Beyond Belief
This past summer, I toured the East Coast with a group of Israeli victims of terror. The poeple on the trip had either been injured in a terrorist attack themselves, or had family members who were killed or injured in an attack. When I had joined the group, I felt like an outsider, since they had all traveled from Israel together and met each other some time ago. I met the people slowly, and gradually tried to get to know them.
Our first stop was the infamous Madame Tussauds Wax Museum in New York City, where it was my job to help take pictures of the event. As I strolled through the rooms, looking at all the exhibits, I noticed a man, with his back towards me. The man had one arm across his stomach, and the other elbow resting on it, with his fist on his chin, as if he was deep in thought. I watched him as he stood there, staring at the figure, with tears in his eyes. He moved down to the next statue, and the tears were streaming down his cheeks. As he went from model to model, he continued to cry. I knew that his life must have been filled with terror, but I could not stop wondering what his story was. The rest of the people on the trip seemed to be having a good time, laughing and taking pictures with the different characters. I continued to fixate on the middle aged, crying man. I noticed that his arms were enclosed in some kind of brace, as if his skin had been burned. As my curiosity intensified, I decided to go ask the head of the trip about this mysterious man.
"Zohar's entire family was in an attack." That was all I needed to hear before I felt tears fill my own eyes. It was difficult to even imagine what horrors Zohar must have endured, but I still hoped for the best of the worst. I learned that Zohar, his wife, his two young sons, and two teenage daughters were vacationing in the Sinai Peninsula, on the border of Israel and Egypt, in October prior to the trip (which was in the summer.) He, his wife, anf the two boys were in one hotel room on the ninth floor, and the two teenage daughters were in the room right next door. Suddenly, there was a large explosion. A suicide bomber had driven his car into the lobby of the hotel, nine stories beneath the family's rooms, and detonated himself. Zohar's entire room plummeted over 100 feet. His wife and two little boys died on impact, and Zohar was left burned, scarred for life, physically and emotionally. The adjacent room, where his daughters were staying, remained intact and did not fall. Now I was the one crying.
After I heard this tragic story, I understood why Zohar was so sad. As depressing as it was for me to hear what happened to him, this was the reality of Zohar's life. I contemplated the irony of the brutality and finality of the attack, superimposed on the peacefulness and happiness of one family's vacation. One minute Zohar was on a holiday with his beloved family, and, seconds later, there was an explosion and death, and his family's life was changed forever.
As I got closer to Zohar, he spoke of his family, of his twin daughters who were now of age to serve in the Israeli army, and their desire and decision to do so, although they had been exempt. He supported their decision and was confident that they would be safe. He told me about his job and his passion for Israeli folk dancing. He seemed to enjoy the trip, but mysteriously dissapeared on the Sabbath or whenever a religous event was scheduled. Zohar explained to me that on a personal level, he was unable to reconcile his own belief in G-d with the tragic murder of his family. The terrorist actions of a fanatic in the name of religion had not only robbed this gentel man of the people that he loved, but also of his capacity to believe.
Our first stop was the infamous Madame Tussauds Wax Museum in New York City, where it was my job to help take pictures of the event. As I strolled through the rooms, looking at all the exhibits, I noticed a man, with his back towards me. The man had one arm across his stomach, and the other elbow resting on it, with his fist on his chin, as if he was deep in thought. I watched him as he stood there, staring at the figure, with tears in his eyes. He moved down to the next statue, and the tears were streaming down his cheeks. As he went from model to model, he continued to cry. I knew that his life must have been filled with terror, but I could not stop wondering what his story was. The rest of the people on the trip seemed to be having a good time, laughing and taking pictures with the different characters. I continued to fixate on the middle aged, crying man. I noticed that his arms were enclosed in some kind of brace, as if his skin had been burned. As my curiosity intensified, I decided to go ask the head of the trip about this mysterious man.
"Zohar's entire family was in an attack." That was all I needed to hear before I felt tears fill my own eyes. It was difficult to even imagine what horrors Zohar must have endured, but I still hoped for the best of the worst. I learned that Zohar, his wife, his two young sons, and two teenage daughters were vacationing in the Sinai Peninsula, on the border of Israel and Egypt, in October prior to the trip (which was in the summer.) He, his wife, anf the two boys were in one hotel room on the ninth floor, and the two teenage daughters were in the room right next door. Suddenly, there was a large explosion. A suicide bomber had driven his car into the lobby of the hotel, nine stories beneath the family's rooms, and detonated himself. Zohar's entire room plummeted over 100 feet. His wife and two little boys died on impact, and Zohar was left burned, scarred for life, physically and emotionally. The adjacent room, where his daughters were staying, remained intact and did not fall. Now I was the one crying.
After I heard this tragic story, I understood why Zohar was so sad. As depressing as it was for me to hear what happened to him, this was the reality of Zohar's life. I contemplated the irony of the brutality and finality of the attack, superimposed on the peacefulness and happiness of one family's vacation. One minute Zohar was on a holiday with his beloved family, and, seconds later, there was an explosion and death, and his family's life was changed forever.
As I got closer to Zohar, he spoke of his family, of his twin daughters who were now of age to serve in the Israeli army, and their desire and decision to do so, although they had been exempt. He supported their decision and was confident that they would be safe. He told me about his job and his passion for Israeli folk dancing. He seemed to enjoy the trip, but mysteriously dissapeared on the Sabbath or whenever a religous event was scheduled. Zohar explained to me that on a personal level, he was unable to reconcile his own belief in G-d with the tragic murder of his family. The terrorist actions of a fanatic in the name of religion had not only robbed this gentel man of the people that he loved, but also of his capacity to believe.
1 Comments:
Thalia, your story definitely had an impact on me. My entire family on my dad’s side lives in Israel and everyday the stories of suicide bombers and terrorist actions cause me to jump, to worry. Three years ago after my yearly summer trip to Israel, I watched a mall explode on the 6 o’clock news; this was a mall in Netanya I had been at only months before.
When my father and I drive into work everyday we listen to talk radio. The news almost always has some mention of the Israeli struggle for survival. My father, whose father before him was a Zionist that fought for Israeli independence, gets angry. He can only see his side. My attempts to bring a central view of the issue to our conversations are useless. Because of this, he questions my dedication to the country in which I was born, Israel.
It is often said that morally and from a far away view one can believe an ideal very strongly, but as soon the issue becomes close to him, that ideal can alter drastically. This is one of those cases that question my steadfast ideals. I have always preached and believed that every issue has two sides and that a compromise should always be reached. I have always believed that despite how horrific certain actions may seem to our American consciousness that there is logic and reasoning behind enemy actions. But I feel for your friend, Zohar. And I feel for my family, so close to that terror. For Zohar, I feel rage against the people who murdered his family.
I no longer know what I believe.
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