And then the Skies Wept…
Our own shnow-white
Elizabeth Katzman was born in the USSR 17 years ago. She immigrated to Israel 12 years ago, in the age of 5. Her Hebrew was fluent, her accent untraceable and her friends - all Israeli born. She had snow white skin, pink cheeks and coal black hair. She was often jokingly called snow-white.
Liz, as her friends called her, was a beautiful and pleasant girl. I didn't know her very well, but there was hardly anyone in the cycle who didn't know her name or didn't recognize her face. She participated in many school activities and was known as a fun and giving person. Always well mannered and hospitable, even though we hardly talked, when passing me by, she would always smile, say hi, and call me by my first name.
Elizabeth Katzman
1985-2003
R.I.P
Elizabeth studied Theater and Media as major topics in Leo Baeck Education Center High-school, in Haifa. She participated in theater shows and hosted and co-edited the High-school's television show on local television. She was known for her talents. Before going to Leo Baeck, she studied in Reut (camaraderie) junior high of the arts. There she made friends with people who eventually went to other schools.
3 weeks from now comes the Israeli Education System final exam in Theater - a major play. The play she was destined to star in - "Best of Fiends", was going well in rehearsals and she already chose a design for her costume.
On Wednesday after school, she and her best friend from another school, went downtown to check up on her costumes for the play, and do some shopping. After that the girls took a bus to the upper town center, and there boarded a bus home.
A victory for Islam
On the same Wednesday, a 21 year old Palestinian arab, a student in the Hebron Poly-Technical university, arrived to the upper town center of Haifa. He was out of reach of his family for three days now. He had more than 50 kg of explosives packed with nails, nuts and metal specks on his body. That alongside a suicide note - proclaiming the victory of Islam over America and Israel in September 11th.
A few minutes after 2 am, he boarded an Israeli bus. Previous suicide bombers were tense and excited, fearing they will be caught, they exploded within seconds of boarding the bus. This time, the terrorist was sure of himself and very cool. He wore good clothes, and merged well in the bus - in an upper middle class neighborhood.
This wasn't an unusual sight in Haifa, a "stronghold" of Jewish-Arab co-existence in Israel. A city in which there is the highest Arab population in a mixed city, the 3rd largest city in Israel, which has Arab-Israelis in key places in the local government.
The bus, No. 37, was heading from downtown, to up-town, to the Haifa University, perhaps with highest number of Arab students in Israel, with an active Arab Student Union, and representation. So seeing Arabs on this bus was not considered unusual. In any case, it's hard to recall a case when Arabs on public transportation were treated in a bad or suspicious manner.
The terrorist was cool. He did not panic. Rather he planned. The bus was half empty, so he waited for several minutes, passing a few stops, so that more people would come on. He slowly went to the middle of the bus, approaching a group of children and teenagers, which unsuspectingly carried on with their lives. He wants them all to die.
It was a quarter past 2 AM.
A quarter past 2 AM
My physics class has just ended and my dad was supposed to pick me up and drive me to my dentist appointment. It was rescheduled several times, and by now I have a rather large cavity in a frontal tooth. My dad wasn't there. I called him - the doctor forgot why he invited me, and rescheduled the appointment. My dad didn't know I had a cavity, and thought it was a general checkup - so he agreed. "What am I to do now?" I ask. "I'll talk to the doctor and call back" my dad says. We hang up.
I stand in the school drive-way from the western side of school. It's mid-day. Many school-children have recently been released and are on their way home. I wish I were too. I watch the cars pass by. A police car suddenly speeds up.
Then the school guard - we have armed guards on every entry to school, ministry of education regulations for decades now, many terrorists used to target schools - approaches me. "What are you waiting for?" he asks. I think I might look suspicious with my heavy coat and large school bag. "My dad is about to pick me up" I answer. "He may run into traffic. There has just been a suicide bomb" he informs me. "What?" I ask.
