January 24, 2002 – 11 Shevat, 5762

I rarely write so extensively on life in Israel, but 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 my emotions. It’s been a very difficult 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.