Sounds of War

Last night was a terrible night. I was awakened at 5 a.m. by the sounds of war. I thought Israel was being bombed. My whole apartment building was shaking. Even my bed shook. Airplanes roared overhead and a minute or two later, huge bombings. HUGE. Lasted at least 10 seconds. I thought it was happening a few blocks from me. It sounded so close. Turns out it was in Bethlehem. The territories aren't too far from Jerusalem, though they often seem that way.

The planes and explosions came 4 times within a half-hour. I thought about calling the U.S. but I didn¹t want to worry anyone. It was too early to call friends here, though I was sure that many people would be awake. I stepped onto my balcony to see if anyone in my neighborhood was outside, but the street was silent. It felt like I was dreaming this bombing. So surreal yet way too real. It felt like war.

I was frozen. I kept thinking, "What if this suddenly becomes a conventional war? What would I do? Who would I call? Where would I go?" I had no idea how to be prepared. It was the first time I thought about leaving.

Eventually I fell back to sleep. When I woke up this morning and walked to school in the beautiful weather, it felt like last night never happened. Complete cognitive dissonance. My friend and I talked about how scary it must be for the Palestinians, even though the army warns Palestinians to evacuate specific buildings before those buildings are bombed. The noise itself is terrifying. I don¹t ever want to hear that noise again. Ever.

Just to be safe in a worst case scenario, I am going to pack a box to put in the bomb shelter of my apartment building: bottled water, a flashlight, a book, food for me and for my cats (I'd bring them with me of course), a litter box, a pillow, a blanket, pen and paper, and a radio. Just to feel like I am doing something practical and won't be caught off guard. I need that kind of psychological comfort. Last week a woman on my program had a panic attack. Two others from my program are considering leaving. I don't know how Israelis survived the Gulf War. I don't know how they are surviving today.

March 8, 2002

The bombing continued these past 3 nights and now I am used to it. It is still very unsettling but it doesn't scare me anymore.

I put my 'emergency box' in the bomb shelter and I feel a lot better.

March 9, 2002

The news just announced that there was a terror attack in Netanya with some critically wounded people, including children. Non-stop news coverage and network break-ins (to regular scheduled programming â€" just like the media urgency right after 9-11) are happening almost every day here, reporting one terror attack after another. Sometimes it happens several times a day. Different attacks, different places, different methods, different people murdered â€" yet often all in the same day.

March 9, 2002, later in the evening

Israel can't keep going on like this. It's too much. It's just too much.

I turned off the TV because I was so upset from the ongoing coverage of the Netanya terror attack. Ten minutes later I heard the incessant wailing of ambulance sirens and knew there had been an attack here in Jerusalem. Turned on the TV and there it was. At least 11 dead so far.

This is a war, directed as much at regular people as at Israeli soldiers. It's no less than a war. Looks like war, sounds like war, feels like war. It's a war.

March 10, 2002

All the news programs are interviewing survivors of the cafe bombing in Jerusalem and the shooting attack in Netanya. The most difficult ones to watch are those of the people still in their hospital beds, clearly suffering from shock and with cuts and bruises all over their faces. But they are the lucky ones.

One injured woman, who was at Cafe Moment in Jerusalem, said she had expressed concern to her friend that night that the café's security guard did not have a weapon. What's the point of him being here if he doesn't have a gun? she had asked her friend. I'm not in the mood to die tonight. Her friend laughed at her. Really, I don't feel like dying tonight.

Seconds later a bomb exploded and her friend was killed.

March 11, 2002

Today I visited Cafe Moment. It did not seem possible that only 36 hours ago, 11 young people were killed there. I was a bit nervous; what if a Palestinian came by and started shooting? Two guards stood across the street but this did not offer me any comfort.

From behind the barricades, I saw workers cleaning up the cafe, whose insides had been ripped to shreds. Glass was still on the ground, and electrical wires were sticking out everywhere. The external brick had black burn marks all over it. The smell of explosives was still in the air. Wreaths and flowers lay under the outside awning. Yarzheit candles of every shape and size lined the cement enclosure that surrounds the cafe. Death notices were hanging on the trees. Several reporters and photographers were milling about, as well as mourners and visitors.

Enveloped by two Israeli flags, a large banner with the Cafe Moment logo was hanging outside, with these words written on it:

"We cry and we cry and we cry-and then we continue forward"

A reporter from a local newspaper walked over and asked if he could interview me. His photographer took some pictures of me standing next to my bike, and then the interview took place, mostly in Hebrew with some English thrown in when I couldn't find the right words.

Q: Why are you in Israel right now?
A: I'm in school here.
Q: Are you scared of the situation here, especially since the bombing on Saturday night?
A: Very scared. But a few days have passed, and now I'm a bit more relaxed again.
Q: Are you getting phone calls from home?
A: Of course.
Q: Have you thought of leaving?
A: Well, yes.

I tell him of two dreams I had last night, both taking place in the United States where I recently finished an internship before returning to Israel. In each dream, I had made the decision not to come back because I was too frightened.

Q: So why do you stay?

I pause for a moment.

A: I like my program.

I pause again.

I tell him that one of the most difficult issues for me, aside from being scared, is the feeling of powerlessness, that there's nothing I can do to make the situation any better. I then tell him about a lecture that Rabbi Danny Landis gave at Pardes (where I am studying) today, about being in the darkness, in the night. About how we are in the night right now, a seemingly endless, relentless night, and how scary the night can be. But Rabbi Landis implored us not to give up hope, that morning always comes. As Jews, we have suffered tremendously, so many times in our history. But the morning always comes. In our religion, he said, there is a distinct desire to make it through the night. When we say we can't go on, that's exactly when we MUST go on.

More importantly, I tell the reporter, he told us that we have a job to do. And our job is not to deny the darkness. Rather, it's to try to transform the darkness into light. And to use the darkness to transform ourselves. Like Jacob wrestled with the angel, we have to wrestle with our fears. We have to seize the fear and force the terror to transform us. Not to sleep through the night but to say, "It's night. We have to bring something to it."

How? By being nicer to each other. By offering support to those around us. By reaching out. By increasing our contributions to the community. We need to intensify our giving, he told us. Volunteer, assist people and organizations that need our help. Not once, or twice, but on an ongoing basis. Intensify our spirituality. Study more. Pray more. Give more. Offer light to people who are suffering more than we are. Take care of yourself and take care of others.

We have to be of those who will bring the morning to the night.

This was a very inspiring message for me, I tell the reporter, who is scribbling away in his notebook as I speak.

I pause again and then mention a final thought.

I love Israel, I tell him. I believe in Israel, in its right to exist. Why should I leave while others stay? Aren't we all responsible for this country, for its survival? Do you walk away from loved ones when they are suffering? Isn't that when you're supposed to stay and do whatever you can to help? Like how you want to be at the hospital when someone you love is sick, is in trouble. That's how I feel. In some ways, it's more difficult for me to be in the U.S. when Israel is hurting. I feel more helpless there. I want to be here when My People are suffering, when My Country is in trouble. I want to be close, not far away. I want to be able to come and light a Yarzheit candle where the bombing took place. Not from America.

I start to cry and I wave him away.

It's true that the sounds of war are in the air. And it's true that the situation -- and the sounds of war -- are quite scary. People are scared to walk out their front door. Statistically, the odds are in one's favor. But psychologically, it sure doesn't feel that way.

For me, I believe I'm right where I'm supposed to be. With My People when My People are hurting.

And that's why I'm still in Israel.

That is why I stay.