Haifa is a northern city. It's rather far from the Israel-PA border and from the start of the Intifada we've seen only 3 successful terracts. Several large terracts have been prevented by the city's police. One involved several bombs, scheduled to explode at the same time around the city. But people here think we're safe. Especially since we're a mixed city. There were arabs among the victims here, and arabs among the medical staff. People would be against breaking the already fragile co-existance here.
"A terract, just uptown from here" he answers. "Huh?" I say with a dumb look. "Just a minute ago. You saw the officer fly by in his car, right?". I'm still shocked. It has almost been a year since the last terrorist attack in Haifa. It happened in late March, in a co-owned Israeli-Arab restaurant in up-town near a major mall - "Grand Canyon" (Canyon is the Hebrew word for 'mall'), the largest mall in the Middle East. My math teacher lost her entire close family, and was seriously hurt in the head, and lost one eye. She never returned to teach.
"What do you know?" I ask. I'm trembling. Most of my school friends either live up-town or take buses there. Most of my school and the other schools have already released their students. They should be on their way home just about now. "I don't know much" he says, "I have a small radio, but I'm officially not allowed to listen to it on the job. If you come, I can turn it on for you, and I'll listen in". We go to his small shack, and he turns on the small radio.
"…Just in, a terrorist attack in Haifa, on Morria St. …. A bus exploded… his roof has flown off… it's on fire… rescue teams are struggling through high-noon traffic…" Priate broadcasting stations break in sometimes with songs in Arabic. The police doesn't enforce the broadcasting regulations well, and cheap radios often pick up pirate signals instead of official ones.
A few students stroll along, on their way home. "A suicide bomb, in Haifa, in Carmel Center" we inform them. "WHAT?" they panic. They replace me at the radio. I try to call my dad and call home to tell them I'm fine. The network is dead. There's a cellular antenna on every street corner, but the network overloads easily.
Also, from the late nineties, the networks initiate a cut-off. Several times terrorists used cellular phones as triggers for second-wave blasts. They'd leave a charge connected to a cell phone. 5 minutes after the first blast, when rescue forces arrived, they would call the cell phone, and detonate another powerful bomb, killing the survivors and rescue teams.
I can't inform my mom I'm ok. My dad knows it, but I can't tell him to come pick me up.
Suddenly, a car parks near by. My class mate has been waiting for his driving instructor. It his him. He's a dad of another class mate. "Where's my son?" he asks when he gets out of the car. "When did he finish school? Does anybody know?" he asks me and my class mate. We don't know. We study different topics. Another class mate returns to school for community work. "Eric has gone home much earlier" she calms down the worried father. "He ought to be home for some time now" she says. I decline an offer for a ride. I hope my father will pick me up - as he does minutes later. "I couldn't reach you, so I just came to take you home" he says.
I think about the people I know, and how could be hurt. Yoav (Former OT poster) and Shiber (current Civ III poster) studied with me and couldn't have been caught in the blast. Taurus (former OT poster) went home an hour early, since a water pipe in his house broke down. He could have somehow ended up on that pus, though it's unreasonable. Can't reach him now.
Home sweet… home?
Azazel (OT poster) could be on that bus. He's a student. Could have had business in the university or uptown. I call him as soon as I get home. His mother answers in a frightened voice. "Is David there?" "No, he isn't home there. Who is this?" she shopes I know something about his whereabouts. "A friend of his. Thanks. I'll call again" go explain to a panicking mother that you met him on the web, actually live within 200 yards from him, and are worried for his life. Better keep the line safe for him to call home.
My gf calls. She's in a week of IDF training with the rest of her cycle - a physical preparation for Boot Camp and IDF service. It helps a lot, since it takes away the shock of boot camp. Military service is compulsory in Israel. Girls serve 2.5 years, boys serve 3 years and some. Your boot camp can last from a month to almost half a year - depending of your course and destined role. The training week mainly deals with army regulations, moral issues, and getting the feel of boot camp, with more consideration for mistakes. Takes off the edge of the real thing.
"Are you ok? They let us watch TV and use phones since we're from Haifa" she says. "I'm ok. My family too. How are you?" "I'm ok. Tired. Shocked. Lucky my brother is in boot camp and my mother is on a vacation in Eilat".
