Defiance

Monday, June 18, 2001

Hebrew Book Week may be over, but the enjoyment it gave me lingers not only on my book shelves but also in the morale boost it gave me.

Unfortunately, some other events have been cancelled, mostly due to foreign visitors contracting cold feet. But what lifts our spirits is that so many special events and festivals are going ahead. The Israel Festival. with its mix of international and local theatre and music, has proceeded as scheduled. Almost all the foreign groups have turned up, including Britain's Royal Shakespeare Company, Argentinian singer Mercedes Sosa and New Zealand songstress Dame Kiri Te Kanawa, to name but a few. We've hosted Irish folk musicians, English and American jazz musicians, German orchestras, Baltic choirs, teenage heartthrob "boybands" Westlife and Five, and British "girlband" Atomic Kitten.

Other visitors have included Spain's national soccer team (they tied with Israel) and the participants of Russia's national beauty pageant, which was held in Eilat. The annual Karmiel international folk dance festival is scheduled to take place as usual and dance troupes from around the world have confirmed their participation.

Most heartening of all, the Birthright trips to Israel for Jewish diaspora youth are still coming, bringing with them messages of solidarity and warmth from Jewish communities around the world. It's a small compensation for the devastated tourist industry, but it's one of the things which help sustain our morale, reminding us that Israel is the centre for world Jewry not just in the good times, but also during the bad.

Imagine, then, our disappointment upon hearing that World Maccabi was on the verge of cancelling this year's Maccabiah games, the "Jewish Olympics", due to an epidemic of athletes' cold foot spreading throughout the diaspora. Meanwhile, some major Jewish organisations abroad began cancelling summer programmes in Israel, ostensibly for safety reasons.

Not that we don't understand their fears, but even with all the problems it's possible to visit Israel in complete safety, and thousands of tourists do so every week. Supporting Israel should be more than just sending cheques, writing letters or holding solidarity rallies, important as these activities are. It's also about throwing in one's lot with the people of Israel, even for just a few days.

Believe it or not, joining us for a few days by the hotel pool helps to fight terror in its own way. It denies the terrorists the satisfaction of seeing Israel abandoned by foreign visitors and deserted by world Jewry. Each show of fear, each empty hotel and cancelled flight, encourages the terrorists to believe that Israel can be brought to her knees, her friends fleeing in her time of need. In a war of terrorism, the psychological front is half the battle. Hizballah in southern Lebanon even broadcasts Hebrew propaganda on its television station. The programmes mock Israeli weakness, depict Israel as a nation of cowards, revel in pictures of carnage, gloat over empty Israeli resorts and boast about how much of northern Israel is in range of Hizballah rockets. Last year, they imply, Israel withdrew from southern Lebanon in flight from Hizballah attacks; today's terrorist war will drive us out of Israel as well.

So, though not sports fans, we were relieved, even enthusiastic, to hear last Friday that the Maccabiah games would go ahead after all, once the American delegation had confirmed its attendance. This is genuinely a victory against terrorism. Some delegations and some athletes have cancelled their participation, and the event is expected to run a large deficit, but the games will go on. International Jewry has not abandoned Israel. That gives us strength and denies the enemy their pleasure.

We hope, of course, that more Maccabiah delegations will decide to come. We hope that tour groups who have cancelled will change their minds. We look forward to seeing more tourists, more Jewish youth groups, more pilgrimages. Those who are nervous about visiting the big cities will find plenty to enjoy in the desert, the Dead Sea or Eilat. The mysteries of Tzfat await, as do the ancient Jewish villages of the Golan and Galilee.

Life goes on.

Hebrew book week

Monday, June 11, 2001

I must say that I almost laughed out loud the other week when I read the new safety advisory for US diplomatic personnel and other citizens living in Israel. They were advised to avoid public places, crowded places, buses, shopping malls, markets, places of entertainment - the list went on. The whole thing seemed to be so ridiculous. Not that there aren't any risks, but how on earth were these people meant to leave their safe embassy compound at all without breaking the advisory rules?

Despite the Palestinian campaign of terror and despite the possible dangers, most Israelis find the US safety recommendations impractical if not absurd. Yes, there are some people so frightened that they haven't left their homes in months, but they are few and far between. Instead, everyone has his or her own "safe zones", places where they feel comfortable, generally places connected with their own routines. For some people this includes the whole country. For many it excludes only those areas most often targeted by the terror war, such as Gaza, Hebron or even Netanya. For some it means staying very close to home and perhaps avoiding shopping malls or buses when possible. Still, with all the dangers and all the anxiety, Joe Israeli is living an almost normal life.

You may be asking how this is possible. After all, I'm always writing about bombs and shootings and miracles and murders. Yes, it is hard to just go on as usual. There are days when you just feel like curling up at home and going into mourning. Days when the sorrow, the horror and the pain make it seem obscene to just go on with life, to work, go on a hike, visit friends and chat about trivialities. Nights when the horrors of the day invade your sleep, when the day's funerals are replayed in your head and masked terrorists assault your dreams. You wake sick to the stomach, paralysed by grief. 

