Renewal in Jerusalem

Friday, August 23, 2002

Festive crowds thronged the streets. You had to push to make your way through the mass of revellers: hip teens, families with kids, grandparents and young couples. Above, cheery fairy lights were strung between the buildings.

On a large stage in the middle of the square a band played ridiculously loud Brazilian pop and Samba tunes. After them came a troupe performing capoeira, Brazilian martial arts. Up the street on another stage models strutted up and down showing off the latest wedding dress fashions, the pop music blaring from the speakers competing with the Brazilian carnival. Round the corner, on a narrow side street lined with jewellery and craft shops a jazz quartet attracted yet more people.

This was the scene in central Jerusalem last Saturday night. The Brazilians were in Zion Square, the fashion show was in the middle of Ben Yehuda Street and the jazz musicians were livening up nearby Yoel Salomon Street. For the first time in almost two years it felt like the old downtown Jerusalem had returned. All that was missing were the foreign tourists and overseas students who once flocked to the area.

I stood there savouring the noise and the bustle, drinking in the raucous music, turned up too loud. For once I didn't mind the assault on my eardrums. It was worth it just to see my favourite city enjoying itself after so many months of tragedy and mourning.

Music and fairy lights could not entirely mask the painful times the city is going though. Dancers shimmied past memorials to terror victims and stalls stood outside businesses closed due to the war. On Yoel Salomon Street, famous for its restaurants, local fixtures such as Amigos Mexican restaurant, Tza'ad Teimani Yemenite restaurant, Chamomile health food cafe and Kapulsky's cafe have all shut. A couple of popular bars and eateries had signs along the lines of "closed until the war is over". Near Zion Square, The Patriot Cafeי has also gone out of business. In the adjacent Cafeי Rimon customers sit inside an ornate wrought iron security cage designed to stop bombers from forcing their way into the restaurant.

For several weeks now similar street fairs have been held as part of the Jerusalem municipality's effort to revive the terror ravaged heart of the city. Each week there has been a different theme: fashion, health and beauty, music, back to school, food and more. Jerusalemites and visitors from elsewhere in Israel, have responded enthusiastically to the initiative, returning in droves to the once popular entertainment district.

Ben Yehuda and surrounding streets have been sealed off with metal gates. Armed guards and police watch every access point, searching anyone wishing to enter the "sterile" zone. Police and soldiers patrol the area constantly.

A week ago the theme was fashion. The area was packed with clothing and cosmetic stalls. A few trendy bars had temporary stands along the street, complete with blaring electronic music. Up towards Ben Hillel Street a Middle Eastern style tea shop occupied the middle of the mall. Customers sprawled on rugs and cushions, puffing on nargilehs or sipping sweet tea. A local band played traditional music from the region on Middle Eastern acoustic instruments.

Round the corner there was an old style rhythm and blues band. Further down the street there was American folk music played on fiddle, kazoo and a washboard. Mime artists and dancers in bizarre costumes milled amongst the pedestrians.

I know this sounds strange to say but somehow there is a sense of renewal in downtown Jerusalem these days. Despite the terrorism, the lack of tourists and the dire economic situation in Israel, most businesses are still managing to stay afloat - just barely. Some owners are relying on their savings, others have set up websites and are selling via mail order and a few have toured diaspora Jewish communities, selling their wares in fairs organized by synagogues in cities such as London, New York and Washington.

A few weeks ago we came into Jerusalem on Friday morning to get DH new sandals. There is a quaint old store on the corner of Rav Kook Street which reminds me of the helpful family run stores I used to get my shoes from as a child. It has been there for over 50 years and the clerks still wear old fashioned uniform smocks. Worth the schlep to Jerusalem just for the nostalgia trip.

From Rav Kook Street we turned towards Ben Yehuda Street to pick up some food for Shabbat. That Friday was the turn of the food fair and we did our shopping at the various stalls representing a choice selection of kosher restaurants, delis and Mahane Yehuda market sellers. There were herbs and spices from the exotic to the mundane and cuisines from around the world, everything from Chinese to Middle Eastern to Argentinian. A one man band wandered amongst the stalls and parents badgered him for photos with their kids.

On Jaffa Road itself there was a feeling of chaos. Jerusalem is building a new light railway system to ease the city's traffic congestion and they are busy digging up chunks of Jaffa Road to lay the infrastructure. Meanwhile, several terror damaged shops have been renovated, now sporting shiny new windows and modern fittings. If you hadn't heard the news for the past year, you might imagine that this is just part of the general bustle of urban renewal accompanying the new transportation project. If only.

Shabbat shalom.

