What should I buy for the children of the terrorist who tried to kill my wife?
I'm sorry, that was a bit forward. We hardly know each other.
Let me explain below the fold:
This is a true story of reconciliation:
In 2002, Hamas terrorists bombed a cafeteria at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. The blast threw shrapnel into my wife's body and killed the two American friends with whom she was sitting.
Years later, I would find myself hopelessly entangled in a psychological journey that pulled me to East Jerusalem and childhood home of the Hamas terrorist who detonated the bomb.
Not out of revenge. Out of desperation.
I've written a memoir about the experience, and just published a short column on the full, distilled story here.
This is a story about my personal attempt to heal by understanding my enemy – an enemy who inexplicably expressed remorse upon being captured by Israeli police. It is the story of reconciliation between an American Jew and the terrorist's East Jerusalem family. And it is the story of digging, of unearthing shadowy decisions made by Israel which undermined a historic cease-fire attempt by Hamas just days before the attack.
Ultimately, it is the story of hope, of finding hope when little exists.
For those interested, I'm including an excerpt in this diary from the beginning of the book, unedited, below. You can find more excerpts at shrapnel-memoir.com:
When the phone rang in our Jerusalem apartment, I was eating spaghetti with sun-dried tomato pesto, red-tinged olive oil dripping down the strands of pasta, my lips greasy. Smacking.
I dropped the fork and answered. "Hello?"
"David? This is Esther. Jamie’s here with me. There was in an explosion at the university, but I just want you to know she’s fine. O.K.? She’s fine." [Click.]
I was still chewing, twirling the fork, knowing I didn’t know an Esther, knowing I had no idea what she was talking about. After a few seconds, puzzled, I thought, That was nice of her; thought, There must have been some kind of electrical explosion; thought, Keep eating.
Although I’d lived in Israel for two years, had been anticipating this, waiting for it, fearing it, I was oblivious. An electrical explosion. As if people routinely called strangers to alert them of transformers on the fritz, or wires sparking overhead. But as I continued to eat lunch, the beginning of unease, the sense that something was off, crouched silently.
I turned on the television.
Nothing. Channel 2 was showing its daily Spanish soap-opera with Hebrew subtitles. I ate.
Then, ten minutes later, the news broke in. A man saying the word: piguah – terrorist attack. Then a map. A star in the center. The words, Frank Sinatra Cafeteria, the words, Hebrew University. Ceasing to chew, I thought, Not an electrical explosion; thought, She’s fine. She’s fine. Thought, Why didn’t Jamie call herself?
Then the phone rang again.
"Hello?"
"David. This is Esther. Jamie’s okay. But she’s lightly hurt. They’re taking her to the university hospital. She wants you to meet her there." [Click.]
Lightly hurt. She was still fine, I thought, probably just some cuts and bruises. A scrape here or there. Skinned knee. Sprained ankle. I didn’t rush, called our program’s dean to let him know what had happened while gathering some clothes, saying into the phone, Lightly.
His voice was quiet, knowing, after living in Israel for decades, that the word lightly when conjoined with injured did not mean she’s fine. Finally, he asked, "David, what does that mean, lightly? What did they say?"
"I don’t know," I said, the tears suddenly rising, sticking in the throat, the panic, the fight, the flight. I was lost. In over my head. Clueless. Hung up the phone, threw it against a wall, began packing, frantic, then sprinted down a flight of stairs, ran to the street, flagged down a cab.
The driver rolled down a window, leaned over, smiling through a cigarette.
"Where to?"
"The university."
"Sorry. Impossible. Place is blocked off. No way."
I opened the door, got in anyway. Slammed it shut. "Look. My wife was injured in the attack. She’s at the hospital. I don’t care how you do it. But you get me there. Now. Drive on the sidewalk. Down one-way streets. I don’t fucking care. You just get me there. Understand?"
"No problem."
Update: Thank you for all of the kind words in your comments. I want to note that my journey back began as a selfish one, as a selfish drive to heal. I was not looking for reconciliation. I was not looking to be heroic, nor was my drive fueled by any leftist/progressive passions. But once engaged in the process of trying to meet with the family of the terrorist, that word – reconciliation – crept slowly into my consciousness. And once it entered, it never left.
Reconciliation = psychological healing. A simplified equation, perhaps. But one that has potential. It did for me, somewhat. It has elsewhere. And in a land that it psychologically tortured, holding two peoples who collectively inhale PTSD every day, it's an equation worth considering (for those looking for answers).
I'll leave with a strange, and amazing, piece of information: there is a study called "Psychological Correlates of Support for Compromise: A Polling Study of Jewish-Israeli Attitudes Toward Solutions to the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict" by Ifat Maoz and Clark McCauley.
In this study, it is learned that, among Israeli Jews, there is little correlation between a fear for personal safety and support for some type of political compromise. Meaning: Israelis who feared for their own safety were just as likely to support a two-state solution as anyone.
However, and this is the kicker, those Israeli Jews who feared FOR THE STATE OF ISRAEL were among the least likely to support a compromise.
It's always been this way. Israelis (and Jews – I should say here "we") are not afraid so much for our own safety as for the survival of our people, for the survival of Israel.
And who are those specifically put into the position to worry about the people's safety? Those in the Israeli government. Which is why Rabin was so, so rare.
How he overcame the barriers, I'll never know.
