The last three weeks have been quite eventful with my family visiting Israel and it being the Passover holidays. Time has been suffocated by family duties, holiday celebrations and work, all of which had fit into a calculated schedule, to fulfill my parents’ joint neurosis of having every situation in control, with a set time frame and date. With this in mind, dedicating time to my few pleasures, including writing, was inevitably placed on hold. Now, with my family back home and with life back to the normality of work and play, I have time to reflect and write.
Members of the Team
The three-week period began with a bolt of energy charging into my apartment, with the arrival of my big brother, Simon, rucksack and all. This visitor was to be a major test to my patience and nervous disposition. The presence of this out-of-the-ordinary, lively character was followed by a whirl wind, causing disrupt to all order, tidiness and cleanliness. Please understand, I like my floor to be spotless, for the books on the shelves to be in line, for the pillows to be in their place on the couch. Whilst I may have a slight case of OCD, combining this with living with someone whose version of tidiness tips the other side of the scales, there is only one conclusion, havoc.
Despite all this, I was to keep in mind, at all times (in hope), that this is my brother here to visit his lil’ sis and I was to be the overwhelmingly sympathetic host. This was somewhat idealistic, but I did try my best, despite a few hysterical moments. It was only to be a few weeks, so biting my tongue was at least a task I could attempt to achieve. And hey, looking back, it was fun … I got, at last, moments of being able to reminisce in our childish behaviour. You can’t behave like that with anyone, and of course, this is what big brothers are for, to maintain a youthful side.
Four days on, my parents’ arrival was a blessing. Living in Israel without my own family has been the hardest part of making a move. With their presence in my home, the hole of loneliness that exists at the crux of my happiness had been filled; and my disequilibrium of emotional security was balanced.
Reality hits (close) to home
Second week, Monday: the rota of ‘time in Israel with the family’ continued on schedule. This day was to follow the motions of the previous, laughter and happiness. I was spending the afternoon with Simon, and then would trawl my family on the train to Ashdod for barbeque with the Tripoli tribe (see http://natalieshaer.blogspot.com/2006/02/western-girl-not-so-western-anymore.html ).
Early afternoon: My brother and I in the flat, getting ready for the day ahead. I was showered, dressed, and deciding on what I was ordering at Café Hillel on Rothschild for lunch, “… salmon sandwich or aubergine… hmm”; I was meticulously going through my options. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, there was an overwhelmingly loud shudder, rippling through the air and devouring all the tranquility that existed. In the past, external sounds of Tel Aviv city often caught me by surprise. Although this time it was different. This sound echoed in my mind and sending shivers through my skin. I could sense something terrible had just occurred.
“Simon, that was a bomb, I am sure of it!” I screamed running into the living room. Simon answered in a laid back manner “Oh, come on Nat, someone probably just dropped something on a construction site.” “No I swear, something happened,” I returned in a fluster.
I couldn’t shake it, I knew something wasn’t right.
Maxine phoned and a second into the conversation, “Did you hear that bang?” I asked. “Yeah, that was loud … Wait … can you hear those ambulances?” Maxine said with a concerned tone and continued, “well, let me know if you hear anything.”
A few minutes later, I decided to settle my concerns and switch on the news, ironically in the hope of absent news. Headlines at the bottom of the screen concerned a large donation that the Palestinian government, Hamas, was to receive from a terrorist organisation. There was nothing else and exhaled a sigh of relief, at least only that. However, this relief would soon be crushed in moments.
I was about to switch the channel to MTV, when I noticed a shift of tone in the voice of the news reporter. His face turned directly into the camera, his eyebrows clearly illustrating regret, and announces “we are getting news in that an explosion has gone off in the old central bus station in Tel Aviv, Israel. It is thought to be a suicide bomber”.
My stomach sunk. I ran out and screamed “Simon, it was a suicide bomber … I told you … it was a suicide bomber!!”
We stood in front of the television, desperate as we saw the events unfold, and at the same time, drowning in the sound of ambulance sirens, helicopters and wailing police cars. The location of the attack was minutes from my home, this whole situation just felt too real and too close.
