September 2002			Big-Picture Transformation End of an Era Fortunate Son	Letters Sports E Line Books Alumni Passages Classes From the Field First-Person Huskiana
		Alex Margolin, AS'95 For a while, every bomb had a name, usually the name of the place that had been blown up. Say “Sbarro’s” to anyone in Israel, and they’ll know you’re referring to the blown-out downtown Jerusalem restaurant. The same with “Moment,” a popular café blown up one Saturday night while most of its patrons were gathered around a television, watching news reports of an attack that had happened a half-hour earlier. Suicide bombers have struck in restaurants, nightclubs, and shopping malls. They have blown themselves up on buses, in cars, and on foot. Some have been too young to have driver’s licenses, so they were smuggled through checkpoints in ambulances or scaled walls to reach outlying areas. Others just walked to crowded streets before blowing themselves up, taking as many people with them as possible. Eventually, all the bombs start to blur together, and the details get fuzzy. They become one long, brutal act of terror. Sometimes it affects you, and sometimes you just don’t think about it. Then a bombing occurred two years ago, at the beginning of March. It wasn’t the worst attack in Jerusalem, and I wasn’t particularly threatened. Unlike other bombings, I didn’t know any of its victims. But the attack on the Beit Yisroel neighborhood marked a change in my attitude toward the spiraling violence. I had been living in Jerusalem for four years by then. Except for a fourteen-month stretch starting in the middle of 1997, Israel has been my home since shortly after I graduated from NU with a degree in journalism. I had planned to travel before devoting myself to a career as a reporter, but I never made it past my first destination. I had been searching for my roots for many years, and suddenly I entered a place where my past fit comfortably into my future. I decided to stay for a while, and kept extending my sojourn in ever-increasing increments. I eventually found work as a copywriter for a public relations firm called JerusalemCom. When I returned to the States, I felt something had changed. I wasn’t returning from a visit to Israel; I was visiting before returning home to Israel. Living abroad was challenging, but the rewards were great. It was satisfying to live among my people and struggle with them to build a state according to our vision. Although the process was difficult at times, it was a fulfilling experience unmatched by my years in America. The biggest challenge, however, was security. The Beit Yisroel attack occurred toward the beginning of a major escalation of terror throughout the state. Suicide bombers were hitting Israeli cities at all hours and in every possible location. The top news story was always the last attack. We couldn’t absorb the impact of one bomb before there was another. And then another. At the precise moment of the explosion in Beit Yisroel, my friend and I were walking to Jerusalem’s Old City for a concert. Suddenly, we heard a thunderous boom rumble through the city. We both knew exactly what had happened, but we stood there hoping that it was just an extremely loud noise, that it had nothing to do with innocent people dying. We looked at each other silently, waiting for confirmation. After a few long seconds, we heard the wail of ambulance and police sirens. Soon our cell phones started ringing. Every few minutes, another friend called to see if we were all right. We didn’t know exactly where the attack had occurred but figured we must have been close if so many people were worried about us. Beit Yisroel was no more than a ten-minute stroll away from the Old City. Later, we found out a suicide bomber had disguised himself as an Orthodox Jew to blend into the religious neighborhood. He timed his attack to ensure the most casualties, blowing himself up as people were coming out of synagogue on the Sabbath. Seventeen people were killed, including a number of children. Newspapers showed a baby stroller half-burned and stained with blood. Yet this one bomb has stayed with me not because of the brutality of the attack—I’ve heard at least a dozen similar stories. Nor was it because I was relatively close to the explosion. After this attack, I and many of my friends realized that our reaction to terror had changed. Instead of feeling frustrated about the senselessness of the violence, we began to draw positives out of the experience. We became aware that we had to change ourselves and our relations with other people. We began to care about one another more, and to think about ways to help one another cope. The sadness that had prevailed until that point began to fade away. Our isolation had ended, and the edge of the terror was softened. This change found its way into our daily activities. We spent less time in downtown cafés, and more time at one another’s homes. People with cars drove out of their way to help others avoid traveling by bus. Ultimately, we realized that we cannot stop the bombers, but we can live rewarding lives under any circumstances. The bonds of friendships I’ve formed with people over the past two years are among the strongest of my life, forged through the crucible of the struggle against terror. I often wonder if a deeper significance exists, a lesson we are meant to learn before the violence can end. At the very least, I am positive there is more to this conflict than suffering. And I can see that the keys to peace are taught to us at times of war.