Shula’s husband, Shmuel, suffers from epilepsy – the aftermath of the trauma he experienced in the army when he found a soldier who had committed suicide. While Shula was once able to shoulder all household responsibilities, her limited mobility has forced him into taking a more active role that puts him in danger. Since it’s impossible to predict the occurrence of an epileptic seizure, a simple trip to the bank becomes a cause for anxiety.
Hodaya, three-years old at the time of the attack, is still unable to accept her mother’s limitations. In kindergarten she refused to let her mother attend her birthday party; eventually they held it at home. As the years passed, Hodaya has allowed her mother to attend school events – as long as she sits at the back. Most recently, Hodaya neglected to mention another milestone to her mother: when they reach sixteen, many children in Israel go together with their parents to receive their ID cards in a ceremony at the President’s house. “You couldn’t have come anyway,” Hodaya told her mother when Shula mentioned that she’d have liked to attend. Shula doesn’t judge her daughter. Instead she summarizes her hurt in a simple sentence: “You miss out on a lot.”
But it’s the loss of her daughter Miri’s childhood that pains Shula the most. Since both Shula and Shmuel’s parents had passed away at the time of the attack, thirteen-year-old Miri had to master the art of mothering. The incredible pressure of responsibilities too heavy for her shoulders left deep scars that stunted her ability to move towards a career. Today, Miri is twenty-six and works as a shop assistant and has little hope of furthering her education.
The Mask That Almost Never Falls
Thirteen years after the attack, Shula still struggles with PTSD: “I often see him in front of me and can’t fall asleep because I’m replaying the attack. And I never lock the door: I need to know I can escape.” In addition, the trauma has caused Shula blood imbalances and heart trouble. And yet, she fights on. “Even though I can’t be the mother I once was, I find the strength to move forward because I want to be there for my children,” she says. “I became an actress and I never, ever let my mask fall. My children know that I’m often in pain, but I don’t talk to them about it. And I never discuss my amputation with my husband.”
There is one place, however, where Shula feels safe enough to let her suffering show: OneFamily’s support group for terror victims and their spouses. Several groups of, on average, twelve couples meet monthly to share their struggles and learn coping tools. “Here they learn that whatever happens in this non-normal situation is normal,” says Batya. In addition, retreats, attended by injured adults once or twice a year, feature recreation activities as well as marriage counseling, therapies and meetings with social workers. Here, victims draw the strength and gain the support to continue their lives.
“By giving up, I’d be giving in to terrorism,” says Shula, summing up her grit in face of adversity. However, when I ask about her plans for the future, she gives a chilling answer that shows how far the family has been shattered: “I’ve had my turn,” she says. I shudder. Shula is still young, with years ahead of her. I pray that she will find the strength not only to continue living, but also to regain some of what she and her family lost.
