Visiting Kever Rachel

Monday, November 5, 2001

I spent last Sunday (October 28) in Bethlehem, along with thousands of other Jews. To be more accurate we went to one of Judaism's most important holy sites, Rachel's Tomb, a tiny Israeli enclave which borders southern Jerusalem and Palestinian-controlled Bethlehem.

On any ordinary day there are many visitors to the tomb, people who come to visit our matriarch Rachel, who died in childbirth on the way to Bethlehem, in the hope that her tragic story will help to inspire their prayers. Others come to symbolically console the matriarch, described in the bible as weeping for her exiled and dispersed children. For others the physical connection, visiting the ancient tomb itself, is an important part of their connection with Jewish history and the Land of Israel. That Sunday, the eleventh of the Hebrew month of Heshvan, thousands made the traditional pilgrimage to commemorate the anniversary of Rachel's death.

Last year the Israeli army prevented worshippers from making their way to the tomb, then under constant Palestinian bombardment. Since then the army has worked out a tighter security regime around the site, including huge concrete walls and organised bulletproof buses to shuttle visitors on the minutes-long ride from southern Jerusalem through the very short, but dangerous corridor which is in firing range from Palestinian-controlled Bethlehem.

On the eleventh of Heshvan extra buses were laid on to accommodate the huge crowds flocking to the site. Every half hour an armoured bus left Jerusalem's central bus station, packed to the gills, not even any standing room left. At the Gilo Junction in southern Jerusalem, thousands more Jews waited for the armoured shuttle buses.

Even though there was no room for more passengers, my bus still stopped at the junction. The driver asked everyone to make sure the bulletproof windows were closed, as we were about to run the potentially dangerous gauntlet on the outskirts of Bethlehem. Through the dust-encrusted windows of the battered bus I saw several Israeli tanks and armoured vehicles parked by the roadside. Ahead we had a bulletproof army jeep escort. Only the night before, gunbattles had raged in the area, as Israel hunted down terrorists in Palestinian Bethlehem.

Arriving at the site was like entering an armed compound. Between the tomb and Palestinian Bethlehem huge concrete blocks shielded the structure and adjacent army positions formed a protective cordon. The bus parked outside the site, with the doors lined up with the entrance to the building, the bus itself shielding us from possible snipers in the nearby Palestinian-controlled sector. Israeli soldiers and police quickly but calmly rushed us into the building, shouting at us to hurry and get inside. No one was taking any chances.

Inside, the thick walls of the building created a cavelike atmosphere. The heavy security made me think of some deep underground bunker from a Cold War movie. A short elderly woman, her hair bound in a colourful kerchief, blessed each soldier and policeman as they gently ushered her inside, reaching out to each one with her book of Psalms and touching him lightly on the shoulder. "May God bless you, and all those who protect Israel, and all their families, and all of Israel, and all the world, and may He bring peace and His Messiah speedily in our day, and may we all be blessed, Amen and Amen."

Entering the shrine was like entering a place in which all the mothers of the world had been gathered together, crying for God's children. The small, stuffy stone room was crowded to bursting point. All around me women swayed fervently as they recited Psalms. Many wept, some sobbed uncontrollably, others paused occasionally to wipe away a tear with the corner of their headscarves. In one corner a woman stood, eyes clenched shut, reciting Psalms in a whisper, begging God to save His people from the enemies surrounding us. Another woman stood, as if in a trance, a beatific smile on her face, an ornate book of Psalms in her hand, joyfully murmuring the words to herself. A woman with a strained look on her face turned out to have spent the night in prayer at the site. Mother Rachel would have been proud to see the sincerity and the piety of the throngs who flooded Bethlehem to honour her memory that Sunday.

That Sunday we needed every prayer. I arrived home to news of a terror attack. Two Palestinian terrorists opened fire on passengers waiting at a bus stop in the northern Israeli city of Hadera. Four Israeli women were murdered in that attack and over 40 people wounded. Only that morning there had been another shooting in the same region, in which Palestinian gunmen opened fire on an Israeli car, killing the driver. This after a week in which mercifully no Israelis had been killed, as Israeli security forces successfully caught several terror cells red-handed, and arrested many others. However tight the borders though, there is always a chink the terrorists manage to exploit.