Jerusalem's Silence Broken

Wednesday, July 31, 2002 I was standing by the Kotel, the Western Wall, reciting Psalms when it happened, when the bomb exploded at the Frank Sinatra cafeteria at the Hebrew University on Mount Scopus. The day was searingly hot, chokingly dry. As a friend noted, it made you feel like a pita bread baking in an oven. There is precious little shade by the Wall, and we were huddling under one of the larger caper bushes growing in the cracks between the stones. I had spent the morning with visiting relatives at the City of David archaeological park. We climbed up and down the steep steps, through underground tunnels, over platforms above deep cisterns, jumping across the millennia of Jerusalem's history. Here was the Gihon Spring, which had watered Jerusalem since the city's birth. Above it we saw the steps Solomon walked down during his coronation as described in the Book of Kings. At another site lie the ancient ruins of an Israelite house destroyed in the flames of the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 BCE. The house was uncovered under a layer of ash. From atop one of the modern Israeli houses we had a panoramic view of the ancient Jewish cemetery on the Mount of Olives; beyond that the sparkling gold onion domes of the Russian convent of Mary Magdelene. Worn out by the punishing sun we headed up to the Old City for lunch in the Jewish Quarter by way of the Kotel. The midday heat is not an ideal time for standing in the exposed Kotel plaza, but who can walk past the Western Wall without taking a few minutes to pray or recite Psalms? Immersed in my Psalm book I suddenly became aware of sirens. First one isolated wail and then more, insistently, not fading into the distance, but constantly renewed, breaking the relative quiet of the stifling midday heat. Something terrible had happened. I added a silent prayer for the victims of whatever new tragedy had occurred and walked hurriedly back to my visitors, who, frazzled by the sun had sought shelter by the police station at the edge of the plaza. As I walked back to them I passed an ashen faced family, one son anxiously talking on his cellphone, the word "pigua" (terror attack) cropping up repeatedly. A couple of women were anxiously asking a policeman for details. Instinctively I found myself dialling DH's number at work to check for information. He hadn't heard. It wasn't being reported on the news yet. As I approached my relatives DH called back. A bomb in the main cafeteria on the Mount Scopus campus of the Hebrew University. My relatives clearly hadn't heard. They looked relaxed, tired but excited after the morning's fascinating tour. How could I shatter their mood? And yet the words came automatically and all at once their faces fell, hands moved to cellphones to check on Israeli friends and relatives, to tell the folks back in the States that they were fine, to check for more details. And I was calm. Almost too calm. While they were going through the shock, the pain, I found myself almost detached. I didn't even know if God forbid any of my friends or family had been hurt, and yet I had set the whole thing aside, because there was nothing I could do now, no radio on hand, the cellphone lines were already clogged with anxious calls, no way I could help. I had taken a moment to grieve when DH told me the news, and then, somehow I had just gone back to what I'd been doing earlier, guiding my relatives around the Old City. I was shocked at myself, shocked at the way I was just accepting the bombing as a fact of life. And yet I was hurting, I was angry, but it was somewhere locked away inside. For now, I had to look after my guests. For now I didn't want to upset them too much, and wanted them to still somehow enjoy their day in ancient Jerusalem. I wanted them to feel and love the ancient stones, the special people and history, the sanctity. I didn't want reality to intrude. I took them up to a cafe with a panoramic view of the Mount of Olives. You see that ugly concrete tower with the antenna, yes, there, on the far left, you see it? That is the Hebrew University campus. Yes, right there, that's what they just blew up. I couldn't believe I was saying the words, pointing out the site of an atrocity casually as I explained the Mount of Olives skyline, as I named the churches and the mosques and the Jewish cemetery and the hotels as we sat there over lunch, the table piled high with salads and main dishes. I was screaming inside but outside the routine took over. How many times have I taken visitors to this site, sat in this cafe or stood at a nearby viewpoint and pointed out sites of interest? It is almost second nature. My phone rang again. DH had more details. He wouldn't say much though, only that it was bad, very bad. We walked back through the Jewish and Armenian Quarters, through the Zion Gate, past Mount Zion, through the calm of a sleepy Jerusalem summer afternoon. Arriving back at my relatives' apartment they switched on CNN. Seven dead over 80 wounded. The flat English voices reporting matter of factly from the scene. Over and over they emphasised that last week Israel killed Hamas leader Saleh Shehadeh. The implication was that the bombing was simply legitimate retaliation. As if Hamas hasn't been doing its best to kill as many Israelis as possible for years now. Maybe CNN forgot that only a few days before Shehadeh was assassinated Hamas ambushed an Israeli civilian bus, intentionally murdering nine civilians? But the world seems to have a very short memory. My relatives sat in a row on the sofa in sombre silence, absorbed by the horrors unfolding before them. I watched for a bit but couldn't take more than 15 minutes. I walked out into the kitchen to check in with DH again. I reminded him to contact our mothers. I tried calling his aunt. No reply on either her home or cellphone. I tried calling another cousin. Again no reply. Logic decreed that they were very unlikely to have been anywhere near the scene but my heart wanted to hear their voices nonetheless. It was only several hours later that I was finally able to reach everyone. Thank God all were fine. That evening DH picked us up in the car and we drove out to a picturesque rural restaurant. Sitting in there, enjoying the breathtaking view of the coastal plain at sunset I kept thinking about all those who would never be able to enjoy these simple pleasures again. Outwardly I kept up the conversation, enjoyed the banter, the wonderful meal, the festive atmosphere. But each time I looked out over the view I felt the hurt surfacing. This is such a beautiful country, there is so much potential, so much good, so much hope. Here, atop a forested mountain, above serene fields and villages, with the lights of the coastal cities twinkling in the distance, it was hard to believe that terrorists are killing people almost every day. It seemed the perfect escape from the reality of bombs, checkpoints and fear. Only the occasional rumbling of warplanes and helicopters overhead intruded on the tranquillity. I wondered what it must be like to sit down one evening, perhaps in one of the Palestinian villages with a similarly commanding view of Israel's densely populated coast. What is it like to sit down with a map and plan intentionally to kill college students? To sit there and choose between blowing up a schoolbus or a pizzeria or a disco or a shopping mall or a hotel. What does it feel like to want to kill, just to kill anyone, man, woman or child, and to feel no remorse, to feel glorious in the act of looking a child in the eye and shooting her at point blank range. To stand in a crowded cafe, look at the innocents around you and then push the button and annihilate them. I wondered at the crowds in Gaza and Jenin and Lebanon and elsewhere in the Arab world who this very night were celebrating the murders of seven innocent Israelis and Americans. Still I kept my thoughts to myself. Only on the way home with DH in the car did we begin to talk. And as we talked the tears welled up, tears which had been inside me all day, hidden and buried by my routine, by my activity. Calmly, quietly the tears trickled down and all that was left was the silence, deeper than our words, a silence of common sorrow, common hurt.

