glad that she was treating me normally—as a regular friend who was interested in her life as well—and not as a pathetic, generic mitzvah project. At the same time, I could not help but think: I was the one who worked the hardest, who studied the hardest in Ulpan, who did the most planning…and I end up with nothing and she ends up with everything? Her life is moving ahead while mine has stopped short? This is not fair! Six years have passed since that day and enough has happened in both of our lives for me to accept that it was not that simple. Nonetheless, I still feel like that, sometimes. How can I look at this and say it is fair?

Maybe it is not fair. A day after my release from the hospital, I sat with Nomi and Michael Elbert in their kitchen. Michael was on a roll. "Everyone is going on about how lucky you are because you were not killed and you are going to be okay. How is this lucky? A young woman caught in a bombing, seriously injured with damage to both of her eyes, hospitalized for two weeks…that is not lucky. That should not be!" At the time I dismissed his words. I thought his friends were right. I was lucky. Several years later I had cause to remember this conversation and to reconsider my blithe dismissal of his analysis. I was discussing with a friend the health of a third woman we are both friends with. This woman underwent difficult fertility treatments in order to have her first child. In the course of checkups to prepare for a new round of IVF, it was discovered that she had cancer. She spent the next year in treatments; as of that time she had been given a clean bill of health though it was not clear if she would be able to bear any more children. My friend's take on all this was similar, though not identical, to that of Michael's friends: if it were not for the fact that our friend had fertility problems, and that doctors insist on such a careful check before starting fertility treatment, the cancer never would have been caught so early and her cure would not have been nearly as assured. Ergo, our friend was lucky. I took the part of Michael. I found this type of logic ridiculous. Our friend had to suffer through fertility problems and cancer. She should not have had to go through either, much less both, and certainly not both by the age of 30. How can you possibly define this as luck? This should not be.

The truth, as much as there can be said to be a truth, is that both sides are right. It is not fair that one woman should suffer so much to have kids, and should suffer so much for the right to raise them…while her friends receive both in quantity and with no suffering whatsoever. That is true. Yet, it is also true that if she was going to have cancer, it is lucky that she had the fertility problems which led to the cancer's discovery. For that matter, were it not for those fertility problems, she might not have had children at all. It is because of the problems that she decided to start having children as early as she possibly could, instead of waiting several years as do so many women who marry at the relatively young age that she did. Had she waited, her fertility would have been destroyed, and that without a child there to comfort her. All of these are true, so who is right and who is wrong? Is she lucky or is she not? Is she blessed or is she not?

Am I lucky or am I not? Am I blessed or am I not? Is this fair or is it not? I can tell you that there are plenty of times I raise the issue with G-d. Listen, G-d, so far I have had kidney disease as infant and rather serious issues as a child, adolescent and young adult. And I deserve a bombing too? And cancer three years later? How can that be, G-d? My friends get everything handed to them: nice normal childhood, nice normal college educations, nice normal dating lives, the husband, the children, and the home. I get a bombing. I get cancer. They are the lucky ones, not me, and if you call what I have luck, well then, enough. Enough! Enough! Keep your type of luck, or give it to the irritating, chirpy, brainwashed and smug bastards who call me fortunate. I would like to see how blessed they would feel were they me. If this is Your love, than just give me Your hate, and be done with it already. נמאס לי כבר!

I challenge G-d to call me blessed and to call this fair even while understanding that even if this was not fair, I was blessed and I am quite fortunate. I made it through okay, and I took far more out of the bombing than it took from me. I stand by my contention that this was the best thing that could have happened to me even as I feel sorry for myself for having to go through all of this. I scream at G-d in my jealousy even while understanding that I very well may have nothing to be jealous of. What do I really know of the lives of my friends? I wrestle with G-d while understanding that there really is nothing to fight about. Things just are, and what do I know of the workings of the universe? Not everything that happens is or will be within the bounds of my mortal comprehension. I put on the rose-colored glasses and I take them off—grateful, bitter, grateful, bitter, grateful, bitter.

I want the blessings I want but I receive only those of G-d's choosing. So am I blessed or am I not? There is no answer.

Vignette from the life of a Poor Sad Heroic Victim of Terror ®

A couple months after the bombing, I spent a weekend in Tel Aviv with my friends Yael and Debbie. On Friday, Yael and I headed off for a day at the beach. On our way there, we popped over to Shuk HaCarmel, the Carmel Farmers Market, to pick up stuff for lunch. We arrived at the Shuk at around noon—an hour when the place tends to be completely packed. Yael got a bit nervous.

"You know, it is really crowded…." She did not have to say more.

"No, it is okay", I blithely responded. "We are not really going into the shuk, see? We are buying stuff right at the entrance".

Yael just looked at me. Oh, right. Entrances to open markets are bad.

I really should know this. But whatever. Nothing happened.

Time

The usual caveats apply. This was written in August 2002, at around 2 AM when I was too stressed out to sleep. As in, a long time ago and at a particularly tough time. Life is much better now.


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I have a really nasty confession to make. Last week, when I learned that Americans had been injured in the Hebrew University bombing, one of the thoughts that went through my head was “Thank God! I am off the hook!”

"Off the hook for what?", you ask (even as you wonder how I could ever be so callous). Trust me, four months of this, and you would be callous too. Ever since the bombing, I have been, if you will excuse my pun, bombarded with requests. Can I do this interview? Can I come speak to this group? I feel as though I have become something of a poster child for victims of suicide bombings. This may be an overstatement. Maybe Israelis who are injured go through the same thing. However, what I have heard, over and over, is that I am special. I am not special because of the extent of my injuries. In comparison to many, my injuries were not at all extensive. Nor am I worthy of note because I displayed bravery in the face of danger. There was no bravery here. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Rather, I am special because I am a native English speaker. To be more specific, I speak English with an American accent. As of last Thursday, however, there is a whole new crop of American English speaking Poor Sad Victims Of Terror ® available to give interviews. I am off the hook.