And yet you can't give yourself over to despair. You know that if the whole nation were to retreat into itself and put life on hold, the terrorists would have won. The only way ordinary Israelis can fight terrorism is to live as normally as possible.

Take Hebrew Book Week, which ended tonight. This annual event is almost as old as the State of Israel itself. Israel is one of the world's highest per capita consumer of books. All over Israel, in big cities and small towns, book fairs were set up featuring everything from ancient sacred Jewish texts to recently published romance novels. Every Israeli publisher from the professional heavyweights to the amateurish one-author operations participates, offering a huge selection of books at discounted Book Week prices. As at a more conventional fun fair, parents bring their children and food vendors sell popcorn, falafel and cotton candy.

Scheduled to open Saturday night June 2, the festival was postponed two days as a sign of mourning after Friday night's horrific terrorist bombing at a Tel Aviv disco. Twenty youngsters were killed at the Dolphi Disco, and people were in no mood for festivals for the next few days. By the middle of the week, though, tens of thousands were flocking to the Book Week fairs. On Friday the organisers announced that a record numbers of visitors had attended, defying both terrorism and an economic downturn.

The sight of throngs of Israelis crowding into the fair was a treat for the eyes and the soul. Yes, security was much tighter than in previous years, but it didn't spoil the atmosphere. All around the People of the Book were busy feasting on the lavish selection.

Browsing a stall belonging to one of the university presses I found a long curl of hair bobbing up and down over the book I was holding. Looking up I noticed that its owner was a Hassid, eagerly surveying the Jewish history section. On my other side a pair of fashionably dressed young women searched for discounted textbooks for a Jewish philosophy course while they flirted with the young salesman manning the stand. Behind me a child enthralled by the glossy animal photos in the new nature encyclopedia begged his mother to buy him the twelve volume set - on special for Book Week at only 550 shekels, down from 1400. An elderly gentleman elbowed his way through the people crowding the stall, looking for a copy of his brother's long out of print book. A foreign student with a heavy southern United States accent inquired about Hebrew-English dictionaries.

It took two visits to one of the biggest events, the book fair held in Jerusalem's Safra Square, to convince me that I'd adequately browsed all the stalls of interest, and even so, time permitting I would have liked to go again.

We left the fair weighed down with our purchases, having found almost everything on our shopping list. We returned to the nearby Russian Compound car park, the site only a few weeks earlier of a large car bomb which fortunately failed to cause any injuries. Tonight the parking lot was filled with the cars of book shoppers. No, the crowd wasn't ignorant of recent events. We were there despite recent events. These days even parking your car or going shopping can become an act of resistance, albeit a small one.

Hard days in May

Sunday, June 3, 2001

Dear family and friends,

A few of you have written lately to inquire about my recent silence and to ask whether anything was wrong.

First, we're fine, we appreciate the concern.

Second, I haven't written recently simply because it has been too hard. Every day it seems as though we are struck with a new tragedy and when I sit down to write I feel that my head is reeling from the repeated pummeling. Between the personal tragedies of people we know and the national tragedies which affect Israelis everywhere, it has been an extremely painful few weeks for all of us.

Since May 1, 40 Israelis and foreign residents of Israel have been killed by Palestinian terror attacks and hundreds wounded. And then there was the Versailles wedding hall disaster in Jerusalem, caused human error or carelessness, not terrorist intent, but adding another body blow to an Israeli public already bruised and shaken after over 8 months of Palestinian terror.

I could recount a litany of bombings, attempted bombings, shootings and the like, but I know that a cold list could not convey the feeling of sitting here day in day out knowing that at any time or any place a bomb could go off. Days which begin with the news of which Israeli villages or roads adjacent to Palestinian areas were shot at. All too often the day continues with news of bombs discovered, or God forbid, exploding in some central Israeli town. By late afternoon, certainly by the evening there will be more Palestinian shootings as the terrorists use the cover of dusk and darkness.

On a good day we hear the word miracle a lot, and the list of terror attacks ends with 'there were no casualties' or 'police successfully defused the device' or that the terrorist had a 'work accident' and blew himself up in the middle of nowhere while preparing the bomb. On a bad day the news begins with a report of someone being seriously wounded or killed. Then there are anxious hours until the name is released as Israelis call family and friends in the area of the attack with every unanswered telephone a possible sign of the worst. This is our daily diet of events, Israelis being attacked somewhere, be it mortars on Israeli villages in and around Gaza, shooting at Gilo, bombs in Netanya or rocks on the Ramallah bypass road.

May saw so many killed and wounded by Palestinian terror: Israeli Jews and Arabs, foreign workers from Romania, new immigrants. Parents have buried their children. Children have buried their parents. Ordinary people have been murdered while going about their everyday lives. I can't even keep track of all the names anymore, there have been too many.

Of all the hard days of May, a few in particular are stand out in my mind.

When you get up in the morning you never know what you'll be doing that day. On the morning of May 1, Assaf Hershkowitz, aged 31, from Ofra, north of Jerusalem, got up, prayed and then at about 6am he put on a bullet proof vest and drove down the road to fill up his car at a gas station before picking up his Palestinian employees. En route he was ambushed by Palestinian terrorists who strafed his car with dozens of bullets. One hit him in the neck, killing him.