Drumming at the beach

Thursday, July 25, 2002

It was a beautiful full moon evening. The waves crashing along the shore glistened in the moonlight. At intervals along the beach groups of people gathered around bonfires, some partying, others playing with their kids, most just relaxing after a hard day's work. Couples sat embraced watching the sea.

It was the eve of Tu B'Av, the Jewish festival of love, when in ancient times the single women would wear borrowed white dresses and go out into the vineyards to dance and hopefully attract their future husbands.

At one end of the beach a group of about 50 people sat in a circle, each with a drum, all pounding out the same frenetic Middle Eastern rhythm. Behind them was the Mediterranean Sea. In front of them the flames of the bonfire licked high into the night sky, giving an orange tinge to the silvery light of the full moon.

You may have thought this was some exotic religious ritual. No, it was just DH's annual departmental beach picnic. This year they added some entertainment to the picnic in the form of "the drummers' circle", a group of percussionists who come along with all kinds of Middle Eastern, African and Latin American drums and teach participants some of the basic rhythms, ending with a jam session.

Aside from the drumming it was as usual a very casual affair. People stood around with pita breads full of salad, humous and cold cuts, sipping on chilled beers and orange juices while the kids romped in the sand.

It was just the same as previous years, save that this time three armed security guards kept watch over us. A bunch of picnicking computer programmers and their families is after all a very tempting target for a terrorist.

People have been a bit more on edge since last week's terror attacks. This week two more victims of the Tel Aviv bombing died of their wounds. On Monday Yasser Arafat's Fatah organization called on Palestinian groups to step up terror attacks against Israel. There have been a number of alerts across the country. On Sunday the rail line to Rehovot (south of Tel Aviv) was bombed and the train driver escaped with moderate injuries. Several terrorists have been caught en route to attacks: a suicide bomber near Ramallah; gunmen armed to the teeth near Gaza, on their way to infiltrate a kibbutz. The list goes on.

You'll understand then the relief of many Israelis when we heard that Hamas arch-terrorist Saleh Shehadeh, the man responsible for atrocities such as the bombings of the Dolphinarium disco, the Sbarro pizzeria and the Park Hotel, was killed in an Israeli air strike.

The relief that Shehadeh is dead is tempered by deep sadness that the cost was the tragic deaths of so many Palestinian civilians. It was not meant to be that way. Missions to assassinate Shehadeh had been aborted no less than eight times, because the army was concerned that there were civilians in the vicinity.

Earlier this week there were F-16s over a house in Gaza where Shehadeh was staying. At the last minute Israeli intelligence discovered that there were civilians in the building and the attack was aborted. Had intelligence known that his family were in the building Tuesday night that attack would have been aborted too.