But why would I want to be off the hook? I should want to help! I should want to raise awareness! (And, ahem, money). I should be elated and honored to meet with every last solidarity mission that comes through this country. I should be begging for the opportunity to share with them my poignant-but-gutsy story. I should be grateful for the chance to explain, for the 100th time, and probably to the secret disappointment of the questioners, that, no, I do not get nightmares and am not particularly traumatized. I should get misty eyed as groups sing Am Yisrael Chai way off key, to cheer me up, and read me letter after letter from elementary school children. (Of course, I should also keep a straight face as they inadvertently read me, with great ceremony, one child’s awestricken letter to a Brave Israeli Soldier ®, even though I am a Poor Sad Victim of Terror ® and not a Brave Israeli Soldier ®).This is my golden opportunityto Do My Part, to Make A Difference. To Pay Back my Debt to Life, the Universe, Everything and the Worldwide Jewish Community…and I want to be off the hook? What is wrong with me?

This is what is wrong with me. For the first month and a half after the bombing, I was not working, and could not do much of anything. The month after that I only worked two hours a day. During that period, if people asked me to sit for an interview, or meet with groups there was no problem. I had the time, I was grateful for the help I had received and I pass it forward. But I never thought that this would last beyond the first month or two. My assumption was that the interest would wane as my wounds healed, and I became less dramatic. That did not happen. Four months after the bombing, I am still fielding at least one or two requests a week. Friends, acquaintances and organizations will write or call with requests. “A solidarity mission is coming to visit and your story is so great, so inspiring, (read: “so likely to raise money”) that we would love if you would speak to them”. Or, “So-and-so is writing a graduate thesis/ filming a documentary/ writing the Great American novel/ working on a very deep and meaningful conflict resolution project/ whatever and they were looking for good people to interview and your story is so powerful that I gave them your email. I hope you do not mind”.

I do mind. I really do. Although I am still undergoing treatment, and probably will continue to do so for approximately the rest of my natural life and perhaps a couple years beyond that, I really am trying to get my life back on track. Last month I went back to school and started working half time. As of now, August, classes are in full swing, I am working close to full-time and have finally come off the dole. To summarize, for two months now I have been juggling all of the elements of real life: work, classes and homework with the critical elements of being a Poor Sad Victim of Terror ®: administrative fun with National Insurance and countless doctors’ appointments. I do not have time for this. As difficult as it has been for me to learn how to do so, my nice American-accented English is now expressing the word “No”.

But if I chalk my feelings up to a lack of free time, I am only telling half the story. The other half goes something like this: “I am sick sick sick of this god-forsaken, stupid bombing and of being a god-forsaken stupid bombing victim. I want it all to go away”. This has nothing to do with trauma. I emphasize this because whenever I mention this aspect of being Poor, Sad Victim of Terror ® to people, their faces immediately take on this sad, ‘I-understand-your-pain’ expression. They speak to me in slow, gentle tones just dripping with concern: “of course, it is painful to re-live it”. To clarify. I am not traumatized. I am not in pain. I am stressed and I am irritated. To use the vernacular, I am royally pissed off.

Here is what all of you seem to be forgetting. You can put terrorist activity in a defined space. When you have time, and to the extent you have time, you can take it out and play with it for a spell. You involve yourselves. You read articles. You send checks. You write your representatives in Congress. You are all very sincere and well meaning and believe that it is so important that those outside Israel really understand what is happening and understand what we Poor, Sad Victims of Terror ® go through. Then, when you are done being sincere and well-meaning, or if you discover that it does not fit into your schedule this month, you can go off and do other things.

You are dabbling in my bombing. I am wallowing in it. I cannot escape. What am I supposed to do—say I am done with it? Ignore it? My entire life has been taken over by this, this, THING, and it will be taken over for the foreseeable future. It is now nearly four months out, and I have five doctor’s appointments next week. At a minimum, I will literally be dealing with the medical treatments for the next year and a half. I still spend at least several hours a week dealing with National Insurance. My career, my earning power and my absorption into a new country have all been shoved back six months to a year. Beyond the obvious fallout there are other, more subtle intrusions. The bombing has leached into the simplest of my actions. I choose to wear a sundress because there is a heat wave—and have to bear people staring at the scars on my arms and legs all day. I went to the beach with friends and had to put on mounds of sunscreen and rent two umbrellas because I am forbidden to sunbathe. I went to a sandwich shop with my cousin and had to ask the staff to turn off the music so I would be able to enjoy a conversation during the meal. I went on a blind date and ended up waging a futile battle with my hearing aids as they picked up every conversation but the one I was having. I made the mistake of explaining the situation to the guy. Instantly, I stopped being Gila the person and was transformed into Gila the Poor, Sad Victim of Terror ®. I spent the rest of the evening answering questions about the bombing. Needless to say, he was not interested in me, even though he found me so sad, equally brave, is sure I will meet someone and wished me a refuah shlemah. Can’t I do ANYTHING without that stupid bombing coming along?

I am just so tired of the whole thing. I am sick of doctors, sick of the hospital, sick of National Insurance, sick of my hearing aids, sick of my glasses and sick of my scars. I am sick of people asking me about my recovery. I am sick of being stressed out—so stressed out that here I am sitting at my computer at 2:00 AM because I am too wired to sleep. In short, I am sick and tired of being a bombing victim. The last thing I want to do now is give this bombing more of my life. There are new American injured? Yofi. I am off duty and off the hook.