Only three months ago Assaf's father Arieh was murdered in a similar manner. Palestinian gunmen shot him as he drove home from work in the Atarot industrial zone in northern Jerusalem. On the afternoon of May 1 his eldest son was laid to rest beside him in Petah Tikva's Segula cemetery.

Hundreds packed the Petah Tikva cemetery that afternoon, the same crowd which had stood in that very same section of the same cemetery only three months earlier and watched Assaf bury his murdered father. It was a somber, grieving, but dignified crowd. People stood in stunned shock, many wept softly, silently, during the short eulogies. In attendance was Israeli President Moshe Katsav who met Assaf only a few months ago while paying condolence call to the family after the Arieh's murder.

Assaf's wife and I were at high school together. Just over seven years ago we were also students at the same college near Petah Tikva, both with serious boyfriends, both considering marriage. We used to sit at the kitchen table in her dorm and over mugs of tea we'd chat about our plans for the future, marriage, where we'd like to live, what type of wedding dresses we'd like to wear.

We both married, got busy with our studies, with work and setting up home. We lived in various places before settling down in our present homes. It's a time of life when it's hard to stay in touch. Now that we've living in towns which aren't too far apart we'd been trying to arrange a Shabbat together, but somehow the timing never worked out.

A few weeks ago she invited me to join them for the Israel Independence Day festivities in Ofra, where she lives. We had a prior invitation from other friends, so she invited us for the Shabbat after Independence Day. We were planning on going but something came up and once again we were unable to accept the invitation. We saw Hila the following Tuesday at Assaf's funeral. Who would have imagined the week before that it would be our last chance to spend a Shabbat with him.

Just over a week later, on May 9, two 14 year old boys, Kobi Mandell and Yossi Ishran, were savagely murdered by Palestinians while hiking only a few hundred yards from their home in Tekoa, a small village on the edge of the Judean Desert, south-east of Jerusalem. Even by recent standards, the brutality of the murders was unspeakable, two young boys stoned to death and mutilated to the extent that one body could only be identified by his finger prints - even his own father could not recognise the face.

The Mandell family moved to Israel from Silver Spring, Maryland. The day after the murder a cousin of mine who also lives near Tekoa told me that her children went to the same school as Kobi Mandell, who was in class with her son. Her daughter, a few years older, helped the children acclimatise to their new school upon their arrival from the US.

I didn't know the victims, but I have spent a lot of time in Tekoa. I researched and wrote about Tekoa a few years ago, staying in the homes of local people, talking to them, photographing the village and surrounding desert, hiking in the area. I left impressed by the unique community which had developed there.

I remember the first time I went to Tekoa. The route meanders through Jerusalem, winds around the eastern Palestinian villages of the Bethlehem region and continues through the Palestinian village of Za'atara and the Israeli village of Nokdim, on the edge of the desert, past the towering majestic ruins of Herodian, Herod's castle and fortress. Finally it climbs up a mountainside to Tekoa, perched on ridges above an impressive desert canyon with incredible views of the towards the Dead Sea. The nearby canyon is home to a ruined Byzantine monastery and numerous caves, making it popular with hikers from around the country. It's quite a location. Hoteliers would envy such a view for their resorts. Tekoans are lucky enough to have it in their backyard.

Many Tekoans I met seemed to have a deep, almost mystical, connection to the landscape in which they dwelt. An historian there, who specialises in the early Christian period, was thrilled by the idea that he lived overlooking ancient Herodian ruins. Another man had adorned his living room with the most amazing photographs of the Herodian mountain taken in different seasons and weathers - eerily lit by lightening, glistening in a snowfall, green after the rains. Many hiked in the area regularly.

I remember one man telling me that the landscape of the Judean desert profoundly influenced the spiritual development of children growing up in Tekoa. I thought he was a bit of a starry eyed mystic at first, but after spending time in Tekoa I think I came to understand what he meant. Growing up with a natural wonder straight out of the bible in your backyard as your playground is bound to affect your perception of the world, permeating the soul with a mixture of respect and love for nature, the land and the desert. Kobi Mandell and Yossi Ashiran were innocently enjoying this wondrous natural playground, as do all the children of Tekoa, when they were murdered.

A few weeks later, on the night of May 22 we were at a reception at the Giv'at Ram campus of Jerusalem's Hebrew University. A few of us were standing around saying our goodbyes when suddenly we started hearing huge booms. I confess, most of us jumped at first. Over the past few weeks Jerusalem's Gilo neighbourhood had come under heavy Palestinian fire with several injured, and our natural assumption was that we were hearing another onslaught echoing through the city. Then someone commented that they didn't think that the shooting from Gilo could be heard that clearly from Giva't Ram. Then we saw fireworks, and I remembered it was Student Day and that special festivities were being held at the nearby Israel Museum - very spectacular it was too - once we got over the initial shock.

Driving home that night the radio news reported on a press conference given by Israel's Prime Minister at which he called for an unconditional ceasefire as part of Israel's acceptance of the international Mitchell Committee report on the intifdada. Within hours orders went out to the Israeli security forces permitting them only to fire in self-defence and cancelling all pre-emptive strikes against Palestinian terror bases.

