April 8, 2002
Boarding Swissair Flight 257, I’m feeling anything but neutral. During this 11-hour flight, I’m not thinking about politics. I’m remembering Jerusalem, the city I have called home most of my adult life. When I left, it was a boisterous, thriving, cosmopolitan city teeming with students, travelers, and young Israelis who start the evening at 11 p.m. and stay out until 4 a.m. — and that’s on a weekday. I know from news reports and conversations with friends that Jerusalem has changed more than any city in the country. I’m very anxious, not because I’m worried about my personal safety, but because I know that what I am about to see in Jerusalem will make me feel guilty for not having been there to share my people’s pain, and I’ll be sad to see the community I love now suffering a form of group depression.
My adoptive mother, Nili, picks me up at the airport in Tel Aviv. A nation of immigrants, many of whom arrived without family of any kind, Israel has forged a wonderful tradition: established families regularly adopt new immigrants after they arrive in the country. It occurs naturally and informally, but Israeli culture takes it very seriously. Nili and her family adopted me over 12 years ago. It wasn’t a formal adoption; they just decided to make sure I had a place where I could enjoy a home-cooked meal, a reliable support system, and friends who cared about my happiness and health. They are the only family I have in Israel, and even though I’m neither son nor brother, they all take care of me, worry about me, and make fun of me as if we were all raised in the same home together.
Nili, who once made a valiant attempt to teach me Hebrew, has a hair appointment with a trendy stylist. When we arrive, there is an armed guard at the entrance. Two years ago, guards would check bags at the entrances of malls, government buildings, and movie theaters. Now a Tel Aviv hairdresser feels the need for extra protection — not a good sign.
By the time we make our way back to Jerusalem, it’s 5 p.m. The highway is packed with cars heading home from work. It feels like business as usual, but I do notice that the cafés, which would normally be packed with customers at this hour, are almost all empty. And this is Tel Aviv, a city that has suffered few attacks. If Tel Aviv feels empty, I don’t even want to think about Jerusalem.
April 9, 2002
During dinner, my cell phone rings. It’s my commander. He tells me where to meet my team tomorrow. After watching these terrorist attacks on CNN for over a year, I’m sick of being a bystander. I look forward to doing my part.
April 10, 2002
I’ve packed socks, boxers, a T-shirt, and a toothbrush in my computer bag, and I’m ready to go. Before I leave, I meet a good friend for an early breakfast. I had hoped to spend endless hours hanging out with her, but there isn’t time for that now. We’ve got about an hour. We don’t meet downtown, because she feels that eating on Ben Yehuda Street is now an invitation for trouble. Once, people selected cafés based on the quality of the food and the kind of clientele they attracted, but now it’s all about the quality of the security and whether it might attract the attention of a suicide bomber.
Amy and I plan to meet on Emek Raf’i’im Street. Emek Raf’i’im means "Valley of the Ghosts." Taking a cab, I pass a line of once-bustling cafés, and in spite of the bright sun it looks like a ghost town. When I arrive at Café Aroma, an armed guard checks me out. I tell him why my computer bag is filled with socks, so he pats me on the back and tells me to be careful. Smiling back, I say, "You too" — thinking his job is probably more dangerous than the one I’ll undertake for the military.
Walking in, wearing a jacket that makes me look bulkier than usual and carrying a well-packed knapsack slung over my shoulders, I could swear that everyone is looking me over. They aren’t in awe of my rugged good looks or any fashion statement I’m failing to make. They are trying to figure out if I’m going to kill them. I remember the days when I’d enter a café and my only concern was that someone would notice that I wore the same shirt two days before. Amy is already there. We hug, we order, and the first thing she says as we sit down next to the window is, "Glass. I’m glad this place is covered in glass." Recognizing that flying glass will cause extra damage if a suicide bomber gets past security, she uses sarcasm to acknowledge her fears. I smile and ask her if she likes her sandwich.
Amy has been a professional tour guide for about eight years. It’s only April, but the tourist industry has already written off the rest of the year. Most of her colleagues have been out of work, in what was once a lucrative profession, for over a year. Luckily, Amy found a desk job developing educational programs. She has always been left-of-center politically, but unlike most people, the upsurge in violence hasn’t changed her views all that much. She’s not convinced that Operation Defensive Shield will get us anywhere. Mostly she’s worried about her friends in the army and wishes everyone would just grow up. When I leave, she tells me, "Don’t do anything stupid."
At the central bus station, I buy a paper. As if things aren’t bad enough, I read that CNN is looking to rent a rooftop in Tel Aviv in order to film all the SCUD missiles everyone expects Israel to endure when the United States attacks Iraq this fall. I roll my eyes and tell myself, "First things first." Before I know it, I’m back in the army. I’m in uniform, with the equipment I’ll need for the field. I’m also given weapons. Usually I hope I won’t have to use them, but I can’t say that’s true this time. When I arrive, there are lots of pats on the back. My teammates are shaking their heads, saying, "You’re crazy. You should have stayed in America." Looking at the hours of tedious preparation ahead, I think they’re right.