On the rare occasions when unfortunately Israel has killed non-combatants, each time by accident, Israelis are shocked and upset by the tragedy. There is a public outcry. The media ask how it could have happened. Government ministers and senior generals apologise for the civilian deaths. There are inquiries into how the mistake occurred, how the target was missed or why intelligence reports were inaccurate. Disciplinary measures are taken against those responsible for the error.

No one here wants the death of Palestinian civilians. And while people were glad that terror-mastermind Shehadeh was gone, no one celebrated. We don't rejoice in people's deaths, however terrible the enemy.

Our enemy, on the other hand, is very much into celebrating death. For Palestinian terrorists, civilians are the targets, not tragic accidental victims. Our enemies are people who go and murder kids at a pizza parlour and then hold street parties and hand out candies to celebrate the murders. Out of 579 Israelis killed by Palestinians since September 29 2000, 401 have been civilians. Out of 4,287 Israelis wounded, 3,056 have been civilians.

Not only do Palestinian terror groups relish killing Israeli civilians, but they seem to have no qualms about endangering their own. Over and over again we've seen them locate military installations in the heart of civilian areas, run bombmaking labs in apartment blocks, store weapons in private homes and of course shelter terrorists in residential neighbourhoods. They keep civilians around them, knowing that Israel will avoid attacking them when there is a risk of catching civilians in the crossfire. And they have no qualms about leaving booby traps that might hurt their own people, as happened on Thursday when a Palestinian-laid roadmine exploded under a Palestinian bus, injuring ten passengers.

Israelis will keep trying to live, and the Palestinian terrorists will keep trying to kill us. So we'll go to the beach with armed guards and go to weddings with armed guards and do our groceries with armed guards and ride buses with armed guards and check our seats very carefully for suspicious packages and phone the police every time we see someone wearing unusually bulky clothing for the hot Israeli summer.

And come the Jewish New Year in about six weeks' time this will have been going on for two years.

Horrors ancient and modern

Wednesday, July 17, 2002

This year it feels as though Tisha B'Av, the 9th of Av, the saddest day of the Jewish year, came early. The fast day commemorates the destruction of the ancient Temple in Jerusalem, the massacre of the city's inhabitants and the end of Jewish sovereignty. It comes at the end of a three week mourning period, marking the siege and conquest of the Jewish capital first by the Babylonians in 586 BCE and then, even more brutally, by the Romans in 70 AD.

Tonight we will sit on the floor, according to the Jewish ritual of mourning, and read the heartrending book of Lamentations, describing in graphic detail the horrors of the last days of independent Jerusalem during the Babylonian siege.

This year it will not be hard to envision the suffering of our ancestors. There are far too many fresh images of carnage in our minds. Yesterday Palestinian terrorists attacked a bus near the religious town of Immanuel - literally, "God is with us", in central Samaria. First they exploded a mine under the bus and then they opened fire on the passengers trapped inside, tossing in a few grenades for good measure.

Among the eight Israeli civilians murdered were three members of the same family, the husband, grandmother and 8-month-old baby. The wife, the 8-month-old's twin and another baby were wounded. Among the seriously wounded was a 22-year-old woman, heavily pregnant with her first child, shot in the stomach and legs. Doctors performed an emergency C-section in an attempt to save the mother and her 8-month-old fetus. Tragically the baby boy survived only a few hours. The mother is still in critical condition.

Yesterday's horrors came after several weeks in which we had something of a reprieve from "successful" terror attacks, now that the Israeli army has taken control of major Palestinian towns and cities in the West Bank under "Operation Determined Path". The army's success in catching perpetrators and blowing up bomb factories has saved hundreds of Israeli lives. Several suicide bombers and vehicles jam packed with explosives have been intercepted en route to terror attacks.

Just last week there was a high alert along the Modi'in-Jerusalem road, which was shut for several hours after intelligence sources warned of a planned attack. The terror cell was tracked down to a nearby Palestinian village but they escaped. Yesterday the army caught several Palestinians from a nearby village who had been throwing stones at vehicles on the road. This morning they caught gunmen from another village, including a Fatah gunman planning attacks on the road.

Listening to the names of these villages, Harbata, Beit-Ur-A-Tahta, Beit Likia, places I pass every time I go into Jerusalem, it still feels weird to think that people who live so close, many of whom once worked even closer, are trying to kill us, their neighbours. You may think me crazy after all this terrorism, but I still can't get used to thinking of these places as hostile.

For the most part, certainly in comparison with many other Palestinian areas, these villages have been quiet. But several have also produced killers. One local resident was among the perpetrators of the infamous Ramallah lynch almost two years ago, the one photographed while gleefully waving his bloodied hands to the cheering mob.

It's strange to stand on the hill at the edge of Modi'in and see the tranquil-looking villages to the east and northeast, knowing that should I visit them I might not live to tell the tale.

