...for today is the anniversary of the terrorist attack in Jerusalem that injured my wife and killed the two friends with whom she was sitting. It is the say we mourn, the day we feel nauseous, and the day we renew our resolve to take advantage of the lives we've been given by chance.
Here's how the New York Times described this day in 2002:
"A powerful bomb hidden in a bag and left on a table by Palestinian militants tore apart a bustling cafeteria during lunch at Hebrew University. ... Through a bedlam of screams and crashing glass, students fled in horror ... some trailing blood onto the concrete courtyard."
There's not much to say, really. Those of you who know my story, know it. I'm not here to retell my entire narrative. I'm just here, this morning, to share the moment that always stays with me. To share it in the hopes of diluting it. In the hopes of dulling it.
For this is the day I relive the following moment, the moment in which I first learned of what had happened. For some reason, with all of the horrible things I saw, this is the moment I never seem to forget. It never leaves me...
When the phone rang in our Jerusalem apartment, I was eating spaghetti with sun-dried tomato pesto, red-tinged olive oil dripping down the strands of pasta, my lips greasy. Smacking.
I put down the fork and answered. "Hello?"
"David? This is Esther. Your wife, Jamie, is here with me. There was an explosion at the university, but I just want you to know she's fine. OK? She's fine." (Click.)
I was still chewing, twirling the fork, knew I didn't know an Esther, and didn't know what she was talking about. After a few seconds, puzzled, I thought, That was nice of her; thought, There must have been some kind of electrical explosion; thought, Keep eating. Although I'd lived in Israel for two years, had been anticipating this, fearing it, I was oblivious. An electrical explosion. As if people routinely called strangers to alert them of transformers on the fritz or wires sparking overhead. But as I continued to eat lunch, the beginning of unease, the sense that something was off, crouched silently.
I turned on the television.
Nothing. Channel 2 was showing its daily Spanish soap-opera with Hebrew subtitles. I ate.
Then, 10 minutes later, the news broke in. A man saying the word: piguah -- terrorist attack. Then a map. A star in the center. The words, Frank Sinatra Cafeteria, the words, Hebrew University. Ceasing to chew, I thought, Not an electrical explosion; thought, She's fine. She's fine. Thought, Why didn't Jamie call herself?
Then the phone rang again.
"Hello?"
"David. This is Esther. Jamie's OK. But she's lightly hurt. They're taking her to the university hospital. She wants you to meet her there." (Click.)
Lightly hurt. She was still fine, I thought, probably just some cuts and bruises. A scrape here or there. Skinned knee. I didn't rush, called our program's dean to let him know what had happened while gathering some clothes, saying into the phone, Lightly.
His voice was quiet, knowing, after living in Israel for decades, that the word lightly when conjoined with injured did not mean she's fine. Finally, he asked, "David, what does that mean, lightly? What did they say?"
"I don't know," I said, the tears suddenly rising, sticking in the throat, the panic, the fight, the flight. I was lost. In over my head. Clueless, I began packing, frantic, then sprinted down a flight of stairs, ran to the street, flagged down a cab.
The driver rolled down a window and smiled through a cigarette.
"Where to?"
"The university."
"Sorry. Impossible. Place is blocked off. No way."
I opened the door, got in anyway. Slammed it shut. "Look. My wife was injured in the attack. She's at the hospital. I don't care how you do it. But you get me there. Now. Understand?"
"No problem."
It is this moment that I have awoken to. It's a memory I always awake to on July 31. And it's a memory that informs the way in which I encounter the world.
Not entirely, but partially.
She survived, thank goodness. And we have beautiful children. And a loving home. But our friends who perished, as with so many who have perished in senseless wars? The same can't be said.
And so, today, as I mourn silently, I resolve myself to continue and try to live positively, to contribute positively, to transform what happened on that day into something positive.