By Emily Ilana Losben ’99
When a suicide bomber murdered 10 people at
a restaurant I had been at only a week before, I mourned the loss of life
of the innocent. I felt scared and even angry that I had to fear going out
to eat. But life continued and soon it went back to normal — almost.
When another suicide bomber blew himself up
less than a hundred yards from the front of my school, I felt relieved that
no one else was killed, and then shortly came the same feelings of grief,
fear and even anger. Despite bomb after bomb, death after death, I continued
to insist that I didn’t live in a warzone.
I was living in a charming apartment with a
washer and cable TV. I would eat at cool cafes and even popular chain restaurants.
I was going out to coffee bars and concerts. I walked to school and passed
trendy stores, public parks and gardens, fancy hotels, and more. Living in
Jerusalem, was for me, my home, so how could I fear spending time out with
friends?
“Despite bomb after bomb, death after death, I continued to insist that I didn’t live in a warzone.”
All of this, though, changed in an instant,
or rather a moment. On Saturday night March 9th, I was, ironically, lucky
enough to be home sick. Had I been well, maybe I would have gone to meet a
visiting friend at Moment Cafe. It was close to her hotel and a favorite hang-out
of so many of my friends. But being sick had thankfully rendered me home that
night.
Just before 11 p.m. my roommate woke me to tell
me the horrible news — a suicide bomber just blew himself up at that
very cafe. Within minutes I was able to find out that all of my friends, including
those who lived across the street from the cafe were miraculously unharmed.
I can’t say that, though, about the friends of my friends — three
of them died that night.
The next morning, I was given a choice —
stay in Jerusalem or go home to the States. My school, Hebrew Union College-Jewish
Institute of Religion, where I’m in the Year-in-Israel program studying
to become a Reform Jewish Rabbi, made the very prudent decision to let each
of the 60 students make their own decision. Classes would be officially ending
that week and work could be finished in Jerusalem, the United States or any
other part of the world.
For many, the decision I would have to make
may have seemed simple. I should pack my bags immediately and leave —
while I could. But I couldn’t do that. Living in Jerusalem, I knew that
although I was so far from my family, I was still living at home — in
my homeland. I asked myself, “Why would I want to run away? Hasn’t
Israel always symbolized that place where Jews should be able to run to?”
I
experienced the joys of learning about Jewish history and now I was even living
it. I would wake up every day to study the ancient language of Hebrew and
then speak it to my friends, my teachers, cab drivers — everyone. I had
classes in Jewish Bible and Legends of Jerusalem and then I would walk in
the very places my forefathers and mothers walked a mere 3,000 years ago.
But unfortunately, almost every day I was also
reminded that we live in a far less than perfect world.
In September, I was sitting in the synagogue
of my school for morning services, when a few minutes into the service a loud
boom was heard. One of my friends said, “it’s just construction,”
while another wasn’t as optimistic. About an hour later we sadly learned
that the noise we heard while praying for peace, as we pray numerous times
in each service, was actually the noise of a suicide bomber blowing himself
up only a 15- minute walk from where we sat.
I actually had the privilege to meet the young
soldier, younger than myself, who ran after the bomber and kept him from entering
a hospital where he could have killed more than the five people who did, tragically,
die from the bomb.
The soldier, named Natan, whose scars are still
quite visible, told me and my classmates how he ran after the bomber, yelling,
“Stop, stop.” The chase went on for a few minutes until the bomber
turned, looked at Natan, smiled and blew himself up. That was all Natan remembered
for he was then thrown into the air only to land in a coma for two weeks.
It’s not everyday that you get to meet
a hero like Natan. Fortunately, it’s also not everyday that I would hear
bombs go off in the Holy Land.
Only a few months ago, I went into the Arab
Shuk (market) of the Muslim Quarter of the Old City. A friend and I decided
to go there for a “food tour” of different kinds of candy and other
non-healthy alternatives. One of the first stops in the narrow covered lane
was one of the many little bazaar stores selling everything from rugs and
jewelry to clothes and candles. Less than two years ago, this street and that
store would have been full of tourists and Israelis alike bargaining and haggling
over mere shekels. That day, it was almost empty.