When I take the bus into Jerusalem I see these villages from the highway, watch the kids walking to school, farmers tending their fields, shepherds guiding their flocks. Some of the villages still sport Hebrew signs advertising plant nurseries, building supplies, car repairs or decorative pottery, a legacy of life before Arafat embarked on his Oslo War.

The exits to the villages are now blocked off with mounds of earth or concrete blocks. We haven't shared this road with Palestinian cars for about a year now; too many Palestinian terrorists took advantage of the arrangement to attack Israeli motorists. This winter, weeds started to sprout on some of the dirt embankments. Others have been bulldozed by Palestinians, only to be rebuilt by the army.

A few of the blocked roads have become trading posts. At any hour of the day you'll see Palestinian taxis and trucks on one side of the blocked exit road and Israeli vehicles on the other delivering supplies and goods. Sometimes they transport people, perhaps taking elderly ladies to their hospital appointments in Jerusalem. An army patrol usually hovers nearby to make sure that terrorists aren't being transported as well. One of these barriers has become so organised that it even has forklift trucks. From time to time Israeli employers come to these roadblocks to pick up Palestinian workers - usually illegally, as Israel has rescinded most work permits due to the obvious security risks.

Sometimes I see Palestinian hitchhikers waiting by the roadside for passing taxis or mini-buses owned by Jerusalem Arabs, which will take them to Jerusalem or the Ramallah-area checkpoints. Occasionally I see someone riding a donkey along the highway shoulder or people walking along the road, waiting to cross to the other side.

Once or twice we've made eye contact. Several weeks ago I noticed a group of schoolgirls, aged about 14 or 15 I would guess, standing by the road near the Palestinian village of El-Jib, close to the Jerusalem end of the highway. They were dressed in typical Palestinian school uniforms, pale blue short dresses worn over jeans, with neat white headscarves. There were road works and the bus slowed. Looking out the window I saw the girls waiting to cross the road. I smiled, instinctively. The schoolgirls stared back, with a mixture of haughtiness and hate.

I reflected on their ages again. The Oslo accords were signed in the autumn of 1993. They would have been little kids then. They had grown up under autonomous Palestinian rule during the Oslo years. They were supposed to be the generation of peace, the kids brought up knowing only the peace process and co-existence. That was the Oslo utopia. Instead their education had taught them hate and death. They are the generation of suicide bombers and jihad.

It was Tammuz 17th, the fast day commemorating the siege of Jerusalem, at the beginning of the summer's three week mourning period. I was staring into the eyes of hate, the eyes of those taught to rejoice in my death.

I found myself feeling only sorrow and pity.

May the Temple be rebuilt speedily in our days and may we know no more sorrow.

Dreams, surprises, sorrow and reality

Thursday, June 20, 2002

When I began writing this evening at about 9.30pm the number of Israelis murdered this month by Palestinians stood at 64. By 11.15pm that figure was 68. Terrorists infiltrated the village of Itamar tonight, breaking into a family home and shooting its residents.

Now, just after midnight the number has reached 69. The body of another little boy was just salvaged from the burning ruins of the house.

I feel like going to bed and telling my DH to wake me up when the war is over.

Yesterday, when the bombers hit Jerusalem again, I was visiting the port of Ashdod with a group of over 50 British Jews visiting Israel on a mission. A visiting relative had invited me to join them for a day trip to southern Israel to see some of the wonderful environmental and educational projects the Jewish National Fund (JNF) has undertaken in the desert.

As nineteen Israeli families mourned their loved ones murdered in Tuesday's bombing, I was touring projects dedicated to bringing life to some of Israel's most barren regions. Out in the middle of the desert we visited reservoirs designed to catch the flood waters of the winter rains. Around a completed reservoir we saw green fields and citrus groves. Elsewhere in the flat, scrubby desert we saw ostrich ranches, tomatoes grown in brackish water unfit for humans to drink and orchards irrigated with treated waste water from the major conurbations of central Israel.

It was heartwarming to see this lively, intelligent group of British men and women whose love of Israel had brought them here in these terrible times, ignoring the advice of British friends and family that the trip was too dangerous.

I almost had to pinch myself.

Here I was, riding around the dunes of a remote corner of the desert near the Egyptian border with a busload of tourists heartily singing Hatikva, The Hope, Israel's national anthem. It was like something out of an old Israeli satire movie (Efraim Kishon couldn't have done it better), only it was real, and the enthusiasm and dedication to Israel left me in awe of these people.

At the port of Ashdod we stopped at the naval base to visit the brave men and women protecting Israel's shores from terrorist incursions. I wanted to hug every one of them.