That night we were invited to sheva brakhot, a festive dinner for the bride and groom, part of the traditional week-long wedding celebrations. This mix of sorrow and joy, the extremes of sorrow and joy, typify life here now. In some ways it might seem obscene to go out and party after news of a massacre. On the other hand life has to go on, and what better way to express our determination to live than to celebrate the creation of a new Jewish family, the founding of a new Jewish home in Israel. Our enemies believe in destruction, our way of life is founded on creation. Our response to those who destroy life is to create new life. A few days later we were invited to another festive occasion, this time it was a brit, the circumcision celebration for eight day old baby boys. How wonderful to initiate another Jewish child into the covenant of Abraham.

A week later, Sunday November 4, a Palestinian terrorist opened fire on a bus in Jerusalem's bustling French Hill junction. It seemed unreal, like a replay of last week's ghastly attack in Hadera. Two Israeli schoolchildren were murdered, 16-year-old Shoshana Ben-Yishai and 14-year-old Menashe Regev. Over 50 other people wounded.

I made dinner this evening to reports on the condition of the wounded. The bus driver, a Jerusalem Arab, was amongst the wounded interviewed from the hospital. As his headscarfed mother leaned anxiously over him he pleaded with the terrorists to stop their campaign of killing. "Enough of the war, enough of the killing. I had a bus full of innocents, of schoolchildren and elderly. The terrorists don't care if they kill Jews or Arabs, they just want to kill as many people as possible."

And we want to live as much as possible. God willing I'll be attending three more weddings this month.

Rains of blessing

Motzei Shabbat (Saturday night), October 27, 2001

Perhaps our prayers for peace have not yet been answered, but at least our prayers for rain seem to have had some effect.

I'm writing this to the reassuring accompaniment of heavy rain thudding down exuberantly in sheets, drumming on the pavement outside the open window, streaming off the roofs, balconies and tiered gardens down into the valley. Finally the yoreh, the first rain of the year, has arrived. Lord knows we've been waiting so long for this rain, it's already late October and so far in most parts of the country all we've had is the briefest of teasing drizzles, tantalising us with the intoxicating scent of damp earth.

And now it is really here. Those of you in temperate climes, or in damp tropical regions will think me quite mad to make such a fuss over a little rain, but any of you who have spent time in arid regions such as ours will understand the craving for water after the parched 5-6 month long dry season. By late July, certainly by August you feel as though you can no longer even remember what rain is. The nighttime sprinklers, the only way to keep the municipal parks green, are the only reminder. Sometimes you wake in the middle of the night to a drumming, thudding sound, and half asleep you think for a moment that it is raining outside, and then you realise that it's just a hot dry wind beating the dust caked shutters against the window over the bed. Little wonder that so much of our religious traditions revolve around the cycle of the rains.

I can hardly describe the thrill I felt Friday night when out walking in the park I felt the first drop on my cheek, scarcely daring to believe that it was really rain. And then the drops started falling more regularly and we realised that it really was raining. The Bnei Akiva teenagers hanging out on a nearby bench went wild with excitement, literally jumping for joy as they revelled in the light shower.

We also felt a little lightheaded, frisking along the path like kids, dancing in the rain. As it grew heavier we headed for home, passing another group of children frolicking in the downpour. As we turned down our street two toddlers ran out of their building grinning impishly, hands outstretched, palms up, gazing bright eyed at the heavens, wide-eyed, at the rain. A look reminiscent of American or north European children's anticipation of the first snow. We arrived home, wet, but invigorated, and stood for a long time under the sheltered entrance of our building watching the rain get heavier and heavier, beating the dry summer dust from buildings and streets, bringing the promise of green hills and autumn wildflowers.

Unfortunately rain wasn't this week's big news story in Israel, but right now I'm not going to let the more depressing events spoil my gladness that the rain has finally come. Perhaps if I have the time I'll write more later tonight.

May the rains bring us only blessings, and may it be a good week despite events.

Shavua tov,

Festive season

Sunday, October 14, 2001

I haven't written this past month mostly for positive reasons, the Hebrew month of Tishrei is Israel's main festive season, and between holiday preparations and a vacation up north I have spent very little time with my computer of late.