Israel had effectively imposed upon itself a unilateral ceasefire challenging the Palestinians to follow suit. The Palestinians called the ceasefire a "public relations move". Israeli Foreign Minister Peres responded that if it was so good for Israel's public relations, maybe it would be good for Palestinian public relations too - we'd all benefit from such a move. It was a glimmer of hope in after very dark, hopeless weeks.

Unfortunately the ceasefire wasn't reciprocated. The next day Asher Illuz, 33, of Modi'in, was ambushed by Palestinian terrorists near the town of Ariel, east of Petah Tikva. He was shot several times and subsequently died of his wounds, leaving a widow and two small children. On the Modi'in residents' e-mail list that week the Illuz family tragedy took the place of the usual mundane notes about flats for rent, cleaning lady recommendations and furniture for sale. Several list members are trying to arrange a fund to provide for the widow and orphans. Illuz is the second Modi'in resident murdered by Palestinian terrorists.


Despite the murder, Israel maintained its unilateral ceasefire.

Memories of better days in Netanya

Mo"tzash / Saturday night, May 19, 2001

In two terror attacks Friday 6 Israeli civilians were killed, bringing the week's Israeli death toll to 7 with well over a hundred wounded, most in Friday morning's shopping mall bombing in the seaside town of Netanya.

It was a shock to hear the news, not because bombings are shocking any more, but just the momentary shock of hearing about people being killed at place I associate with humorous memories, a place which is so innocuous.

I know, it's trivial, but until Friday I used to always chuckle to myself whenever I happened to pass by that mall. Just after Sukkot 1993 my uncle and I were invited to a wedding in the Netanya area and we spent a weekend in the town. I had the beginnings of a cold and my uncle was sure that it was because my winter coat was not warm enough for the chilly nights at my rural college campus.

Actually it wasn't that cold yet, but anyway, off we went to what was then a fairly new shopping mall, to the Mashbir department store where I must have spent more than an hour trying on coats until we found one that satisfied my uncle. It was heavily padded, and came in two sections: a thick quilted jacket and a green waterproof hooded vest over that. Definitely the most cumbersome coat I've ever had, but also the warmest.

With our arms full of packages we stepped out of the mall into a glorious, and rather warm, autumn day, the sort of day on which even thinking about such heavy clothing could make you faint. We walked along chatting and then suddenly my uncle disappeared from sight. He was falling fast towards the road and instinctively I reached out a grabbed him back to safety. I was stunned for a moment, I couldn't work out why he had tripped and then I looked down. There, just below knee height was a large, royal blue, cast iron loop bolted into the pavement.

My uncle had been just walking along, hadn't noticed the obstacle and caught his foot in it. Who should have expected that one needed to look out for blue hoops stuck randomly into the sidewalk... We just stood there and laughed like crazy, partly from the shock of him almost tripping into the busy intersection, and partly from the ridiculousness of the situation. I guess you just had to be there.

Ever since then whenever I hear of that Netanya mall or happen to be visiting the area I can't help but thinking of the blue loops and that big bulky coat and us standing there laughing until the tears ran down our cheeks.

On the television news midday Friday I saw that same fancy vaulted mall entrance blackened, strewn with debris with emergency services milling around tending the last of the wounded. It took a few minutes to register that I was looking at the same funny street corner with its ridiculous blue loops, now repainted in a fetching shade of turquoise. There was a damaged baby carriage parked near them and bits of rubble around them, those blue loops where we stood and laughed until we cried.

Friday morning a Palestinian suicide bomber blew himself up at that same entrance, near the Mashbir department store where my uncle picked out the coat. Seeing the guard at the entrance to the mall the terrorist realised that he couldn't get inside, and so he detonated himself by the door. He killed five Israelis, wounded over a hundred. Weekend shoppers enjoying the mall and going about their errands just as my uncle and I had that Friday morning in October just a few years ago.

Later Friday afternoon Palestinian TV showed Palestinians in Ramallah dancing in the streets and handing out candy as they celebrated the Israeli deaths. In the bomber's home town of Tulkarm, about a dozen kilometres east of Netanya, friends and neighbours came to support his parents and celebrate the death of their martyr with them. Now you know: when visiting a suicide bomber's family, bring candy. This brave Palestinian hero didn't attack an army base, didn't fight man to man. No, he went to blow up a shopping mall in the hope of killing as many civilians as possible. Sounds like a real cause for celebration. An April public opinion survey conducted in the Palestinian controlled territories found that 73.3% of Palestinians support suicide bombing attacks on Israeli civilians.

In recent weeks we've known many miracles. Palestinian terrorists have planted in bombs in many Israeli cities, but we've been lucky. Some bombs failed to go off as their makers intended. Others were discovered by vigilant passersby and defused by police, or detonated in a "controlled" explosion once the area had been evacuated. I lose count of the number of miracles like these. Last week two bombs were found in and around Petah Tikva, others went off prematurely in Jerusalem, causing no injuries. In the early hours of Saturday morning the proprietor of a Jerusalem pub saved the lives of her customers when she discovered a bomb on the premises and bravely moved it to an adjacent vacant lot and evacuated the area. Police later detonated the device in a controlled explosion. Had it not been for these alert citizens we would have faced multiple bombings similar to today's deadly explosion in Netanya.