The day ended with a surprise. Instead of heading back to the Jerusalem hotel, the bus turned south once more, then east past the town of Kiryat Gat. I've come to know this area fairly well. DH and I like to take night time drives on the quiet rural roads, looking for nocturnal wildlife, admiring the canopy of stars almost unspoilt by urban light pollution. When the bus pulled off onto a dirt road near a JNF forest, my hunch as to the night's surprise destination was proven right. The stunned visitors found themselves by a network of ancient bell caves - ancient quarries hollowed out from small mounds, resulting in vaulted, bell shaped caverns.

Dinner was served in the caves. After the meal members of the mission gave moving accounts of their visit. Some promised to come back soon with family and friends. Others pledged their support to fund more life giving projects or to defending Israel in the foreign media. All were visibly strengthened by their visit here, impressed at how we do our best to live as usual in the midst of terror, distraught at seeing how much protection we need just to go about our daily lives, encouraged at seeing the fortitude which keeps Israel going.

When I awoke this morning I was sure that it must have been a dream.

The atmosphere at class today was subdued, with an almost palpable feeling of hurt, of loss. In my first lecture of the day, an overview of the biblical prophets, we could barely keep to the topic. The final unit of the course was on prophecies about the end of days.

Over and over, themes from our current reality cut into the theoretical discussion of topics from Isaiah and Jeremiah. Recollections from the funerals so many of us have attended over the past year mixed with commentaries on the "birth pangs" of the messianic era, reflections on the death around us alongside the prophecies of a future world without sorrow.

Upstairs in the beit midrash (study hall) I tried hard to prepare for my next class, Chronicles. It was a futile task. I could see that my teacher was upset, and as I sat reading my bible I could overhear snippets of conversation from the next table, as she and other students talked about friends killed and wounded in yesterday's bombing.

This was the last class of the year and we were studying the final chapter of Chronicles, about the death of the righteous king Josiah and the beginning of the end of the kingdom of Judah, the chain of events which would ultimately lead to the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple, and exile to Babylon. Not the most cheerful subject matter under any circumstances. Today it was hard to hold back the tears.

My teacher did her best not to leave us only with tragedy, devoting the last few minutes of the class to sources about redemption, about hope, a little light to diminish the darkness closing in around us.

As she rounded up the session with a few end of semester words of thanks her voice faltered slightly, and in a quiet, slightly shaky voice she announced that today's class was dedicated to the memory of a friend killed in yesterday's bombing.

We sat in painful silence for a few minutes, unable to just pack up and go, each and her own hurt.

And then we walked out into the Jerusalem sunshine to catch our buses home.

Across Jerusalem police have set up roadblocks at main junctions and along major roads. Police or soldiers stood guard at many bus stops.

It was an odd feeling, riding on the buses today. My mind kept going back to Wednesday's bus bombing, to the Megido bus bombing two weeks ago and to the attack on a bus stop yesterday. The horrifying news footage would not leave me. As I sat in the bus I pondered the force it took to render the solid looking vehicle into a twisted, blackened piece of scrap metal.

I felt especially tense when a young Arab man stood next to me on the bus. A young guy carrying a bag.

Probably just out shopping. Maybe not.

It is madness. There is no way of knowing whether he was an innocent local Arab or a terrorist. It is one of the most maddening aspects of this war, the way the enemies' "soldiers" masquerade as civilians so that suddenly you feel as though you can't trust any Arabs at all. Which is sickening because like it or not, we all live in this land together, walk the Jerusalem streets together, ride the buses together, shop at the mall together. You get the idea.

The nervousness is fleeting though. Yes, I guess it is always lurking somewhere in the back of my mind, but I find that as the war goes on the fear is further and further from my thoughts. I suppose that is the way we learn to live in such a situation.

I don't know if it is real or only my perception, but the bus drivers have seemed friendlier, more polite lately. I find that my cheery "shalom" is more likely to be responded to with a smile, my "thank you" is more likely to earn a "you're welcome" or "with pleasure".

After all, who knows if this is our last bus ride.

Shabbat shalom.

We are not alone

Tuesday, June 18, 2002

Judging by all the foreign news crews at the scene, you already know about this morning's bus bombing. Just to let you know, we're fine. It wasn't in an area of Jerusalem we get to that regularly, as if that is any comfort.

The blast was big. I had a call from a friend in a nearby neighbourhood. She was shaking. She said she could still feel the blast, with the boom resounding in her head over and over.

Through her tears she said the US should send Colin Powell over here, not to give the Palestinians a state, but to ride around in Israeli buses all day. Let him and his partners in the European Union do something useful, she said. If they have so much faith in negotiating with the Palestinian terrorists, let them live like ordinary Israeli civilians for a few weeks.

Israeli radio is now reporting 19 dead and 50 wounded. The bus, crowded with commuters and schoolchildren, was heading through southern Jerusalem from the suburban neighbourhood of Gilo towards the centre of town.

