by Ellis Shuman
Pending notification of family members. There would be a knock on the door at any moment, Ayala feared. The police would be outside, waiting to deliver their solemn message. The news would be devastating, a burden more than she could bear. Ayala began to tremble; she felt sick to her stomach.
And that was when the front door of the apartment opened and Tomer marched in, accompanied by his father.
“What chaos on the streets of Tel Aviv!” Tomer reported breathlessly. “The buses stopped running; traffic was at a standstill. Nobody knew where to go or what to do.”
For Tomer, being caught in the center of the big city at the exact moment when a suicide bombing occurred was an adventure, something exciting to share with his friends at school. He never considered the fact that his absence was a matter of concern for his family, or that his younger sister had feared his death in the attack.
“Tomer, we were so worried about you,” Shoshanna said, pulling her son close.
“What was there to worry about? Nothing will ever happen to me.”
Why couldn’t Ayala believe that? She ran forward to embrace her brother, catching him off guard. Tomer initially raised his hands to fend off his sister’s sudden show of affection. But then he hugged her and gently brushed back her hair. “Why are you crying? Nothing happened.”
Later that night, she lay in her bed, reliving the hours of anguish, of not knowing. She felt weak, helpless. So incapable of fighting back. What could one do to stop a suicide bomber? How could you prevent the mass murder of innocent men, women, and children?
Her Purim costume lay discarded over a chair. The class party had been canceled when the teachers heard reports of the heavy death toll and of how young the victims were. For Ayala, Purim had lost its luster, its freewheeling, endless joy. Purim would never be the same.
39
April 1997
“Why are you obsessed with suicide bombings?”
“I am not obsessed at all,” Ayala said, looking up at her teacher. “I think it’s a valid subject for my report, and that is why I did this research.”
“Yes, you definitely researched the topic thoroughly,” he admitted, going through the carefully written pages. “You have documented the attacks very meticulously, listing when and where they occurred, how many people were killed, and which terrorist group claimed responsibility. But still, it’s a gruesome topic, Ayala. I’d like to know why you chose it.”
“It’s all in the report,” Ayala replied, not fully focused on what her teacher was asking. She had listed all the attacks, from the terrorist who diverted a 405 Egged bus on the main Tel Aviv-Jerusalem highway in July 1989, killing 16 when the bus plunged into the valley; to the most recent suicide bombing at Café Apropo in March one month previous when three Israelis were killed. The bombings of Jerusalem buses and, of course, the suicide bombing outside Dizengoff Center just last year—they were all included.
How could she explain why she had chosen this as her project? Could her teacher understand how these bombings made her feel? The loss of life. The inability of the victims to fight back. She couldn’t state clearly why the attacks had occurred, what purpose they achieved. She couldn’t begin to fathom what motivated the perpetrators who blew themselves up, but she was capable of compiling all the attacks into some semblance of detailed order. Wasn’t that a fitting way to memorialize the victims? Wasn’t this a suitable school project? After all, this was modern Israeli history, as painful as it was to accept.
While working on the paper, she had consulted with Tomer. Surely his advice would ensure that her paper would get a good grade, but he, too, had been skeptical about the subject matter. Only she remained convinced that the topic was suitable for her paper.
“Why don’t you choose something less disturbing?” her teacher asked. “Perhaps you could write about the War of Independence, when the IDF overcame overwhelming odds as the State of Israel was established?”
“That’s ancient history for me,” Ayala replied. “Sometimes history is occurring right outside your doorstep, and you see it while it’s being made. Someone has to record these stories, these tragedies. That’s why I chose this as my topic.”
“You’re not going to be killed in a suicide attack,” he said, surprising her.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you’re obsessed with this subject because you fear being killed by a suicide bomber. I’ve seen how you look when we go to the shopping center, when we’re traveling on a bus. You’re always suspicious of strangers. Anyone unfamiliar is a potential bomber. Not every Arab is a bad person; not every stranger is wearing explosives around his waist. You’ve got to let this go, Ayala.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But what Tomer was saying was true. She was constantly fixated with fear of impending danger. As she walked to school, she hesitated before crossing each street, making sure no unfamiliar men loitered near the intersection. When she rode on a bus, she always chose a seat far in the back, behind the rear door, so that she could get a good look at the other passengers. Once, when a young man who distinctly looked like an Arab boarded the bus, carrying a grocery bag overfilled with produce from the market, she quickly exited, even though she was three stops from home.
She couldn’t help but stereotype the men she saw on the street. Anyone wearing a kippa, the sign of a religious Jew, was safe. Any man with dark features and staring eyes was a candidate for suspicion. In her free time, Ayala wouldn’t consider visiting the crowded streets in the center of the city, an area she assumed to be the most logical site for terrorists to strike.
Sometimes Ayala lost sleep at night, worrying about a terrorist attacking her school. There was a guard at the entrance—an older Russian immigrant who spoke pidgin Hebrew and barely noticed the schoolchildren passing in front of him. It was obvious he was incapable of stopping anyone suspicious from entering the school. A bomber could easily slip inside and detonate himself before anyone had a chance to alert the security forces. And her classroom at the top of the first stairwell would suffer the most damage!
