The 22nd of Av was supposed to be uneventful. But then again, so was 9/11. The day actually began, as all days do according to Jewish practice, with the evening prayer of Ma’ariv. My mother did her usual thing, watching people come and go and pray at the Kotel, the Western Wall. Then it was back to the hotel, a short bus ride with so many people just like her returning to their homes or lodgings on the Number 2 bus.
The ride was nice. She looked around at all the people – parents and grandparents, children and grandchildren – all of whom had enjoyed a wonderful evening praying together on a cool Jerusalem summer night, seemingly without a care in the world other than what to do the next day, with summer vacations quickly coming to an end. My mother looked around and saw them all, cramped into this long accordion bus, and thought how wonderful and serene the whole picture was.
Four stops and several blocks after my mother got off, there was an explosion. A bomb ripped through the bus, killing 20 people and injuring more than 100. A pigua had occurred – death by burning! Innocent people who had just enjoyed the night out at the Kotel were now suddenly, shockingly, dead.
The travelers on the Number 2 bus had all looked so happy and content, not knowing they were riding the bus of death. They had no clue or inclination that they would soon be victims of a bombing so powerful it would take blow torches to remove the body parts from the twisted metal.
I was at the Malcha Mall with my friend’s son when his cell phone rang. His mother was desperately trying to locate all eight of her children. Baruch Hashem, we could tell her that we, at least, were safe. I asked her where she was, and she said she was on the roof of my hotel. I asked her if she had seen my mother, and she told me she had not. The cell phone game now began in earnest as I searched for my mother, knowing she had taken the same bus. Sure enough, she had gotten off earlier and was in the hotel making phone calls to our family in the U.S. to assure them that we were fine and, for now, safe.
The question screamed out: WHY? Why were innocent people on their way back from their prayers killed? Why had death come upon them so unexpectedly, and in such a gruesome manner?
On To Hebron
I had planned to go to Hebron on Wednesday with my old classmate Rabbi Simcha Hochbaum. After watching the news most of the night, we got up early and went to the Kotel. I must say, I have never seen the Number 2 bus so empty. That morning’s davening was tinged with not a little resentment and, yes, anger at being so helpless and not knowing what Hashem had in store for Klal Yisrael.
At breakfast I had a chance to schmooze with some of the other folks on the tour, and we all agreed that, despite what had happened, we would still be going to Hebron. Even though the bus bomber had come from Hebron and there surely would be unrest there, we would not let terrorism ruin our day. Everyone who had reserved for the trip was on board; not one person backed out. We were all determined to go to Bethlehem and pray at Kever Rachel, continue on to Hebron, the second holiest city, and pray at the Meorat Hamechpela.