I'm torn between a desire to write about all the fun and interesting things that I've done this past month and the obligation to tell you about all the terrible things that have happened too. As with the summer months, this autumn has been bittersweet, a roller coaster of enjoyable trips and special events, mixed the continuous Palestinian onslaught which never abates, providing a constant backdrop of anxiety and pain to the most joyous occasions. I don't know what is reported abroad, suffice to say that here the terror continues and the festive season was marred by several attacks, including the infiltration of an Israeli village on the edge of Gaza by terrorists, a shooting spree by a Palestinian terrorists disguised as an Israeli soldier in the northern town of Afula and a car bomb at the northern kibbutz (communal village) of Shluhot.

I could spend this whole letter telling you about each tragedy, every Israeli killed and wounded, every miraculous near miss, but I won't, because despite it all, this was our festive season, and I want to write about the joy of yom tov, the celebrations that we and millions of other Israelis managed to enjoy, despite the pain the terrorists tried to imbue.

We spent Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, at a small religious agricultural village on the Golan Heights, just as we did last year. It has become something of a tradition for us, escaping to Israel's rural north-east wilderness for Rosh Hashana.

There is something about the rural tranquility, the simplicity of the place which seems appropriate to the New Year, also referred to as the Day of Judgement, when we stand before God in solemn repentance. I find the rugged, volcanic landscape of the Golan inspiring, the barren wilderness of autumn reminding me of the wonders of creation, the land a pristine canvas waiting for the coming rains to bring new life to it. The village synagogue was comfortable and friendly, and the prayer service simple but beautiful. Not that I needed much help concentrating on my prayers after such a difficult year, but the sincere atmosphere of the place was certainly conducive.

On both afternoons a local guide took us for walks around the area, visiting nearby water reservoirs, surveying the landscape from volcanic outcrops and visiting the cows, of which there are a great many, along with what must be the largest population of Jewish cowboys in the world. Aside from learning a lot about cattle raising, we also had some glimpses of usually elusive local mammals: rock hyraxes (imagine if you can a cross between a groundhog, a rabbit and a chipmunk), gazelle, boar, jackals and a very cute long-eared hedgehog. Israel's sparsely populated northeast is always a good place to see birds of prey, but the autumn migrations are an extra good time and we saw several species.

No matter how many times I see them, I will never cease to be impressed by the sheer size, majesty and beauty of the Griffon vultures (the biblical nesher) which are common in that region. They are incredible birds, and the casualness with which one sees them in the northeast is amazing - 17 soaring overhead one morning as I walked to synagogue.

Later that month, during the Sukkot festival, we visited the region again, visiting not only the Golan but also the fertile valley below it, the flat Hula Basin, a warm humid swampland area, now mostly drained and turned over to farmland. A small pocket of the old Hula wetlands remains as a nature reserve, a haven for all manner of unusual plant and animal life, representing Israel's diverse mix of African, Asian and European species which converge here, the land the ancients thought of as the navel of the world.

Autumn is a wonderful time for the Hula just as huge flocks of migrating birds are passing through, some remaining in the area during the winter, others just stopping by on their way to Africa. Few things compare to seeing these giant flocks, sometimes consisting of thousands of birds, pelicans, storks, cranes and ibis to name but a few, blackening the sky like a swarm of giant bees or stirring up the usually calm Hula waters as while taking off en masse.

In general I think that the last year has brought home to me how important nature is for me as a refuge from the craziness that surrounds us. Not that nature can't provide terrors of its own, but still, studying the flowers, watching the birds and photographing the landscape gives me a chance to forget the news for a while. The Palestinian terrorists may be making our lives hell and the Americans and Europeans may want to sacrifice us for their war against Bin Laden but it is comforting to remember that the birds still migrate in the autumn, the seasonal flowers still bloom and the clouds still gather as the festive season draws to a close.

For much of Sukkot we were in the holy mystical town of Tzfat, one of my most favourite places in Israel. This historic town is perched atop a mountain, its steep tortuous streets winding down the slopes. The heart of Tzfat is the old quarter, a maze of narrow cobbled alleys and staircases jam packed with an impressive selection of beautiful synagogues, religious academies and art galleries. Drab modern neighbourhoods have sprung up along with comfortable lush suburbs all around the old town, dwarfing it and blocking the view in places, and when you're in the old town you are in another world. Modern Tzfat is a typical provincial Israeli town, but with an ancient core unlike that of any other.

