Nov 26 2007
Loneliness is a Crowded Room
When we last left our heroine (that would be me—well, Mini-me, anyway) she was on her way to Jerusalem from London.
We flew into Tel Aviv in late December and drove from there down the King’s Highway to Jerusalem, and up to our fortress (the BYU Jerusalem Center) on the hill. I remember the ride well—my eyes wide, trying to soak up this incredible new world of ancient-ness all around me. I couldn’t wait to bust out of that car and go exploring.
War loomed on the horizon. We were still in denial about it, though. We couldn’t believe that anyone would be crazy enough to go to war with the US. We had a class to prepare us, teaching us what each siren meant, teaching us how to put on a gas mask, teaching us basic tips and strategies to staying safe in chemical missile warfare. I learned it all, and I tucked it away into a little corner in my brain, hoping to never actually need to know all those things.
On New Years Eve, the youth (all of us between the ages of 12 and 18) in our branch of the church there (which met in our fortress) got together for a dance/activity/party to ring in the New Year. J and I joined in, eager to make friends in this strange new world. And make friends we did. These were children of some of the most amazing people I’d ever heard of. Mostly they were faculty brats like us—children of brilliant historians and linguists and theologists. But some were not affiliated with BYU at all—just members of our church who happened to be living in Israel at the time. Every one had a fascinating story. Every one had already beheld more horror than they could share with me at that time. I was yet to see it myself. But I would soon make up for lost time.
I loved these kids. I bonded with them. I even “fell in love” with one young man. (Don’t worry—he and I ran into each other six years later, when I was 18, and created a Soap Opera of Epic Proportions. Remind me to tell that story sometime…)
Within a month, they were all gone. They’d all run back to their homes in America or fled to nearby peaceful countries. I’ll never forget the day that Delta Airlines announced that this would be their last flight out of Israel, and those who chose not to be on it would be stranded indefinitely in this war zone.
We weren’t on that plane. And J and I were left all alone. Bombs were flying, threats were issued, wars were waging, and we were stuck in the middle of it all.** But we stayed. Everyone else left.
I had to find something to fill the time, the wait, the anxiety, and the emptiness.
I found so, so much.
———————-
**I’m purposefully leaving out the details of the war and what our lives were like during this time, because I’ve said it all before. But for those of you who are new around here and would like to hear it, you’ll find those posts here and here.
br>
You REALLY need to turn this into a book someday. REALLY.
Wow. I can’t say that I envy being around while all that happened.
**Wide-eyed wonder**
What a life you have lived, Lady B. What a life.
holy cow
I agree…you totally need to write a book someday…you are a gifted writer.
Looking forward to reading more.
Luisa’s comment up there? Ditto.
I’m quite glad for my boringness when I read about all that excitement. I’m much to cowardly to have ever survived, or thrived as you do.
Cheers
Damn.
I add my voice to those saying a book is in order! Not too many of us can say we’ve lived in a war zone.
I often think about what it would be like to live where tanks are rolling by the house, shaking their very foundations with their heft–men walking through the streets with guns, and not for a parade! And the realization the bombs DO go off in busses, at rail stations, and come flying through the air landing no one knows where.
And yet there are those who have this as a daily affair–how does a child live in that? So I am heading for your past posts–perhaps you’ll help answer these questions for me.
Book, yes, a book would be a good thing. You have much to share.
Just read your Flashback Friday entries. You’re very brave to share. Thank you. I imagine the nightmares came later, because it’s rather human nature to go into a “shock” mode of survival–and it’s not until you let your guard down that your body truly begins to process the experience.
Hope much of this is memory, and not something that still is affecting you, with nightmares and such. But, then again, I’m not sure how it could ever leave you without God’s help.
We’d even let you skip a few blogs without complaining (too much) if you wanted to work starting that book now!! Great stories (I’ve re-read the others)! Worth waiting a day for a fantastic SOS!!
Who’s the bad bloggy friend now? Oh yeah, that would be me. Hi! Catching up on all your entries now . . . love you!!
And you weren’t on the plane, why, exactly? It has to be more complicated than the house at home being for rent. Maybe you just have really brave parents? Wowzers, regardless.
One of my students went home to that war zone. I’d had her as a student in MA for the first half of the year - her father’s sabbatical was over and back to Israel they went. Several of us offered to keep her safe in the U.S., but her parents wouldn’t hear of it. They all did fine, though.
This story is amazing. It is hard to look at someone and imagine what their “story” is. When I taught high school history in Sweden, we did a project on our own family histories. Some of the things my students learned about their parents and grandparents were shocking. You would never have guessed what some of these kids had lived through. Especially those students who had come from war-torn countries. I know that not only did the kids learn about themselves, but it brought them understanding of their parents they had not had before.
Wow. That’s pretty sobering. Thanks for sharing. It’s good for me to have a reality check once in a while.
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