With hope for a better week, shavua tov,

Sunday, April 29, 2001

As the sun went down on Memorial Day, the national mood shifted from mourning the fallen to celebrating the freedom achieved by their sacrifice. Independence Day festivities took place across the country, from modest concerts in small villages to extravagant events in major cities. There was no sign that the 7 month Palestinian onslaught dampened the celebrations. City centres throughout the country were crowded with reveling Israelis determined to celebrate their pride in their nation.

In Jerusalem, Palestinians opened fire on the suburb of Gilo again that night, damaging 8 apartments, but residents didn't let that get them down. The firework display in the neighbourhood's main park went on as planned. Likewise, the Israeli communities of Gaza, so often under fire recently, kept their spirits up with festivities and firework displays in areas out of range of mortar fire, defying the Palestinian gunmen's attempt at destroying normal life in their communities.

Here in Modi'in, the municipality held its usual lavish celebrations with a show in the central park featuring Israeli pop stars Ayal Golan and Gali Atari, along with performances by local dance troupes. Also as usual Modi'in residents were treated to a spectacular firework display, visible for miles around. Later in the evening we heard and saw fireworks from the neighbouring town of Re'ut. Most of Modi'in's 30,000 residents attended the festivities which were secured by large numbers of police and volunteers from the town's civil guard.

Later that night we went on to a more modest event in the neighbouring town of Makkabim. There, in a lovely park planted with native wildflowers and trees, a large Bedouin-style tent lined with rugs and cushions had been set up near a campfire. Outside, a couple of police vehicles and several officers guarded the site, which is just across a small valley from the neighbouring Palestinian village of Beit Sira. Inside the tent, a group of musicians played old Israeli folk songs from fifty years ago, and a veteran of the War of Independence told humourous stories from the early days of the state. We sat squeezed in the crowded tent, sitting on the ground and on cushions, enjoying coffee and roast potatoes fresh from the fire and singing along enthusiastically with the band. We sang songs about the difficult early days in the late 1940s, about Israel's longing for peace, about our determination to survive despite our neighbours' belligerence.

As we celebrated independence by singing of our hopes for peace, we watched the yellow lights of the Makkabim patrol jeep a few hundred metres away as it patrolled the perimeter fence towards Beit Sira, whose lights twinkled just beyond. A few months ago its residents had stoned Israeli vehicles on the nearby road, injuring several, until the Israeli army sealed off the road to through traffic. Beit Sira youths had hung burning tires on Makkabim the perimeter fence, and yelled threats at the Jewish town's residents. Yet none of this was apparent as we sat singing Hebrew peace songs late into the chilly night. 'I was born for peace, may it only arrive,' we sang, as if the song itself could quell the war. Just as Israelis have done for 53 years now, we continued to sing and dream of peace, even as those with whom we seek peace make war against us.

Thursday, Israel's fifty-third Independence Day, we took the bus to Eli, a small Israeli town halfway between Jerusalem and Nablus/Shekhem. We had been invited to visit by friends who live there. It was our first visit to a Jewish community in the West Bank since the terror war began. The last time we visited, just under a year ago, we took the car, even taking a shortcut through a Palestinian town, Bir Naballah, whose shops sported Hebrew signs for their many Israeli customers. In recent months this village has been used by Palestinian snipers to attack the neighbouring Atarot industrial zone in northern Jerusalem. This year we left the car in Jerusalem and boarded a bulletproof bus for Eli, just to be on the safe side. When we reached the Ramallah bypass road near an army checkpoint, our bus was joined by an army jeep escort. The roads were pretty quiet, though, with little traffic and no incidents.

Once in Eli we were actually surprised by the absence of visible security measures. The outskirts of the hilltop town were patrolled frequently, with incoming traffic stopped at the entrance, but once inside the atmosphere was relaxed and festive. A bouncy castle and other attractions had been set up in the town's basketball court, which was crowded with children and parents. On a small cliff nearby teenagers were learning rockclimbing. A loudspeaker blared out a mixture of Israeli folk songs, pop songs and Hassidic rock. In addition to local residents there were many visitors from other parts of the country.

As we sat down to a festive Independence Day lunch on our friends' porch the air was thick with the smell of barbecues and all along the road we could see neighbours sitting down to their own dinners. Friends from Gush Etzion, south of Jerusalem, had also been invited. Conversation around the table quickly turned to the security situation on roads near our communities. Although all of those around the table came from parts of the country whose access roads had come under attack in recent months, everyone agreed that for the most part they were living life as usual. Some took extra precautions, such as avoiding driving after dark, or pairing up with at least one other car to avoid being alone on the road. Despite the tension, they weren't going to be intimidated into staying off the roads. After all, somebody commented, many more people are hurt in traffic accidents than in terror attacks.

Apparently, the strict security measures paid off. There was only one shooting on Independence Day itself, a Palestinian attack on an Israeli army post in Gaza. It was the quietest day we've known for a long time. However, such a tight closure on Palestinian areas can't be maintained for long, and Israel's policy is to minimise the pressure on Palestinian civilians, so by Friday most of the restrictions had been relaxed. Like the civilians, the terrorists were also free to travel again. Israelis soon felt the difference.