What could be done to stop the bombings? How could she avoid the terrorists lurking nearby, ready to strike? How could she elude certain death?
She had hoped writing a school paper on the subject would compartmentalize the terror she felt in her heart. If she could document the bombings, giving proper tribute to the victims and identifying the villains, she would escape becoming a victim herself one day.
This is what she tried to tell Tomer, but she lacked the vocabulary to state her innermost trepidation. The paper she submitted in class was not about feelings at all. It was a pure historical record of the horrors visited on Israel in recent years. Facts and figures were presented in an orderly fashion, with no trace of her emotions or fears.
“Is my report okay?” She hoped her teacher wasn’t going to demand that she redo it, or worse than that, choose a different topic and start anew.
“What have you learned by writing about this particular subject?” her teacher asked, challenging her with the question.
“Well, I learned about the terror attacks,” she began.
“Ayala, have you reached any conclusions? Reporting attacks in the correct chronological order and recording the number of victims in each one—that’s the easy way to handle this subject.”
What was she trying to say with her report? Suicide bombers were leaving a bloody trail of death and destruction in the streets, and Ayala was incapable of fighting back. All she could do was document the weeks and months of terror. She was too young now, but maybe one day, when she was older, she would be capable of doing something.
“The conclusion I’ve reached,” she started, searching for the appropriate words to fully express what she was feeling. “The thing is this. When a suicide bomber boards a bus and detonates his explosives, the passengers are never given a choice. No one asks them, ‘Do you want to live or do you want to die?’ The bomber isn’t being f
air; he’s already chosen to die. He is making the decision for everyone else. He’s not only a terrorist. He’s also a murderer.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“It’s not fair. None of this is fair,” she said, surprised at the tears running down her cheeks. “It has to stop. We shouldn’t have to worry every time we board a bus. It isn’t fair!”
That was all she could say. Ayala’s tears clearly disturbed her teacher as well. After handing her some tissues, he ended their session and dismissed her from the classroom.
It has to stop, she said to herself as she descended the stairs. Today she was too young to do anything about the suicide bombings. Maybe one day, she thought, not able to complete the sentence in her mind.
40
June 2001
By the time Ayala was in her last year of high school, the paper she had written on suicide bombings at the age of 14 was long forgotten. She was busy studying for her final matriculation tests while the newscasts were full of reports of renewed Palestinian violence. It had all started with an act considered both political and provocative. Following the failure of the Camp David peace talks the previous summer, opposition leader Ariel Sharon visited the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, a site holy to Christians and Jews, who regarded it as the Temple’s location in Biblical days, and to Muslims, who believed it was the spot where Muhammad had ascended into heaven. Responding to what they viewed as an affront to their religion as well as to their national inspirations, the Palestinians launched an uprising that was labeled from the start as the Second Intifada. Initially, there were stone-throwing riots in the villages. Then booby-trapped cars began exploding. Confrontations between Palestinians and security forces grew increasingly violent and tensions heightened. Suicide bombers again wreaked havoc on Israeli streets and buses, leading to rising body counts.
Ayala tried to tune out the news and concentrate on her studies. A car bomb in Jerusalem’s Mahane Yehuda market; a bombing at Kfar Darom in the Gaza Strip; sixty Israelis injured in the center of Netanya. Bombings in Kfar Saba and Or Yehuda. Bombings at shopping malls and at bus stations. The incidents targeted innocent civilians everywhere. It seemed no place was off-limits for a pigua—the short, deadly word for a terrorist attack. The lists of victims were reported solemnly each night by the television anchormen.
As worrisome as the situation was, Ayala wasn’t as concerned as she had been when she lost sleep fearing impending attacks as a young teenager. What had changed since then? The current attacks were occurring at a more serious pace, with new incidents almost every day. Yet, Ayala felt one step removed from what was happening around her. She didn’t feel invincible, but in some way, she took for granted that none of this terror would ever affect her.
Her brother would be proud of her, she thought, but she rarely saw him these days. Tomer had enlisted in the army for the start of his three years of mandatory military duty. All his life he had dreamed of becoming kravi (a combat soldier), and he fulfilled this desire when he was accepted into the Golani Brigade. Tomer didn’t mind the long weeks away from home, the seemingly endless desert marches with heavy equipment on his back, or the tiresome lessons teaching him to use different firearms. Everything about his service came to him as a challenge. He adapted to his military setting as easily as a fish took to water.
“What are you going to do when you enlist in the army?” Tomer asked her on one of his infrequent weekends home from base. Having quickly removed his madei aleph (everyday-wear uniform) and handing it to their mother along with the rest of his dusty laundry, he stood before her in jeans and a white T-shirt.
“I haven’t given it too much thought,” she told him, glowing in the fact that her soldier brother was home, at her side like he had been all through childhood.
“You know what I think? You’d be good serving in an intelligence unit. You’re always investigating things, researching subjects that interest you while sitting in the library. I’m sure there would be a place for you in Heil HaModi’in,” he said, naming the IDF’s intelligence branch.