The announcer on Palestinian radio reported the news eagerly, essentially justifying the attack based on the origin of the bus route. "It appears that most of the people on the bus were settlers from the colony of Gilo," he said. No criticism of the bombing was expressed in the Palestinian media, except to suggest that the timing was inappropriate; Palestinian condemnations of terror are limited to foreign-language spokesmen.

CNN seems to have taken their cue from the Palestinians. Their reporter on the scene emphasized that Gilo is "what the Palestinians call an illegal settlement." CNN owner Ted Turner was interviewed today in Britain's Guardian newspaper, where he explained that "both sides are involved in terrorism."

Funny, I haven't noticed any exploding Palestinian schoolbuses, cafes or discotheques.

Maybe Ted should spend a few weeks riding Israeli buses too.

On the newsflash on Israeli TV they're showing the cleanup operation at the scene. Israeli Prime Minister Sharon, against the advice of his bodyguards, is visiting the site, slowly, respectfully passing in front of the body bags laid out in a neat line by the road.

Behind him are the remains of the bus. Every time I shut my eyes I see the twisted, blackened bus, the ruins of its familiar red and white panels jutting out skyward at a ridiculous angle.

I know how often I ride on similar red and white Jerusalem city buses. It doesn't matter that I've rarely if ever taken route 32A from Gilo to central Jerusalem. All that matters is that at 8am the bus full of passengers ceased to be.

It could have been any route. How many others have been targeted? How many route numbers today are now also painful reminders of terrorism? The 18 always reminds me of the suicide bombings of 1996, the 6 of the attack in French Hill, the 13 of the Mahane Yehuda bombing, and so on and so on with so many routes.

On the radio morning programme, presenter Carmit Guy interviewed the headmaster of a nearby religious high school, only about 300 yards from the site of the blast. He has been methodically checking the rosters, trying to determine which pupils and staff are missing. He heard the blast during morning prayers. They were reciting Psalms, Psalms that we recite in times of trouble.

Carmit Guy, an avowed secularist, asked him gently if there are any particular Psalms we should be saying. They recite three Psalms every morning in these difficult times, he replied. Which ones? "I cast up my eyes to the mountains, from where will my salvation come?"

"From where will my salvation come?" she echoed, her voice almost breaking.

The bomb, packed with bits of metal, did so much damage that by 3 o'clock this afternoon only one body, that of the driver, had been identified.

The police have called on anyone who knows that a loved one was on the bus to come to the morgue to help with the identification process.

According to Israeli intelligence five suicide bombers are on their way to Israeli cities. The problem is finding them before they explode. Yesterday there were alerts for Haifa, Jerusalem, the Sharon region (from Netanya to Kfar Saba) and Tel Aviv - pretty much all the main population centres.

In Jerusalem last night the high alert was evident. We were stopped at a makeshift police roadblock in the city. The police were everywhere. Sadly, it didn't help this morning, but then trying to find one bomber in a city of over half a million people is, you'll excuse the clichי, like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Tonight we have plans to go out to dinner in Jerusalem. We won't be cancelling. We're meeting a relative of mine who is here from England here with a solidarity mission.

We joined him this Shabbat at his hotel in Jerusalem. That in itself was a hizuk - an inspiration, a strengthening experience. Not only was there a solidarity mission of British Jews and Christian friends of Israel, but for the first time in a long while this Jerusalem hotel was actually full.

Over Shabbat we met people from other solidarity missions. I was particularly moved by a young Lubavitch rabbi from Palm Springs, California, who came with a few members of his community to volunteer at an Israeli army base.

Shabbat afternoon we walked down to the kotel, the Western Wall, for minha (afternoon prayers). Amongst the women praying by the wall were some French women, also here on a solidarity visit. Walking back we passed what appeared to be a European tour group.

Every Israeli who speaks to these groups begins by thanking them for just having the courage to come. I feel the same way. With the death and hatred that surrounds us, one of the most wonderful things is to see a large group of diaspora Jews and Christians arriving in their tour bus to tell us that we aren't alone. Especially on a day like today.

Sheva's Psalms and songs

Thursday, June 13, 2002

Shabbat brought a searing "sharav", a dry, dusty heat wave which blows in from the desert. Temperatures hit about 40 C (over 100 F) all over the country, even hotter in some areas. Our apartment isn't air-conditioned, but it was just bearable compared with outdoors. Stepping outside, even into the sheltered entrance to our building, was like stepping into a furnace.

The furious wind we saw whipping the trees in the gardens below was deceptive, for the sharav wind is not a refreshing one, but a choking, hot wind, carrying with it sand and dust from the desert.
This is the weather for forest fires, spread rapidly by the fierce, hot wind. While some are accidental, sadly many of them are acts of arson set by Palestinian saboteurs in their eagerness to destroy everything Israeli, even the trees. Several acres of woodland were destroyed in the hills to the south and east of us, towards Bet Shemesh and Jerusalem, with the flames at times threatening the homes of a nearby kibbutz.