When we turned on the news last night after Shabbat we discovered that the week ended as it had begun, with a series of serious attacks, and at least one more Israeli murdered and several more wounded, bringing this week's Israeli death toll to at least three, with scores injured. This week three bombs went off in Israeli cities (Kfar Saba, Haifa and Or Yehuda), killing one. Another Israeli was murdered after taking a wrong turn into a Palestinian area near Ramallah. On Saturday five Israeli teenagers were wounded when a mortar bomb landed on a community centre in the Israeli Gaza village of Netzer Hazani, this after a bomb exploded there on Friday, wounding two Israelis. On the Jerusalem-Tel Aviv highway a Palestinian stabbed and wounded a fellow passenger in a service taxi. The attacker was overpowered by other passengers saving the life of his victim. Last night a man was murdered and four passengers wounded in a drive-by shooting at a busy junction on Route 65 near the Israeli Arab town of Umm El Fahm in the southern Galilee.

Many of these incidents could have ended far worse, I lose count of the number of times the word miracle has been used this week.

This morning we awoke to another round of Palestinian terror. A car bomb was detonated next to a schoolbus near Shavei Shomron, west of Shekhem/Nablus. A bomb exploded in the town of Sha'arei Tikva, east of Petah Tikva. A bomb was discovered in the seaside resort town of Netanya, exploding just after police had cleared the area and were preparing to defuse the device. Miraculously no one was hurt, save for a few women who were treated for shock. Palestinian gunmen fired mortar bombs at the Jewish village of Kfar Darom in Gaza. Another week and its bombs.

The latest word is that our leaders are once again trying to negotiate a ceasefire with the assistance of Jordan and Egypt. We can't help but be sceptical. We can't help but hope as well though.

Shavua Tov,

Independence Day

Sunday, April 29, 2001

As the sun went down on Memorial Day, the national mood shifted from mourning the fallen to celebrating the freedom achieved by their sacrifice. Independence Day festivities took place across the country, from modest concerts in small villages to extravagant events in major cities. There was no sign that the 7 month Palestinian onslaught dampened the celebrations. City centres throughout the country were crowded with reveling Israelis determined to celebrate their pride in their nation.

In Jerusalem, Palestinians opened fire on the suburb of Gilo again that night, damaging 8 apartments, but residents didn't let that get them down. The firework display in the neighbourhood's main park went on as planned. Likewise, the Israeli communities of Gaza, so often under fire recently, kept their spirits up with festivities and firework displays in areas out of range of mortar fire, defying the Palestinian gunmen's attempt at destroying normal life in their communities.

Here in Modi'in, the municipality held its usual lavish celebrations with a show in the central park featuring Israeli pop stars Ayal Golan and Gali Atari, along with performances by local dance troupes. Also as usual Modi'in residents were treated to a spectacular firework display, visible for miles around. Later in the evening we heard and saw fireworks from the neighbouring town of Re'ut. Most of Modi'in's 30,000 residents attended the festivities which were secured by large numbers of police and volunteers from the town's civil guard.

Later that night we went on to a more modest event in the neighbouring town of Makkabim. There, in a lovely park planted with native wildflowers and trees, a large Bedouin-style tent lined with rugs and cushions had been set up near a campfire. Outside, a couple of police vehicles and several officers guarded the site, which is just across a small valley from the neighbouring Palestinian village of Beit Sira. Inside the tent, a group of musicians played old Israeli folk songs from fifty years ago, and a veteran of the War of Independence told humourous stories from the early days of the state. We sat squeezed in the crowded tent, sitting on the ground and on cushions, enjoying coffee and roast potatoes fresh from the fire and singing along enthusiastically with the band. We sang songs about the difficult early days in the late 1940s, about Israel's longing for peace, about our determination to survive despite our neighbours' belligerence.

As we celebrated independence by singing of our hopes for peace, we watched the yellow lights of the Makkabim patrol jeep a few hundred metres away as it patrolled the perimeter fence towards Beit Sira, whose lights twinkled just beyond. A few months ago its residents had stoned Israeli vehicles on the nearby road, injuring several, until the Israeli army sealed off the road to through traffic. Beit Sira youths had hung burning tires on Makkabim the perimeter fence, and yelled threats at the Jewish town's residents. Yet none of this was apparent as we sat singing Hebrew peace songs late into the chilly night. 'I was born for peace, may it only arrive,' we sang, as if the song itself could quell the war. Just as Israelis have done for 53 years now, we continued to sing and dream of peace, even as those with whom we seek peace make war against us.

Thursday, Israel's fifty-third Independence Day, we took the bus to Eli, a small Israeli town halfway between Jerusalem and Nablus/Shekhem. We had been invited to visit by friends who live there. It was our first visit to a Jewish community in the West Bank since the terror war began. The last time we visited, just under a year ago, we took the car, even taking a shortcut through a Palestinian town, Bir Naballah, whose shops sported Hebrew signs for their many Israeli customers. In recent months this village has been used by Palestinian snipers to attack the neighbouring Atarot industrial zone in northern Jerusalem. This year we left the car in Jerusalem and boarded a bulletproof bus for Eli, just to be on the safe side. When we reached the Ramallah bypass road near an army checkpoint, our bus was joined by an army jeep escort. The roads were pretty quiet, though, with little traffic and no incidents.