For me the highlight of any visit to Tzfat is spending Shabbat there and going to pray at the Beirav synagogue, Tzfat's Carlebach synagogue. This building is not one of Tzfat's most outstanding, in fact the little stone synagogue is rather cramped and in need of repairs, but the mixture of exuberance, warmth and sincerity of its congregants, the the beauty of the services there, is simply outstanding. The synagogue is so popular that on a typical Friday night or Shabbat morning people are packed into the narrow street outside - the small shul hopelessly inadequate. The late Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach would gain a lot of pleasure from seeing the way his teachings and music are put into practice at Beirav. I grew up in a similar synagogue and for me praying at Tzfat's Carlebach shul is in many ways a nostalgia trip, the singing, the mix of people, the crowding brings back a flood of childhood memories. When I come to Beirav I feel as though I have come home.

Though we try to visit Tzfat at least once a year, we have never been there for any of the festivals before. I love wondering around Tzfat's old town on Friday night. The streets are quiet, save for people in their Sabbath best out for an evening stroll and the sound of Shabbat hymns wafting down from open windows. Sukkot is even more beautiful, with families sitting outside in their Sukkot, temporary shelters built specially for the festival. Through the thin walls of the Sukkot you can hear even more music: complex trills and lilting oriental melodies, contemplative or catchy Hassidic tunes or the simple traditional festival songs belted out by an over enthusiastic younger generation who have yet to realise that louder does not necessarily mean better... Even walking past secular homes near the centre of town everyone we passed seemed to be singing, a pair of middle aged men cheerfully humming an old ballad as they walked home from a festive meal or a young woman whistling along to a hit Israeli pop song on the radio accompanied by the sound of running water and clattering plates while she washed up from supper.

Even better was Simhat Torah, the festival which comes at the end of Sukkot. The sound of lively singing came from every synagogue, but, and perhaps I'm biased, the liveliest of all came from the Beirav synagogue. If an ordinary Shabbat is wonderful there, then Simhat Torah is heavenly. I don't think I've had a Simhat Torah like that since I moved away from my childhood synagogue. The dancing in both the men's and women's sections whirled on for hours - anyone who wanted a quick service and dinner had come to the wrong place.

I can't comment on the men's section, but in the women's section the atmosphere moved beyond the simple joy of celebrating the completion of the annual reading of the Torah, and onto something far deeper, a prayer in dance and song instead of words. Between the fast whirling circles and the complicated steps of popular wedding dances there were slow, almost meditative dances and songs, time to remember that more than ever our celebration this year was mixed with deep sorrow.

That evening, after the festival had technically ended, the municipality held a Simhat Torah celebration in the town square, a practice common throughout Israel. To the accompaniment of a live wedding band locals and visitors of all backgrounds prolonged the festive spirit for a few hours longer, dancing with the Torah scrolls to the jubilant strains of religious dance music.

Despite the festive atmosphere, despite the crowded synagogues, one could not escape from the emptiness of many of the hotels and tourist shops. While there were still many Israeli visitors over the festival, foreign tourists were hard to come by. The provincial towns of northern Israel in general are amongst those hardest hit by the economic recession, the security situation and the consequent plunge in tourism has hurt this scenic area even more with many hotels closing and others which just about made it through the peak festive season, but now face closure with no foreign business to see them through until the next Israeli vacation time. I have never seen Tzfat so devoid of tourists. They don't know what they were missing.

New Year's Prayers

Monday, September 17, 2001

Tonight will be the eve of Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year for the year 5762. In Israel you can feel the spirit of renewal emerging from the harsh, barren, rainless summer. The cracked earth, dried up river courses and ever shrinking Sea of Galilee cry out for rain. The heat is starting to break, the nights are getting cooler, the air is getting more humid, the mornings are often cloudy - the first hint of rain is in the air. On otherwise brown hillsides across Israel white hatzav (squill) flowers are in bloom, harbingers of autumn.

