Mar 30 2008
Witnessing War
(Yup, another Re-Post-A-Palooza week in store for us. I’m frantically working away on my book, and naturally it’s taking me to those dark and overwhelming days of my past. The plot isn’t set anywhere near Jerusalem, and yet I’m drawing on all the terror and adrenaline of my war days. So, I’m bringing you along with me, on a trek through my posts that deal with these topics. Thanks for coming along for the ride!)
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It’s January, 1991.
I’m twelve years old. It’s the middle of the night and I’m sitting in bed, fully dressed, staring out my window towards Jerusalem’s Old City, of which I have a crystal clear, unobstructed view.
It’s always hard to calm down after an air raid. Tonight it seems particularly difficult. When the siren sounded a few hours ago, we’d raced to the bomb shelter, as usual, carrying our gas mask boxes and our shelter bags. Chairs and blankets were already set up, waiting for us in the shelter. The first item of business upon arriving at the shelter was to put our gas masks on-–we must always assume that Saddam Hussein is using chemical warfare, because one of these times he might be. We know he has the capabilities.
Some of the little faces in our shelter are too small for gas masks, so for toddlers there are special plastic hood-style masks and for infants there are “tents” which look like incubators. Some of the babies scream. They don’t want to go in there. It breaks their parents’ hearts to shove them in. But because it could mean the difference between life and death, it just has to be done.
Our shelter, deep within our fortress, is full of interesting people. While there aren’t very many employees left at the BYU Jerusalem Center, there are a few, and most of them have brought their families to live in the Center during the Gulf War. It’s just safer here. So, Arab and Jew, Christian and atheist alike, security guards and kitchen staff and Professors all camp together in the shelter. Because there are no students and very little staff here, there’s lots of room and all are welcome. Still, there are only thirty or so of us all together. We’re a myriad of colors, faiths, and languages, and most communication is done through pleasant smiles. Whatever might be going on out there, we all get along in here.
Once gas masks were on, we sat for a minute, getting oriented, hearts beating, wondering how soon we’d know if it was a false alarm or whether conventional or chemical missiles had fallen in Israel, or if they were on their way–or what?
The American man who is the Center’s director is trying to finish the Bible before he goes home in a few month, so he opened his big scripture and balanced his glasses over the outside of his mask–a comical but reassuring picture of serenity. Our appearance is difficult to describe–we look like large insects, or maybe aliens. J, my 15 year old brother, and I pulled out blankets and set up a board game instead of trying to sleep–we both knew we wouldn’t get any sleep, even if we’d tried. A game was better. Anything to take our minds off of things unknown.
One of the old women in our shelter who we’ve come to know and adore, suddenly exclaimed to her husband, having just come in contact with her own morning breath in the personal intimacy of her rubber mask, “how have you stood it all these years?” J and I nearly laughed till we cried.
After awhile, one of the Arab guards checked on his children. Recently the Jerusalem Post has reported that an infant and three elderly women suffocated in their masks, so we’re all on the lookout for something like that happening to one of us. He leaned down over his young son wearing the hood-style mask–-he touched him–-no response. Shouting, he pulled the boy to his feet and ripped the hood off his head. Suddenly, the boy inhaled and started to cry. His mother pulled off her mask and, crying out, grabbed the boy, holding him in horror against her. J and I watched from our corner of the room with terror and relief all at once. Soon everyone calmed down. Everything was okay. But I confess to having shed a tear or two.
Soon the all clear siren sounded, and we were allowed to head back to our apartments. Which brings me back to now, as I stare out my window.
This city outside my window seems so vibrant, so alive, so eternal. There’s an aura of peace, even among all the terror. I often find myself looking out the window, just to make sure it’s still there. And sure enough, after 3500 years, it is. It’ll take a lot more than a Desert Storm to shake it.
I jump a little as the phone starts ringing. I hear my father answer it before slamming it down. “What was that?” my mother’s muffled voice asks him. “A man, saying that he’s planted a bomb in our apartment and we’re all going to die.” My father sighs.
I just shake my head. We know it’s a lie. We’ve had similar calls in the past. No one can possibly get into our home here, our fortress. But they attempt to use the power of fear against us. It hurts me in my heart to think of their hatred for me, simply because of the color of my skin and the nationality on my passport. We’ve seen pictures on the news of our Palestinian neighbors, sitting on their rooftops as they watch scud missiles fly overhead, cheering. I’m too logic-driven to understand this. I asked my dad why they would cheer rather than seek shelter for themselves. He smiled sadly and explained that some people don’t care if they die, just as long as we die too. We know that this is just a small handful of people, a vocal minority, and certainly not the feeling among all.
Still, when I wander through the streets of the Old City, dropping coins into beggars’ hands, buying souveniers so that a father can feed his family tonight, and listening to a continuous stream of men offer my dad a certain amount of camels in order to take me as their wife, I can’t help but wonder if these are the people calling my house in the middle of the night with their bomb threats–the people rooting for my death.
It’s time to pull my eyes away from the window and go to sleep. Just before I close my eyes, I catch a glimpse of the pin on my bulletin board above my bed that says, “Free Kuwait”. I laugh a little. Who would have ever thought, when I was given that pin in London six months ago, that those two little words would have such a profound impact on my existence.
But I must rest now. Tomorrow this day will all start over again. I need to be ready for it.
Goodnight.