Once in Eli we were actually surprised by the absence of visible security measures. The outskirts of the hilltop town were patrolled frequently, with incoming traffic stopped at the entrance, but once inside the atmosphere was relaxed and festive. A bouncy castle and other attractions had been set up in the town's basketball court, which was crowded with children and parents. On a small cliff nearby teenagers were learning rockclimbing. A loudspeaker blared out a mixture of Israeli folk songs, pop songs and Hassidic rock. In addition to local residents there were many visitors from other parts of the country.

As we sat down to a festive Independence Day lunch on our friends' porch the air was thick with the smell of barbecues and all along the road we could see neighbours sitting down to their own dinners. Friends from Gush Etzion, south of Jerusalem, had also been invited. Conversation around the table quickly turned to the security situation on roads near our communities. Although all of those around the table came from parts of the country whose access roads had come under attack in recent months, everyone agreed that for the most part they were living life as usual. Some took extra precautions, such as avoiding driving after dark, or pairing up with at least one other car to avoid being alone on the road. Despite the tension, they weren't going to be intimidated into staying off the roads. After all, somebody commented, many more people are hurt in traffic accidents than in terror attacks.

Apparently, the strict security measures paid off. There was only one shooting on Independence Day itself, a Palestinian attack on an Israeli army post in Gaza. It was the quietest day we've known for a long time. However, such a tight closure on Palestinian areas can't be maintained for long, and Israel's policy is to minimise the pressure on Palestinian civilians, so by Friday most of the restrictions had been relaxed. Like the civilians, the terrorists were also free to travel again. Israelis soon felt the difference.

When we turned on the news last night after Shabbat we discovered that the week ended as it had begun, with a series of serious attacks, and at least one more Israeli murdered and several more wounded, bringing this week's Israeli death toll to at least three, with scores injured. This week three bombs went off in Israeli cities (Kfar Saba, Haifa and Or Yehuda), killing one. Another Israeli was murdered after taking a wrong turn into a Palestinian area near Ramallah. On Saturday five Israeli teenagers were wounded when a mortar bomb landed on a community centre in the Israeli Gaza village of Netzer Hazani, this after a bomb exploded there on Friday, wounding two Israelis. On the Jerusalem-Tel Aviv highway a Palestinian stabbed and wounded a fellow passenger in a service taxi. The attacker was overpowered by other passengers saving the life of his victim. Last night a man was murdered and four passengers wounded in a drive-by shooting at a busy junction on Route 65 near the Israeli Arab town of Umm El Fahm in the southern Galilee. Many of these incidents could have ended far worse, I lose count of the number of times the word miracle has been used this week.

This morning we awoke to another round of Palestinian terror. A car bomb was detonated next to a schoolbus near Shavei Shomron, west of Shekhem/Nablus. A bomb exploded in the town of Sha'arei Tikva, east of Petah Tikva. A bomb was discovered in the seaside resort town of Netanya, exploding just after police had cleared the area and were preparing to defuse the device. Miraculously no one was hurt, save for a few women who were treated for shock. Palestinian gunmen fired mortar bombs at the Jewish village of Kfar Darom in Gaza. Another week and its bombs.

The latest word is that our leaders are once again trying to negotiate a ceasefire with the assistance of Jordan and Egypt. We can't help but be sceptical. We can't help but hope as well though.

Shavua Tov,

Memorial Day

Saturday night, April 28, 2001

With intelligence warnings of an escalation in terror attacks over last week's Memorial Day / Independence Day commemorations, security measures across Israel were at a peak. Entering Jerusalem's main shopping mall on Tuesday, the eve of Israel's Memorial Day, all shoppers had to pass through metal detectors at the entrances. Security guards were extra thorough in inspecting shoppers' bags and checking for concealed weapons.

Stores closed early at 6pm, and everyone hurried home to arrive before the 8pm memorial siren. I boarded the bus for Modi'in at 7pm, just before sunset. I wondered which route the bus would take. The shortest route from Jerusalem to Modi'in passes by a series of Palestinian villages. Following a handful of terror attacks along that road over the past few months, the buses have avoided that road after dark, instead taking a long detour. What route would we take at twilight?

As the bus collected passengers on its route through Jerusalem, the question of the route arose. "It's still light, take the direct route!" said one man. "Light, what light? I don't see much light" said another. "Take the most direct route, I want to be home in time for the 8pm siren" responded his companion. "Besides, there is a closure on the Palestinian towns tonight. The road should be safe even after dark, the army isn't letting Palestinians use it over the Memorial Day weekend." Finally the driver ruled in favor of the direct route: "There is still enough light for it to be safe."