Early autumn produce is coming into season: fig trees are heavy with their bounty, fruits on the date palms and olive trees are starting to ripen, the last of the summer grapes are being harvested and the fire engine red of ripe pomegranates creates splashes of colour in urban gardens and rural orchards. The shops are full of beautifully fresh locally grown mangos, apples and a variety of cactus fruits such as prickly pears and kobos. No shortage of the season's new produce to make the shehekhianu blessing on at the festival meal.

According to the Hebrew calendar it is now a year since the Palestinian war began with the bombing of an Israeli jeep in Gaza in which an Israeli soldier, David Biri, was killed. One year and many Israeli deaths later we are wiser, less naive as to our peace partners' intentions and I believe also more resolute in our efforts not to let terrorism destroy our way of life. Perhaps to some extent we have become used to the attacks, but we have not become inured to the ever rising death toll of our countrymen and women. We are anxious but strong, fearful but determined.

Our prayer this year, more than ever, is for the impending winter rains to wash away the curses of the past year and to bring with them blessings both for the parched land and for a nation thirsting for peace. More than ever we wait with breathless anticipation for the new life and fertility that the winter rains bring with them, the rebirth of the shrivelled crops of the field and the greening of the now scorched hillsides. The rain that brings with it the message that the tangled, menacing jungle of thorns can once more become a meadow of wildflowers.

May God grant us a good new year, a year of peace, health and prosperity. May He open the gates of Heaven and accept our heartfelt prayers during these Days of Awe. May He open the skies and send us much needed rain, blessed rains, and not destructive floods. May we merit peace in the Land and in the world and happiness in our homes. May we all be written and sealed in the book of life.

Wishing you all shanah tova, a happy new year.

Weeping for America

Israelis are still in shock from the terror attacks on the United States, but more than anything they have rushed to embrace America in a huge outpouring of support and sympathy from our terror traumatised nation. From official Israeli expressions of solidarity to spontaneous improvised messages from ordinary citizens, there are American flags and simple hand written posters all over Israel and people want to offer any kind of help they can to help the American people through this difficult time. 

This is in contrast with some of our Palestinian neighbours who are, as we say in Hebrew, "dancing on the blood", celebrating the murder of thousands of Americans. We''ve of course seen some celebrate the murder of Israeli civilians with street parties, and that is sick enough, but with the scale of this terror attack, the nature of it, it defies all sense of humanity to celebrate such horror. The Palestinian leadership, realising how bad it looked, threatened foreign journalists covering the Palestinian reaction, telling foreign networks that if they dared air the footage of Palestinian police and thousands of civilians celebrating the American deaths, the lives of their journalists and cameramen would be in danger. Associated Press duly withheld the footage, citing the safety of their crews.

A few months ago I wrote of my impressions from my visit to the United States this year. Above all I was struck by the lax security in the US. In Israel it is second nature that when you enter a public building, say a shop or train station, you open your bags for inspection. You expect there to be a guard at the door and for him to scrutinise you as you enter. In Israel security is a fact of life. In the US security was reserved for government buildings, military installations and flights to Israel.

More than anything this attitude to security indicated the national state of mind. Israel is a country which has been the target of terror for decades, and precautions against terror are a necessary inconvenience to be taken for granted. America as the world's strongest nation revels in a feeling of freedom and security. Who on earth would try to invade the US and threaten the safety of Americans at home? For Israelis America symbolises safety and stability. America is peace, prosperity and freedom from the terror and everpresent threat of war we face here in the Middle East. America is a reassuring sign of what Israel could strive for, one day, God willing, when and if we ever have peace here. If terrorists could strike at the very heart of American financial and military power, how can we, in Israel, have hope for peace and stability?

The week feels as though it began from scratch on Tuesday. The attacks on the United States have dwarfed anything happening in Israel to a pale irrelevance. Even here in Israel we barely remember that the week actually began last Sunday with fatal terror attacks against Israelis. Sunday morning Palestinian terrorists opened fire on a school minivan taking teachers to work in the Jordan Valley. The driver and one teacher were killed and three others wounded. Not long after, a suicide bomber blew himself up at a train station in the northern town of Nahariya; three Israelis were killed and scores wounded. Later that day another suicide bomber exploded himself at Beit Lid junction near Netanya, miraculously only killing himself, but wounding several Israelis.

