It was almost 15 years ago – my first trip to Israel. It was the longest flight I would have ever taken at the time and with the intifadah at the height of media interest at home, I was naturally a bit nervous.
The trip started with an organized tour from the north to the south, and then we spent some quality time with our cousins in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. It was wonderful. From the majestic Dead Sea, to the stunning, rich historical sites and Israel’s gorgeous backdrops I instantly fell in love.
Sadly, reality hit us smack in the face when we were driving back to Ben-Gurion Airport to catch our flight home. I remember it was dark outside; about 11 p.m. with not many cars on the road. My dad was driving, my mom in the passenger seat and my brothers and I in the back. Up ahead next to the road we noticed what looked like bright lights being waved about.
“Look everyone!” My dad confidently announced, “we’re about to drive by soldiers with flares.” My brothers and I perked up, excited to see real life soldiers in the military (something almost completely unheard of in the small Canadian suburb we grew up in).
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As our vehicle moved closer, we noticed the men standing outside were not wearing uniforms. They were not holding flares. And they were certainly not Israeli soldiers. They were terrorists; ready to launch Molotov cocktails directly at our car. It all happened so fast. I remember my dad swerving to the left then back to the right. I remember my brothers screaming and my mom clutching the arm of her seat. And then we saw the bomb explode in the middle of the highway next to our car. We could feel the heat of the fire through the door. It was terrifying.
Why would someone do this to us? Why would someone want to hurt us? I was 15 years old at the time and I didn’t – I couldn’t – understand it.
I’ve recently returned from another trip to Israel, this time with my new husband, Adam, to attend a friend’s wedding. This was Adam’s first trip to Israel. I was excited to see this beautiful country again for the first time, this time through the eyes of my husband.
With my Israeli cousin acting as our guide, we spent two weeks touring the country, shopping in markets, leaving a note in the Kotel, camping on beaches and eating too much hummus. Floating in the Dead Sea was just as dreamlike as it was the first time, and somehow I seemed to have forgotten the magnificent range of landscapes this country has to offer. In one day we drove through a desert, to an oasis, past a massive crater and ended with a dip in the Red Sea. They say you can’t have it all. Well “they” are misinformed. Israel has it all and more.
But then, unfortunately, we had another close encounter with terrorism that, once again, brought us back to the reality of what Israelis endure on a daily basis.
It was our last night in Jerusalem. We had just exited a city bus into Jaffa to spend the remainder of daylight shopping in the shuk. As we weaved through market stalls we came across a shop where I found my parents a beautiful mezuzah. The shopkeeper had a TV in his stall as the news played muted in the background. We paid the proprietor for our souvenir, and then, just as we were about to walk out of his shop, the volume of the TV came on full blast and everyone working in the nearby shops piled in, eyes glued to the screen.
The news was being delivered in Hebrew so we couldn’t understand at the time what was happening, but we could tell by the distraught faces of the shopkeepers that something wasn’t right. My Israeli cousin calmly explained what had just occurred. Merely five minutes from where we stood, a public bus had been blown up. Thankfully, no one was killed. There were, however, some significant injuries. Feeling like it could have happened to us at any point of our trip was unsettling.
My cousin seemed so composed and unruffled. “This happens,” he said to us. “This isn’t anything new. Come on let’s go get salmon to cook for dinner tonight.”
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It’s awful that each time I’ve visited Israel, I’ve seen a darker side – the side which gets twisted and warped in the media with no rhyme or reason. But, please Israel, don’t be sorry. Do not apologize. I know a thousand enemies press on your borders, and, with that, darkness hurdles around you. All we can do is hope. Hope that when our children visit you, terrorism will only be a distant memory. Hope that peace will eventually prevail.
I’m sure you won’t remember me, Israel. You probably barely heard my whispers at the Kotel. Who am I compared to all your citizens that must endure this ongoing hate? But they, like me, are truly blessed. Despite it all, you are in our genes. You are our sanctuary and I am so grateful for you.
When I left Israel once again, it wasn’t for the last time. I will come back to you. That is my promise to you. Don’t be sorry.
Gillian Hess is a freelance writer in Toronto. This was her first trip to Israel with her husband, and definitely not their last.