By the evening it was down to "only" the low 30s (90s Fahrenheit) and we began feeling a bit better. We started getting ready to go out for the evening to a concert in Jerusalem we had been looking forward to.

Turning on the radio for the first time after Shabbat went out, we felt worse again. Once more a terrorist had infiltrated a Jewish village in the Hebron area, this time murdering 23-year-old Eyal Sorek and his pregnant wife Yael, as well as an army reservist, Shalom Mordechai, in the early hours of the morning.

No longer in the mood, we decided nevertheless to go through with our planned night out. The longer this terror war continues, the more determined I feel to live life to the fullest, not to put off plans for a hoped-for better day, not to spend long hours at home wallowing in sorrow, shut up with the news reports.

As we neared the club we wondered if something was wrong. A police van and several officers armed with M-16s were stationed in front of the building. Metal barricades blocked off the entrance.

It soon became clear that this was just the latest in security for a popular place of entertainment.

The police eyed up anyone approaching the place, and a private security guard by the barricades searched each patron. After another set of barricades, we finally reached the ticket desk. By the door, a member of staff kept an eye on all those entering.

Had you stopped by during the evening you might have heard the band sing an impassioned rendition of, say, Psalms 121, traditionally recited in times of trouble "I cast up my eyes upon the mountains, from where will my salvation come? My salvation is from God, the Creator of Heaven and Earth". The crowd sang along, each word resounding clearly.

You would be forgiven for thinking this was a concert of Hassidic music for the religious public, perhaps a performance by one of the many groups following in the footsteps of the singing rabbi, Shlomo Carlebach.

You'd be wrong though. For one thing the clothing was a clear giveaway. Only one of the band members had his head covered and with his turban and bare arms he looked more like the genie from Aladdin than a rabbi. A guitarist sported thick, matted dark dreadlocks. Other band members wore gaudy loose cotton pants, oriental tops, brocade vests, Arab style pristine white robes or rock chic faded t-shirts.

Only a tiny handful of men in the audience wore kippot, and they were easily outnumbered by the men with ponytails. Several women were clad in the long, flowing Indian skirts so popular amongst religious women, only here they were mostly worn with revealing strappy little vests, crop tops or transparent gauze blouses.

Near the stage a gaggle of young women in tight jeans and miniscule t-shirts seemed mesmerized by the music. Sitting near the back, still dressed in our Shabbat clothes, we did feel a trifle out of place.

In short, not the sort of crowd you'd expect to be singing along enthusiastically to verses from Psalms or other traditional Jewish texts as they bopped and shimmied, undulating trancelike, many couples with their arms around one another.

And yet at the end of the concert DH remarked to me that he had rarely heard such genuine, sincere, religious music. My thoughts exactly.

The group performing were a band from the Galilee called Sheva, comprising six Jews and one Arab. Their music is rooted in traditional Middle Eastern and Jewish/Israeli music, but with clear influences from around the world, be it reggae, the Balkans or central and southern Asia. Each musician is a master of several instruments, an eclectic mix of East and West: electric guitars and Balkan baglama, Western woodwind alongside Middle Eastern ney (reed flute), darbuka drums and a rock drum kit, even a zither.

Lyrics from traditional Jewish texts featured prominently in their repertoire. They began the evening with a song whose words were from the first chapter of Psalms. Another number was set to the opening verse of Grace After meals thanking God for nourishing the world.

The melodies melded beautifully with the texts, bringing out the words, emphasising the grace of the Hebrew.

There were also many peace songs. Not the breezy, starry eyed anthems about imminent rosy utopias so typical of the Oslo years, but rather poignant yearnings for a day which right now seems hard to imagine. Through melancholy ballads and swirling, ecstatic rhythms the simple words touch a chord with every Israeli, the hope that someday we will have real peace.

Sheva also has a vision for that peace, a grand "sulha", the traditional conciliation ritual feast between feuding Middle East clans. One of the members announced that they were looking forward to a world sulha, but they'd be happy to start with a regional one, perhaps at the Cave of the Patriarchs in Hebron where finally the descendents of Isaac and Ishmael would meet and be reconciled. Or perhaps in Jerusalem, in fulfilment of the biblical prophecy of all the nations gathering in Jerusalem on the pilgrim festival of Sukkot (Tabernacles) and celebrating together.

At the end of a week so stained with Israeli blood, a week in which terrorists murdered 21 Israelis and wounded dozens more, it is amazing that Israelis can still sing such songs of peace and reconciliation, let alone pen new ones. For now we are fighting for our lives, but we still cling to the dream of redemption our prophets expressed so beautifully all those millennia ago.

Just because the Messiah is taking such a long time to come, does not mean that we cannot continue to hope and pray for that most joyous of all days.