This was the first time in 7 months that I travelled that road in darkness - twilight here is so short that half the journey took place after dark. Reassuringly, there was plenty of Israeli traffic on the road. Maybe they were emboldened by the closure of the road to Palestinian traffic, or comforted by the bolstered army presence along the route in recent months, or satisfied by the recent capture of the Ramallah terror cell behind most of the attacks on the road. In any case, it only takes 15 minutes to get from the northern outskirts of Jerusalem to the roadblock near Makkabim. That's the entire section of the road that runs next to Palestinian villages. Sometimes it seems silly that we had ever avoided the route.

The security crackdown continued at the entrance to Modi'in. Traffic backed up down the highway, with cars waiting at police checkpoints at the entrances to town. Police inspected each car, shining a flashlight into the vehicle. Our bus was pulled over and boarded by a policeman who checked for suspicious packages. In town, the town centre was closed with yet another roadblock diverting traffic from the evening's memorial ceremony for fallen soldiers and victims of terror attacks.

I got off the bus just before 8pm. As I walked home, the memorial siren caught me a few doors away from my building. The quiet side street was almost empty, but the few people out reacted to the siren by freezing to attention in accordance with modern Israeli tradition. One man got out of his car to stand in respect, another stopped while walking into his doorway, and a little girl stood in place as she climbed a staircase. The siren commanded us all to cease what we were doing and unite in the memory of those no longer with us.

The next morning, I went as usual to Kfar Saba's military cemetery for the memorial service for Israel's fallen. There I visit the grave of a classmate killed several years ago in a military helicopter crash.

Traffic is always crazy on Memorial Day. Tel Aviv's Central Bus station was crowded with people hurrying to cemeteries across the country for memorial services and soldiers on leave for the holiday. On the bus I caught snippets of conversation as someone on a mobile phone reassured a worried parent that it would be perfectly safe to visit Kfar Saba.

Actually, I had thought twice about attending this year. Only a few days earlier, on Sunday, a Palestinian suicide bomber had blown himself up next to a bus near the Kfar Saba town centre. An Israeli doctor was killed and over 50 others wounded in the blast. A week earlier two other Palestinian bombs went off near the Kfar Saba central synagogue, and the next day another exploded at a checkpoint just outside the town, near the neighbouring Palestinian-controlled city of Kalkilya. Still, I decided to go as usual. Not that I believe in taking unnecessary risks, but there is no way of knowing when a terrorist might strike, and neither do I believe in cowering in my apartment. Life has to go on.

Central Kfar Saba made Modi'in's security look light. The main street was blocked off by police, as were some surrounding streets. Traffic was diverted through narrow back roads. Heavily armed police and border guards in flak jackets were everywhere. The roads near the central bus station and the military cemetery were patrolled by soldiers in full battle gear manning temporary roadblocks. I have never seen soldiers dressed like that inside an Israeli city before. In fact I've never seen soldiers dressed like that except on news reports from actual war zones. It was chilling.

The streets were filled with throngs of people making their way to the cemetery. Groups of schoolchildren clad in blue and white walked in orderly lines, chatting and singing. At the gate of the cemetery a soldier inspected my bags. Family and friends of the fallen milled around the graves along with soldiers in dress uniforms, making their way to the resting places of their loved ones. The atmosphere was solemn yet warm. Old friends and comrades-in-arms greeted one another, relatives and girlfriends silently contemplated a loved one's grave, a group of yeshiva students recited Psalms.

Just before 11 am, the gates of the packed cemetery were closed. A German camera crew elbowed their way through the mourners, pausing here and there to film their grief or to catch a particularly poignant moment. The soldiers in the crowd snapped to attention. At exactly 11, the mournful siren began to wail. A heavy silence fell upon the crowd. No one moved. Time itself seemed to stand still. Only the faint wind swayed the trees and the birds continued to chirp. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Halfway through the siren, a woman standing by the nearby grave of a 19-year-old policewoman broke into hysterical sobs and was comforted by a companion.

Then the ceremony began. An army rabbi read traditional memorial prayers. A bereaved father recited the Kaddish prayer. A government minister said a few words about Israel's longing for peace and the debt we owe those who have given their lives to defend our embattled country. Representatives of the state and the security forces laid wreaths. The solemn and dignified ceremony mixed traditional Jewish and western elements.

As every year, the parents of my late classmate invited friends to come back to their apartment. By now we have come to know each other reasonably, strangers united by the fact that we knew their son. We meet every year at the memorial, a strange mix of communal grieving and, with the years, a reunion of friends. I cannot imagine what it is like to lose a son, especially one so young whose life had only just begun. I cannot imagine how it must feel to see his comrades and schoolfriends grow up, marry and go to college and to know that he will always remain twenty-two. His parents are so composed, bearing their grief with such dignity that even though we go to comfort them, we always return strengthened and comforted by them.

Waiting at the bus stop on the way home, a car pulled up and two soldiers in battle gear stepped out. With obvious relief they hastily took off their helmets and flak jackets and removed the magazines from their M-16s, only to get back in the car and drive away. Someone muttered something about them coming back from duty near the checkpoint east of Kfar Saba. Behind the bus stop, city workers were busy setting up a stage and sound system for that evening's Independence Day celebrations. Welcome to Kfar Saba, a border town in central Israel.

Shavua Tov,