I connect to the internet, go to Apolyton and the OT. Start a thread, only to be closed since Firelad (Mark_L..) started one a second before me. "My thread is more informative" I think angrly as I copy and paste my post to the other thread. "And my title was better" I add. "MarkG was wrong" I conclude victoriously.
That Evening
The explosive charge was huge this time. The bus is in ruins. I keep posting new figures in my thread. Made an avatar so that people who see my posts know there are current updates.
Finally reached Taurus. Dalgetti posted. My grandma came back home. She is shocked to hear the news. "I took that line an hour before it blew up. And your 7 year old twin cousins took it half an hour before that, from school". I'm lucky no one got hurt.
The ICQ is filled with people demanding information. Chain Letters pass with the speed of light. "Amit has not been seen or heard since the terrorist act. If anyone has seen him please contact his home. His parents are worried sick". I pass this on even to people I didn't talk to for a year. Emergency above all. ICQ can be annoying, but at least this is for a good cause.
After a while message comes through: "Amit is safe. Pass on". Wheew. But alas, this is the only good message. "my best friend is missing" my friend Einat informs me. "Her name is Tal. Her parents can't find her. I fear the worse". She soon goes off line.
"My best friend's friend is missing. She has already lost several of her friends to terrorist attacks. She thinks she's a jinx, Leore tells me. "I can't talk right now" and she disappeares into N/A mode.
"My best friend has not come home" Roni says. "Who is she?" "It's Liz. No one has seen her." "Liz?" I ask. I have a bad memory for names. "You know, the pale girl with long black hair". I don't remember. I don't wish to upset Roni, so I try and comfort her. "Couldn't she just be injured?" I suggest. "No. Her parents called all the hospitals. She's either missing, or dead. They went to Abu Kabir Medical Center (where body identifications are made" she says. I have no idea what to say. I tell that to her. "It's ok. I don't know what to do if she's dead either." She says and disconnects.
It isn't easy to see your teachers cry
Our school walls are grey cement. It was popular for some reason when the school was built to have naked cement walls. Now it's considered ugly, and rightfully so, but paint won't catch on the naked cement walls. Today it seemed greyer than ever.
When I arrive to school, only half of the cycle is there. Sitting either inside or outside classrooms in absolute silence are 16 and 17 year olds. It's very dark and gloomy, while outside the sun is shining. "Did you hear?" "Is it official?" "Did you hear about the one from another school?". I see shock in people's eyes, even when they're closed. A TV turned on in the central space of the school breaks the silence. We are given out the morning's papers. People begin telling their experiences. Someone knows several people who were killed. Someone was near the blast. Someone ran and began rescuing people. The unspeakable horrors he saw make him burst into tears… again.
Soon the headmaster gathers us in the central space and informs us that he has spoken to Liz' parents. She is most probably among the dead. Now we shall have talks in our home classes, and later we shall reconvene in the central space of school, for a short ceremony. The talks are superficial. Liz wasn't in our class. Those who knew her well stayed outside and cried. Those who didn't - tried to avoid talking about it directly.
The ceremony starts with texts being read by teachers and her friends. Her picture is hanging on the wall now. A picture taken 3 years ago when she was admitted to school. Next to it is her name in black bold square print - the kind you use in obituaries. And candles. One gets used to memorial candles when in Israel. The speakers talk about Liz. Say goodbye. Say prayers for her soul. Say prayers for peace. Someone sings a song he has just written and composed for her. It's difficult to see seniors cry. It's even more difficult to see your teachers and school board weep.
A familiar song plays. It's a song that always brings tears to me. "Luckily" it's played fast this time, so I manage to avoid breaking out into tears. I'm not sure why. I feel perhaps that I have no right to cry - I didn't know Liz that well.
The perfect weather outside quickly becomes a perfect storm. The gods are angry, people would say 2000 years ago or so, in Europe. So it feels. I wanted to go to the place of the suicide bombing, but I can't get a ride. And it rains terribly. I catch a ride home and sleep for most of the day.
