The Next Page: After the terror, the journey
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In the summer of 2002, Palestinian terrorists struck a cafeteria at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. The blast threw shrapnel into my wife, Jamie, severely injuring her. As she recovered, the aftershocks continued.
The psychological journey led me, years later, to East Jerusalem -- and the childhood home of the Hamas terrorist who set everything in motion.
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 put down the fork and answered. "Hello?"
"David? This is Esther. Your wife, Jamie, is here with me. There was an explosion at the university, but I just want you to know she's fine. OK? She's fine." (Click.)
I was still chewing, twirling the fork, knew I didn't know an Esther, and didn't know 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, 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.
"A powerful bomb hidden in a bag and left on a table by Palestinian militants tore apart a bustling cafeteria during lunch at Hebrew University. ... Through a bedlam of screams and crashing glass, students fled in horror ... some trailing blood onto the concrete courtyard."
-- The New York Times
Aug. 1, 2002
Nothing. Channel 2 was showing its daily Spanish soap-opera with Hebrew subtitles. I ate.
Then, 10 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 OK. 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. 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.
First Published June 27, 2010 12:00 am
