Today, at around 7:30 a.m., somewhere between diaper changes and trying to convince Yedidya that he could not eat two fistfuls of raisins, we start to hear the sirens. Yedidya runs to the front porch, craning his neck to see the ambulances pass by on the main road. “Nother one! Nother one! Nother one!” As the unexpected light-and-sound show continues relentlessly and he is almost exploding with glee, my hands begin to shake. Oh G-d. Please. No! This was clearly a terror attack, and from the sound of the police and ambulances speeding in the same direction, it is clear something terrible has happened just one neighborhood over, in Har Nof.
It is futile to try to get any news; this is happening right now. As I steady myself and focus on taking care of my kids, somebody close by is reeling from a knife wound, or has just been run over by a car, or…who knows. I begin to daven under my breath while cleaning up the oatmeal Tzion just flung from his highchair tray. One after another, the sirens screech by. Finally the news trickles in. It was a shul. Har Nof: a number wounded. Then an update: a number dead. The men in our neighborhood are returning from minyan, looking down at the road, walking quickly. I think, are the terrorists still at large? Maybe Yedidya should not be standing outside.
“Yedidya, come in and eat your breakfast. You see a helicopter? Wow.”
Four dead. Murdered while davening.
I’m holding my Tehilim while Tzion crawls on my lap and pulls on my glasses. So this is what it feels like, I think, as if the previous three vehicular attacks, the two people murdered last week, and the man stabbed on Hanevi’im Street just last night were not enough. I tend to compartmentalize each attack and insulate myself by saying, it’s not in my area: It’s closer to East Jerusalem, in the Gush, in a more volatile spot. But this time, it is right here.
And yet, though the sound of helicopters low overhead has not abated, and I am still trying to convince Yedidya not to run out to the porch because I fear the terrorists might still be on their savage campaign, I feel oddly secure at our decision to be raising children here. I hear the cries of children who were just orphaned. I hear the sobs of wives and mothers. I hear it loud and clear. It is echoing through my home, through my mind, as I change our plans for the day, and decide not to go to the shuk, and only go to the local park. I’ll just stay here.
Here. Yes, here, in Israel, with our people.
Because last Friday night at our Shabbos table, the reason I have to stay here became crystal clear. Each of us recalled where we were the moment we heard that the three boys were killed. One guest had been in Chicago O’Hare airport. The other was on a cruise. The third was working her nursing shift. All three guests were out of Israel at the time, yet they echoed the same sentiment. In that moment that none of us will ever forget, each of them felt desperately alone. In that moment, when they had absorbed a terrible blow to their hearts, they were surrounded by strangers who were going about their daily lives, completely unaware of the geysers of pain coursing through our bodies – through the body of Klal Yisrael.
When the news flashed on my phone that night in July, before I could even process what it all meant, I told my husband I was going for a walk. I thought I wanted to be alone, but the truth was I wanted to be together – together with my entire family, with everyone who was as broken as I was. As I walked down Rechov Kiryat Moshe, past the light rail stop, and up to the crest of the string bridge, every person I passed was reeling from the same news. Some had a dazed stoic look. Others had tears flowing freely.
As the #bringbackourboys signs flapped in the wind, it felt like the entire city, the entire country, was in mourning – because it was. Because Klal Yisrael is one nation; we are one people, and there is nowhere in the world you can feel that in a way even close to what it feels like here. Surrounded by Am Yisrael; immersed in Am Yisrael, drenched by the rain and the sun and the joy and the tears of Eretz Yisrael, and Am Yisrael.
The raw pain is overwhelming; the fear settles deep into my bones. It is crippling. The thoughts and images that I can’t seem to stop from racing across my mind are too much to assimilate. Yet there is something deeper, a voice inside my soul that says, “Hineini,” here I am. I’m here with my family, in my home, in Jerusalem.
It’s been 2,000 years since the family was home together, and despite the sirens, there is no where else I’d rather be – because as I watch a group of teenage boys sitting and having lunch at the kiosk across the street, I know what they are discussing. When I see two elderly women with walkers greeting one another, I know what they are saying. As I pass mothers dropping their children off at gan this morning, I know what they are thinking. I know because we are all one: one heart, one nation, one family.
So while I’m playing with my babies and I hear the announcement of the funeral from the loudspeaker on a car slowly making its way up our street; as tears well up in my eyes when I think of the wives, mothers, sons, and daughters who never got to say goodbye, I’m still happy, still grateful, to be home.
