Jerusalem


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March 23rd 2011
Published: March 27th 2011
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Jerusalem


March 23, 2011



I first heard in one of those crammed, dusty, sell-a-little-bit-of-everything Old City shops. The kind where you wonder how they amassed all these items, especially that large ancient discolored menorah hanging from the ceiling. Would not a little less clutter and maybe a little polish help move some of this inventory?

The shopkeepers were speaking in Hebrew. It was something about a pee-tsuts (an explosion) on a bus in Jerusalem, but the tone was speculative.

I’d intended for us to get lost in the Old City, but away from the Wall. The narrow cobblestone streets deceptively channel you down towards the Temple Mount anyway. The three of us slowly walked arm-in-arm, Karen in the middle, indecisive at every intersection, stopping to take pictures of each other in front of pretty arches and doorways. By the time we realized how far we’d gone, it wasn’t worth ascending again, given Karen’s illness. The idea was to find a taxi at the Dung Gate (just south of the Temple Mount), which would shepherd us back up to the Jaffa Gate parking lot where we’d left the car.

As we wait for a taxi, I call my father in Tel Aviv to check the news.
“Did you hear anything about a bombing?”
“No, what happened?”
“I don’t know. We heard people talking. Are you near a computer? Go to haaretz.com, that’s h a a r e t z .com”
“Okay… There was a bus bombing in Jerusalem. Over 30 injured.”
“Where did it happen?”
“… The central bus station. Where are you?”
“On the other side of the city, in the Old City. We’re okay. I got to go.”

I haven’t felt that way for a few years. It’s a mixture of anger, hatred and resignation. Added to the mix this time is regret over the consequences as well. Israel will have an answer for this. Elad calls. Before he can speak, I say,

“I’m okay. We’re in the Old City. Where are you?”
“At the Central Bus Terminal. I was across the street when it happened.”
“Oy, Elad, are you okay?”
“Ya. I think I’m in a little shock.”

The tone of his voice confirms the self-assessment. I see my aunt calling on the other line, probably to check up on us.

“Elad, thank you so much for calling. We’ll talk soon. I have to go.”

I repeat the ritual with my aunt before finally hailing a cab. The three of us get in, me in the front seat, my sister and Karen in the back. The cab driver was Arab.

“Jaffa Gate.” He starts driving.
“30 shekels okay?”
“No, no. Ha’moneh (the meter), ha’moneh, please.” He smiles. Maybe at my non-Israeli insistence on avoiding bargaining, maybe at the obvious tourist advice I’m lifting from Lonely Planet.

We start driving and immediately hit a wall of traffic on a narrow two-lane road. I don’t know where we are exactly. The Arab and Jewish neighbourhoods intermingle near the Old City, while never exactly meeting. An image of kidnapping flits through my mind, as it inevitably does for me in every Arab cab-ride, but I bat it away. I stare out the window and worry about Elad. I can’t imagine what it must have been like. For Karen, for myself and even the cab driver, I want to project calm.

The pace is intolerable. Every minute we move forward a few feet. I watch the meter climb. 20 shekels, 21. Maybe there’s an accident ahead, Karen speculates. “Kamah dakot ba’regel?” (How many minutes to walk?) I ask. “Hamesh-essrei dakot” (15 minutes), he responds in a deep voice with a heavy Arabic accent. I figure the drive must be of equal length at least. It’s not worth putting Karen through what would be an arduous walk for her.

Our driver is clearly impatient himself, sighing every few seconds. Finally, he gives up and turns on the radio. Arabic pop blares for a second before he switches to the Army Radio. A grave newscaster is interviewing some kind of analyst. The sound fills my head as I concentrate. My Hebrew is good enough to pick up some basics. “Knapsack… bomb… bus… Jerusalem central bus station…31 injured, 2 in critical condition, 13 moderately wounded, and the rest lightly. Connection to…few weeks ago…knapsack….Jerusalem.” That feeling bubbles up again.

“Ayzeh olam…” (what kind of world is this) our cab driver shakes his head. I nod. The newscaster continues to talk but there is no new information. I glance at the meter. 35 shekels, 36. How long has it been? 20 minutes? The driver stops a few cars going in the other direction, asking something in Arabic.

He turns to me. “Yadata?” (did you know?) he asks. I say that I did, simultaneously realizing the traffic must be a result of the bombing (a new checkpoint to catch the perpetrators perhaps?) and that our driver probably wouldn’t have taken us if he’d known about the attack.

“At times like this, the best thing to do is go home,” he says. I think I understand what he means.
“Maybe someone see Arabs” he says in broken English, referring to himself, “rocks.”

At 50 shekels and no clear end in sight, he suggests turning off the meter and charging 70 shekels. Before agreeing, I tell him I should have taken his 30 shekel offer.

I explain that we left our car at the Jaffa Gate parking lot and that walking any distance would be a problem, leaving out the details as to why. Eventually we reach a side-road leading back into the Old City, which passes by Jaffa Gate. He drops us off there, promising that the parking lot is only a 2-3 minute walk from there. In the end I pay him 100 shekels and thank him. I only realize now that I never asked his name.

The drive out of Jerusalem is awful. We take bypass road 443, which cuts more directly to our destination, but passes through the West Bank. Rush-hour traffic combines with increased security, forcing us to cancel dinner plans in Tel Aviv. A few more “I heard what happened, are you okay?” calls and texts come in. The newscaster on the radio reports one woman has died at the hospital after doctors failed to save her. There are now over 50 reported injured. Around us the terraced hills grow darker. Palestinian villages and Israeli settlements begin to twinkle. At last, we reach the checkpoint. My American sounding “hello” is enough for the Israeli policewoman to wave us through.


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