I hesitated to go in, but the young shopkeeper
urged me in, saying “There is no charge for looking.” Inside the
store, we entered into a discussion. At first it was about the dire economic
situation due to the lack of tourists. Then, it gradually turned into a discussion
about the political situation. Though we spoke in English, I’m sure this
shopkeeper knew I was Jewish, yet he made his beliefs very clear. He told
me how he thought the fighting was only over the land and didn’t have
anything to do with religion. He told me that he was afraid…and until
then, I thought only I could be afraid.
Feeling obligated to buy something, I picked
up a keychain with a Hamsa — a hand of God, a symbol of protection for
Jews and Muslims alike. But the shopkeeper wouldn’t let me buy it. Instead,
he insisted upon giving it to me as a gift. I carry my keys on that keychain
and everyday it is a symbol, at least to me, that peace can still become a
reality in the coming days.
Though this year has undoubtedly been filled
with many hard times because of local and world events, this has also been
one of the most amazing years for me.
Monday
nights are full of memories that will last a lifetime. One of the requirements
of my program is to do volunteer work. So, once a week 15 of my classmates
and I headed out to Mevatzeret Zion, a suburb of Jerusalem to work with new
immigrant families. These aren’t just any new immigrant families, though.
These are some of the newest arrivals of Ethiopian Jews.
We each worked in pairs and spent time doing
all kinds of wonderful activities with the families. The father of my “family”
is Miquandet. He was a farmer before coming to Israel. Ficcah, the mother,
is not only meeting the challenge of learning Hebrew, a rather difficult language,
but she is learning to read and write for the very first time. Together, they
have five beautiful and quite precocious children, ranging in age from 14
years old to one and a half.
Every visit with them was in some way an adventure.
I don’t remember the first time I rode in an elevator, but I’ll
NEVER forget taking them for their first trip. We went to the mall across
the street from their apartment. It is like any mall in America (except for
the security check we had to go through first). There is a McDonald’s,
a Pizza Hut, a movie theater, clothing stores, candy stores, shoe stores and
more. When we got in the elevator, the children fought to push the buttons
(the same way my siblings and I always did.). When the doors to the glass
elevator opened there was a little hesitation, but I assured them it was okay
to go in.
As we started to ascend, there were “ooh’s”
and other words of excitement. Ficcah even grabbed my arm, showing her fear.
But when we stepped out of the elevator, it only took Solomon, the 8-year-old
son, about 30 seconds before he ran to the arcade and got into the mini-car
for a ride.
Whether it’s a trip to the mall, sitting
down to do math, Hebrew or English homework, preparing and talking about the
next Jewish holiday or just simply coloring, I always looked forward to my
weekly visits with a slightly different kind of Jew.
Every visit with them was in some way an adventure.
When I look at the challenges they and the other
Ethiopian immigrants have had to face it helps me keep everything in perspective.
My “family” and the tens of thousands of other Ethiopian immigrants
had to leave everything behind, often walking for weeks on end to get to rendez-vous
points where they would have to wait for weeks or months before the next leg
of their journey. And once they finally arrived in Israel, they had to learn
everything from how to use electricity and running water to how to bank.
So, as I sit here, trying to make my decision
whether or not to stay in Israel, despite the bombs, the violence, and even
my own fear, I try to keep in mind the love that I have found — love
for my homeland.
Israel was here for my Ethiopian family when they needed to escape and for the millions of other Jews who came to Israel before them. It leads me only to ask myself, “How can I escape from Israel when she needs me most?”
Emily Ilana Losben ’99 majored in French, political science and communications. She is the daughter of alumni Andrea (Finkelstein) Losben ’71 and Dr. Stephen Losben ’68. As we went to print, Emily contacted us to say that, although it was a difficult decision, she would be leaving Israel on April 23, 2002 to return to the States.