Volunteering amongst the chaos
During 2003, I was worked as a volunteer medic on the Israeli ambulance service, Magen David Adom (MDA). I decided to carry out this programme because I often felt useless and agitated watching the experiences of Israelis, whilst in the comfort of my own surroundings and unable to do anything. Simply watching Sky News reports in England and spending so much time complaining about the world politics, which affected my own community, was not enough. I wanted to play a part in the daily reality of other Jews, 'to put my money where my mouth' is and be productive with the way I felt.
The volunteer program consisted of an intensive 8-day training course based in Jerusalem, followed by 5 weeks ambulance service duty. I carried out the service during the Intifada ( a period where there was “an uprising amongst Palestinian Arabs of the Gaza Strip and West Bank … in protest against continued Israeli occupation of these territories,” http://www.thefreedictionary.com/ ), this being a time of intense fear for safety in Israel. Appreciation for the fear-provoking environment of living in Israel was never until then so apparent to me. For the first time in my life, I attained an insight into living in a society that experiences an undercurrent of terror.
Training was delivered by senior ambulance medics, which in turn gave us (the trainees) an insight into their attitudes, reactions and handlings of suicide bombs. The medics had a distinct approach to educating us, often disguising moments of seriousness with sarcasm. I presume this was their way of dealing with the realities of death. They had experienced the tragedies first hand, so having to relive these experiences in the classroom would be too draining without a slight tapering down on the seriousness with humour. However, consideration for the actual magnitude was always appreciated, despite nervous laughter amongst us. We all understood the reality of it all, we simply didn’t need it to be spelt out.
During my volunteer period suicide bombs were going off at a frequent rate, and this was reflected in the training. Volunteers were taught how to deal with high casualty events, such as determining who of the injured should be treated and of whom to “leave” at the site. An array of moral dilemmas flew in and out my mind; in particular “Should I be playing the role of God, as to who lives and who is to die?” These were issues I had never given thought to. It constantly amazes me the strength that resides in certain individuals, those that are able to carry out certain tasks laid about by G-d, yet by most, they would be unachievable.
My first ‘encounter’ with terrorism occurred during training. Our volunteer group were being given a lesson on how to insert an IV (otherwise known as a ‘drip) into a patient’s arm. A brave trainee amongst us volunteered to have his arm demonstrated upon. The medic inserted the needle in the arm, drew the blood and attached a bag with the IV. He held the bag up, demonstrating the importance of the position of the bag in relation to the flow of blood. We all sat with our eyes squinted, semi-looking at the demonstration, with the other eye closed with disgust at the sight of blood.
A mobile phone rang, which was then followed by muttering at the front of the class by the medics. This was followed by shock sweeping across each of those involved in the muttering. A moment later, the class sat bewildered, teacher-less, with the IV volunteer still sat with the IV in his arm, and holding up the bag as high as he could. The medics had vacated the room to attend to a bomb in central Jerusalem in a pizza restaurant.
I was in the exact situation to that last week. We all stood in front of the television, absorbed by the news, in disbelief to see the same individuals in front of us moments ago were in the gaze of the world on television, as they deciphered through the injured and the dead.
Following the attack during our training, the ambulance crew returned appearing white as ghosts and seeming emotionally torn to shreds from what they had just witnessed. The medics will never ‘adjust’ to these events, despite the regularity of them at times and the brave front they successfully present in class. Israelis, Jews and sympathisers hearts’ bleed every time these attacks occur.
Back to Tel Aviv
The bomb at the old central bus station in Tel Aviv left 9, including the bomber, dead. The person who chose to blow himself was a 19 year-old boy. I do wonder.
I phoned my parents, who were sat blissfully on the beach, totally unaware of the situation. The day continued as scheduled, yet this time, a black cloud shadowed the events. The rest of the weeks flowed by smoothly, intoxicated with good food, good wine, sunshine and the return of laughter. Some things weren’t planned this holiday, although certain events never are. Yet it is generally those 'unplanned' events that have the greatest impact and create the longest pause for thought.
Links:
http://www.magendavidadom.org/
http://www.mda.org.il/
(Please consider donating your spare cash to MDA, as this service is dependent upon charity funding.)
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