“I’ve been invited to one of their pre-army get-togethers,” Ayala admitted. “I hadn’t considered going because I don’t speak Arabic. I thought they only accepted candidates who are fluent in Arabic.”
“But you speak English. That’s much more important than Arabic. Oh, and you also understand some Bulgarian.”
“Bulgarian. A lot of good that will do me in the army!”
Tomer’s words got her thinking. The IDF’s intelligence corps was considered one of the army’s elite branches. In this day and age, intelligence work puts you on the front lines to face off against enemies using modern technologies, she thought. Heil HaModi’in. Maybe that’s where she would serve. The end of her high school days wasn’t far off. She could see herself fulfilling two years of compulsory army duty serving in the intelligence corps. The very thought of that future was mysterious and compelling.
The days between Tomer’s visits passed swiftly, with Ayala kept busy by her studies. One weekend, he showed up for dinner with Ilana, his girlfriend from Haifa. Ilana was a slim, blonde girl, who spoke in a quiet whisper and only when a direct question was posed to her. But Ilana had wide eyes that were constantly doting on her good-looking date. Tomer seemed enthused about her as well. Sitting next to her at the Shabbat meal, he informed the family that they would be going out afterwards to a popular nightclub in Tel Aviv.
“Why don’t you join us?” Tomer asked his sister. “I thought all high school seniors partied on Friday nights.”
Ayala shook her head. Nightclubs and discotheques were all the rage, with their pounding music, drinks, and flashing lights. Ayala had once accompanied her girlfriends to a club, but the noise was so deafening she could barely hear what they were saying. Her friends raved about their experiences at a widely popular disco in south Tel Aviv; of the boys with whom they flirted and danced; of the alcohol they consumed; and of the light drugs that made their Friday nights unforgettable, although a bit foggy with regards to details. Ayala didn’t fully understand their enthusiasm for this strange clubbing experience. She didn’t find it enjoyable at all.
“Go have fun,” she said, winking at Ilana.
“Don’t stay out too late,” Shoshanna called to her son when he left the apartment. She cast her daughter a worried look. “With all the terrorist attacks these days, I can’t help but worry. I won’t be able to get to sleep until Tomer returns home.”
“Imma, you manage to sleep just fine when Tomer is at his base. You never have a clue what he and his unit are up to. They could be patrolling Palestinian villages, manning roadblocks, or chasing terrorists. You don’t lose any sleep with worry over that.”
“When Tomer is on weekend leave, he is under my care. I just wish he would stay where I could see him, all through Shabbat until Sunday morning when he has to go back to base.”
“Tomer will be fine,” Ayala assured her. “Don’t worry.”
She sat down between her parents to watch the hour-long news magazine, followed by a romantic comedy. For some reason, the jokes didn’t make her laugh. Instead, they made her restless. She fidgeted on the sofa, not knowing where to put her hands. Something was bothering her, but she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Her father chuckled; her mother laughed. The amusing action on the screen barely registered in Ayala’s mind. There was something wrong, but what was it?
She pricked up her ears at the sound of a high-pitched noise, somewhere in the distance. It was a siren, growing louder as it raced through Ramat Gan neighborhoods to an unknown destination. Ayala’s parents were so engrossed in the film that they didn’t notice anything. Her father slurped his beer, while her mother cracked sunflower seeds, one by one, before discarding the empty shells onto an ashtray in the middle of the coffee table.
And then, another piercing call, rising in intensity. Ayala tried to determine the direction the police car, or ambulance, or whatever emergency vehicle it was, was traveling in relation
to their apartment. Her parents continued to stare wide-eyed at the television screen.
Sirens. The shrieking cry of vehicles racing through the streets brought back so many of Ayala’s bad memories. Sirens, the harbingers of bad news. No, it couldn’t be. Not again!
“There must be a fire somewhere,” Shoshanna said to her husband. “Avraham, what do you think?”
“Those aren’t fire trucks,” Ayala said, standing up and turning on the radio. She switched the dial to Galei Zahal. The army radio station would be the best source for updates. Avraham lowered the volume on the television set as they caught the middle of a breaking story.
“Security forces are on the way to the scene,” the announcer was saying. “Civilians are requested to stay away from the area and from the surrounding streets in order to allow security and medical personnel to do their jobs.”
“What is it?” Avraham asked. “Another bombing?”
“Shh!” Ayala whispered.
“We repeat the news item we’ve just reported. There has been a bombing attack in south Tel Aviv, at the Dolphinarium discotheque on the seashore. This bombing occurred a short time ago. It is not yet clear if the attack was the work of a suicide bomber or if it was perpetrated in some other manner. There are reports of many casualties. Security and medical forces are on the way to the scene. We will continue to update you with further details of this pigua.”
On the muted television, the romantic comedy vanished from the screen, the film interrupted by an emergency broadcast.
“Where did Tomer go tonight?” Ayala asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“If you’re so worried about him, just call him on his mobile phone,” her father said.
Ayala dialed Tomer’s number, a number she knew by heart because of the many times she had called for brotherly advice. The call did not go through. All she heard was a series of buzzes before the line went dead.