Monday night Palestinian gunmen infiltrated an Israeli army base just over the border from Palestinian-ruled Tulkarm, killing two Israeli border guards. Wednesday night an Israeli woman was murdered in a drive-by shooting just east of Kfar Saba, close to the Palestinian-ruled town of Kalkilya. As I'm writing this, reports are coming through of an Israeli critically wounded in a Palestinian attack in northern Jerusalem. Even on the Israeli news these reports come low down on the list, after the reports from the US. One week in Israel which now seems trivial in comparison with the thousands of Americans killed on just one day.

One small bright spot in all of this was the re-opening this Wednesday of the central Jerusalem branch of Sbarro's pizzeria, destroyed by a Palestinian suicide bomber last month. May this fitting response to terrorism serve as a message to those who would destroy us, and as an inspiriation to the American people in their time of crisis. Rebuilding and creativity is the best response to those who believe only in destruction.

I hope that you are all well. Condolences from Israel to the people of New York and Washington.

May you all be inscribed for a happy, healthy, safe and peaceful new year.

Israel mourns with America

Saturday night, September 15, 2001

Despite all the terrible weeks we've been through this past year in Israel, the sheer scale and horror of this week's events in America is beyond compare with anything we have been through here.

News of the terror attack on the World Trade Centre came through in Israel just as it happened in the US. I heard the news while on a bus riding along Tel Aviv's La Guardia Street, named for the New York mayor. I wasn't entirely awake and at first couldn't make out the details, confused over how a plane could have crashed into a building in Tel Aviv, trying to work out where terrorists had struck this time. Then over the noise of the bus I heard the terrible news and my heart froze in shock and terror.

My cellphone was useless. Only minutes after the attack, 4pm Israel time (9am US eastern time), the phone lines to the States were already jammed.

Upon arriving at the Tel Aviv central bus station I noticed groups of people huddled around TV screens and radios in the station's many shops. Though the centre was bustling as usual there was a sense of anxiety in the air. People were standing around looking stunned, many, like me, anxiously trying to phone friends and relatives in the US. In a dress shop I passed, a saleswoman turned white as someone burst in and announced the news. Leaving a customer she was serving she dashed out to the public phones in panic, crying that her daughter was in Manhattan. At a nearby electronics store a silent crowd stood glued to a TV. There we watched the footage of the second plane crashing into the WTC, along with reports from the Pentagon. A Habad hassid manning a Tfillin stall encouraged people to join him in reciting Psalms for the victims and rescuers.

I had to catch a bus to Herzliya, to meet DH for his department's annual end-of-summer beach picnic. In light of the news I was in no mood for such a gathering. On the bus to Herzliya I sat near the front so that I could listen to the radio. The station was transmitting non-stop news reports from the US. The news seemed unreal. Suddenly local news was almost insignificant, with a brief report on the day's Palestinian attacks on Israelis meriting less than a minute of the hourly news report.

As Israelis we were going through yet another terror attack. We knew the routine, the pain, the fear, the anxious wait for the list of the victims' names, the desperate attempts to contact any friends or family who may have been at the scene. The scale was unprecedented, too huge to comprehend, but the feelings and responses were the same as if a suicide bomber had attacked a city centre somewhere in Israel.

Arriving at DH's office I found him pale and tense, neither of us having managed to contact any of our many American friends and family. Little work had gotten done that afternoon with many employees too shaken, gathered around TV news reports or desperately trying to get a line to the US. The picnic had been cancelled due to the circumstances, as were sporting and entertainment events throughout Israel.

We decided to drive over to DH's aunt in Jerusalem for the evening. We all felt the need to be together at such a time. We stayed up late into the night, trying to contact our family and friends in the US, eventually getting through in the early hours of the morning Israel time. Thank God all is well, though many saw what happened from their Manhattan office windows.

People here are still in shock. Hundreds of Israelis and many immigrants of American origin have been flooding the Israeli foreign office with requests for help in tracking down missing loved ones. Wednesday was declared a day of mourning in Israel, with flags at half-mast and schools holding special sessions. Israel's chief rabbis and other senior rabbis held special prayer vigils for America, while today synagogues across Israel have added special prayers for America in their regular Sabbath services.