I watched the late night news to see her picture among the victims. They misspelled her name, got her age wrong, and chose a really bad picture, when she was such a pretty girl. I go back to sleep.
And then the skies wept
The next day, we try to study. Bible lesson. Then Physics again. No teacher dares to demand discipline or keep records of students coming and going. How can you make a person torn up inside sit down in a classroom with a chair, which is now forever empty?
As we board the buses to Liz's funeral. I still can't believe she is dead. According to the Jewish faith, a person should be brought to burial as soon as possible. Not 48 hours have passed from her death, when she was lowered into the ground.
You don't begin to imagine how many anonymous people are there behind the TV pictures of the victims. The whole cycle came. And people from other cycles from school. Also people from other schools. Former pupils left their army posts. Representatives of the municipality, the government, political parties; all arrived. Why don't they ever come to share joy? Only anguish. Then Liz's family arrived. I couldn't face watching their pain, and turned around, then walked away. They remind me of my own relatives too much. I don't want to imagine them the same way. It's crazy to see parents mourn over their children.
Liz's sister reads a eulogy. Then her drama teacher. Then her best friend. Their words tear ones heart like sharp razors, and you feel you're about to cry your blood onto your shirt. Out of all people, the most lively, innocent and talented girl, was taken from this world by a cruel murderer.
As the Rabi chants songs of mourning, her casket is moved to a special area of the cemetery, dedicated to terror victims. These areas grow by the week. Usually, a dead body is put in a bag, and carried and buried that way. Not Liz. Her body, hardly recognized, is not in a condition to be put in a bag with its no longer human-like contours showing. This time, they use a casket, which is put onto a carriage.
A crowd of several hundreds, trembling from the grief, all stand in absolute silence. The prayers are said and the bouquets are put on her grave. Then, orderly, one by one, people pass by her grave, and put a flower, a picture, or a rock on where her body was lowered just minutes ago. The intolerant, unpleasant and pushy Israelis, stand quietly under a burning sun, wearing black, in silence, and wait patiently for their turn. The only place an Israel won't cut in line is a cemetery, be it as cynical as it may.
As I near her grave, It still feels like I'm dreaming. I watch her picture and it seems like a weird parade. I can't force myself to cry. She wasn't like that. Her life is to be celebrated, instead of her death mourned. I'm not sure I belong there - so many people whose pain I came to share, who knew her so much better. I just knew her name and image. I came because I wished I got to know her better. I came to return a favor, from the time she smiled at me and called my name, and made me feel great for that split second.
I put a rock on her grave, and it fell somewhere behind the flowers. As I walked two feet away, I stumbled onto a grave with a familiar name. It's the daughter of my math teacher, who was killed 11 months ago. I sigh and put another stone on her grave. So many victims, I think as I watch around, seeing many gaping holes, freshly dug, covered with freshly picked flowers.
Several photographers take pictures of girls from my school mourning over Liz's grave, with her picture next to it. Next issue of the newspapers will again feature pretty girls mourning over other pretty girls.
And when I start walking towards the exit, able no more to bear watching her family and closest friends cry their hearts out, I suddenly feel a wet drop. It rains, but not aggressively like a day before. The sun hid it's tearing eyes behind a cloud. The rain caresses our heads, gently, lovingly, in sympathy. As if the drops attempted to wash away our pain and comfort us, stroking our heads so ever gently. "The skies are weeping with us, they can watch us no more" I whisper to my girlfriend. She just leans her head against my shoulder, holding my hand, as we walk away from the cemetery plot, which now contains the remains of a former 17 year old.
As I step in the wet mud, with the skies crying over my head, I think of the girl we left behind, all alone in the cold earth in a casket and a body bag. I think I left more than a stone with her. I still expect this whole event to end, and then she will appear again. She's so real and so alive. And her smile is so wide and so healing. But I don't even know her. And I won't ever will.
May she rest in peace and be written in the book of life.
If you want to post on ME politics, do it in one of those threads, but political comments of any type won't be tolerated here.
