Scared, not Surprised
Yuval Aqua, 2nd Year Law Student, Hebrew University
I had planned on being in Jerusalem the day of the bombing. But the night before I needed a haircut. When I couldn’t find any clippers in my dorm to shave my head, I decided to drive home to Ashkelon at one in the morning.
The next day, I woke up in the afternoon and started to study for my exams. Then the phone rang. It was my sister. When my mom got off the phone, she was shaking and stood looking at me as if I’d been killed. There had been a bomb at Hebrew University.
I felt completely numb. In the same cafeteria I ate almost every day, at the same exact time, the bomb exploded. I did not know if my friends had been hurt in the bombing—if they were even alive. God only knows where I would be now if my friend had the clippers and I’d stayed in Jerusalem. I remember my father confronting my mother, “You see, I told you we shouldn’t have allowed him to study there.”
I was scared but not surprised. If anything, I was surprised this was the first bombing at Hebrew U.
The real tragedy in all of this mess is the way we have become accustomed to these abominable terror attacks. In just a few hours life is normal again, as if nothing happened. In all the previous terror attacks, in no time I would switch to another channel on TV, but this time I sat on the sofa, waiting for more and more details, and answering phone calls from people checking to see if I was okay.
There was no comfort. Nothing could have diverted my focus from the TV. Not even when my ex-girlfriend from America called me to see if I was alright. I felt like ending the conversation, “I guess we’ll talk next bombing.”
Touching Terror
Julia Schlam, Hebrew University Visiting Student, The Dorot Fellowship in Israel
My friend and I arrived at Hebrew University at 12:45 in the afternoon. We walked through the student forum and decided to get a bite to eat at the Frank Sinatra cafeteria. As we walked towards the entrance, I glanced through the cafeteria’s large windows. A student sat behind the counter aimlessly smoking a cigarette; a Korean student looked back at me and smiled through the glass. We bought sandwiches and settled down in the foyer next to the cafeteria. As I studied, I watched students pass.
I saw staff from the overseas school and my friend pointed out Janis, a woman she was to meet later in the day. Marla and Jamie walked by. They were laughing and engrossed in conversation. Next I heard the sound of a drum and I saw another acquaintance, Ben. I smiled because his drumming filled the corridor with music.
My friend and I continued to study—until we felt an enormous tremble. We looked at each other with raised eyebrows. A bombing? At the university? Impossible. My disbelief was soon shattered as people began running in; some were injured, others in absolute shock. My friend began to cry and said, “Julia, I just saw a woman covered from head to toe in blood.” My heart went numb. I looked around at the chaos of people and thought, “this can’t be real.”
Initially my body turned on function mode. Only after walking past the orange tape, the spattered blood, and the remnants of the cafeteria, did I begin to comprehend the gravity of the situation. Only after returning to my apartment did the cries begin to shake my body. Over and over, I imagined the people at the end of the hallway fighting for their lives.
Soon after the bombing, my friend and I learned that seven people had been killed. Immediately, we remembered the faces from the afternoon and we searched for information. As the night went on, we learned that Marla was missing and the friend she was with had just undergone surgery.
Not until the next morning did we learn that Marla and Ben and Janis had all been killed.
Today, a month later, the faces from the corridor remain vivid in my mind. To ask why one survives and others do not is futile. To make sense of what has happened is nearly impossible.
In the end I ask my heart to believe in the ultimate triumph of goodness. I pray that my mind will follow.
No Peace
Joshua Karsh, Hebrew University, 2nd Year Student, Masters Program in Diplomacy
There was no pressing need for me to be at Hebrew U. the day of the bombing. I had finished my last test the day before and was anxiously looking forward to my vacation planned for the following day. While I used the excuse that I needed to do some typing at the university’s computer lab, the truth was I simply wanted to enjoy the serenity of the university one more time before I left.
The day before I had been put off by the unusually large summer crowd at the Frank Sinatra cafeteria, so that day I took my quick lunch break at one of the other cafeterias on campus.
I was staring at my computer when the computer lab technician informed us there had been a bombing on campus. He added that they would be continuing work as usual. Maybe he did not know the extent of the carnage, or maybe it was the normal reaction in a culture that has had no choice but to accept and to adjust to the daily reports of murder and bloodshed.
As I worked my way to the scene of the bombing, I relished the last seconds of serenity that have since been lost.
The eerie silence that accompanied the initial shock was soon interrupted by the overwhelming sound of sirens converging on the campus. The site of the bombing had been sealed off; however, I was eventually able to work my way down to the impromptu triage center where I prayed I would not have to identify my friends being carried past on stretchers.
Along with the precious lives that were lost that day, so too was my last vestige of peace. When I return to the University soon to finish my degree, I will only find the screams and cries that were etched in my mind on that afternoon.