Israelis have been flocking to the US embassy and consulates to show their support for the American people. The street in front of the US embassy has been closed to traffic because so many Israelis are holding prayer vigils outside for the victims and their families. In general there has been a tremendous outpouring of sympathy. I've seen many shops with big signs outside with messages along the lines of "Israel and the American people are one" or "We are all the American people". Tonight a solidarity rally for America was attended by thousands of Israelis in Tel Aviv's Rabin Square. Jerusalem's central Jaffa Road, scene of several Palestinian terrorist attacks in recent months, has been renamed New York Road for the next month, as another symbol of solidarity with America, and Tel Aviv has temporarily renamed Kaplan Street, where the Defence Ministry is located, to Pentagon Street.

Condolences from Israel to the people of New York and Washington.

May you all be inscribed for a happy, healthy, safe and peaceful new year.

There but for a stubbed foot...

Wednesday, September 5, 2001

Dear family and friends,

Yesterday morning when I heard the radio-alarm clock click on at 05:58 with the daily recitation of the Shem'a prayer I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. In a dreamlike state I vaguely heard the prayer, followed by the six o'clock news and then the reassuring dulcet tones of Hayim Zissovitch, the morning news programme presenter. Then I drifted off soundly to sleep again.

I woke up at 07:06 in a panic, remembering that a) I was attending a course in Jerusalem this week b) that classes started at 09:00 c) that yesterday the 07:30 bus didn't get me there in time and so this morning I had planned to take the seven o'clock bus. Frantically I jumped out of bed only to stop suddenly as my foot hit the floor and pain seared through it. I tried again, more gently this time, acutely aware now of the tenderness of the ball of my foot.

The night before, my flamenco classes had resumed again after the summer break, and my teacher had erroneously been assigned a classroom with a slippery stone floor. I had slipped during warmup and stubbed my foot. Now it was coming back to haunt me. Course or no course I wasn't going anywhere. I crawled back into bed, propping up the injured foot on a couple of pillows, and drifted off to sleep again.

Just before eight o'clock the regular broadcast was interrupted by news of an explosion in Jerusalem. A Palestinian suicide bomber had detonated himself on Nevi'im Street, with several people injured, including a policeman who placed himself in front of the bomber, saving passersby. Nevi'im Street. All at once I was wide awake again. I checked the clock. I remembered the bus I was supposed to take that morning. If I had caught my bus I would just be getting off on Nevi'im Street at around 08:45.

Reports started to come in about exactly where the bomber had exploded himself - right next to the Bikur Holim Hospital and the adjacent Yad Sarah offices, an organisation which distributes medical equipment to the needy. I relaxed slightly, realising that my bus stop was a few hundred yards from the site. Still I felt jittery butterflies in my stomach at the thought of how close I would have been had I caught my bus. Never have I been more relieved to have overslept - or to have a bruised foot.

This morning, Wednesday, my foot was feeling better, so I went in to Jerusalem. Just as I arrived at a bus stop on Jerusalem's central Jaffa Road to catch my connecting bus, a police bomb disposal van sped past, sirens wailing, driving in the direction of the Central Bus Station. Then all the traffic was stopped, creating a massive jam and stranding people at bus stops, while more police gathered to prevent anyone travelling towards the bus station.

About twenty minutes later it was all over, a false alarm - this time. Eventually the buses got through the chaos and I was on my way again. As the bus continued through the heavy traffic down Jaffa Road another police bomb disposal van passed us, this time heading in the opposite direction. Judging by the lack of mention on the evening news it was thankfully another false alarm.

On Monday, however, four real bombs exploded in residential Jewish neighbourhoods of Jerusalem. Miraculously they caused "only" minor injuries. Police have been on extra high alert ever since. Security was tight all over the city, with armed police and soldiers everywhere and police and army jeeps making regular patrols. The cafes and hotels I passed on the bus all had security guards outside and in, as does the women's college I'm studying at. Having your bags searched is a way of life here.

I also noticed something else on Jaffa Road. The bombed out remains of the Sbarro pizzeria has been boarded up with wooden planks, and the hoardings have been painted blue and white, the colours of the Israeli flag. On one side elegant Hebrew calligraphy proclaims "Sbarro loves Jerusalem". Around the corner a hand-painted sign announces that Sbarro will be re-opening on Elul 24 5761 / September 12 2001. A fine example of the Jerusalem spirit.

Good night, and may it be a quiet one.