Thursday, November 9, 2000 / 11 Heshvan, 5761

At the site of a fatal bombing, Israelis come together to pray in a moment of unity.
Ian Pear - Special To The Jewish Week (New York Jewish Week: www.thejewishweek.com)

Jerusalem--The explosion literally knocked me out of my chair. Immediately I knew it was a terror attack. Construction booms don't shake windows and chip paint off walls.

I stepped outside my office overlooking a quaint, picturesque courtyard; a thick charcoal-colored smoke now dominated the view. Instantly I ran the 100 or so yards to my house at the other end of the courtyard to make sure my wife and child were OK. Halfway there I paused briefly by the playground my daughter, Gavriella, had spent countless joyful hours playing in over the past year. By the slide lay a mangled piece of a burnt car. I glanced toward the alley that lead to the street but a few yards away. Only an hour earlier I had waited to meet someone in its normally delightful shade. It had become a tunnel of charred walls and agonizing cries of mourning. Its far end was engulfed in the reddest, most menacing flames I had ever seen.

Moments later I was home. My wife and child were fine. The walls had shaken and paint chips had fallen, but thank God, nothing more. Our neighbors across the way were not as lucky. Their windows had been blown out, glass shards scattered everywhere.

But Ayelet Hashachar Levy and Hanan Levy were the unluckiest of us all. Ayelet Hashachar was moving into a new apartment that day -- it was her moving truck that probably saved the lives of many others by blocking the path of the terrorists in their attempt to reach the crowded stalls of the Machane Yehuda marketplace. Hanan Levy, meanwhile, was simply returning to work after a short lunch break. Both were innocent passers-by in the wrong place at the wrong time. Both were killed for no other reason than that they were Jewish.

That, however, is not the end of the story.

You see, that wrong place is my neighborhood, Nachla'ot. It is a beautiful little community smack dab in the center of Jerusalem, filled with new immigrants from America, several generation Israeli chasidim, devout secularists, the hippolach (hippies with a twist) and, of course, hundreds of visitors to the market. Our shul lies at the center of this neighborhood. When the terrorists exploded a car bomb in our community, they were not simply trying to score a military victory. They were attempting to wage a spiritual war against us all. A war to demoralize us, to inspire fear, to make us question whether or not it's worth it to live here. A war to turn the dream of resurrecting our land and nation, dormant for 2,000 years, into a nightmare.

The next evening, Friday night, our community decided to respond. The physical response was beyond our scope; we would leave it to the government and the soldiers who risk their lives daily to protect us. But as this terrorist attack was also an assault against our spirit, we felt a spiritual response was indispensable.

The terrorists wanted Nachla'ot, and by extension Jerusalem, to become a place of mourning, a place where fear and doubt reign. So during Kabbalat Shabbat, the 200 or so congregants of Shir Hadash sang and danced like never before. We refused to offer the terrorists the satisfaction of turning our community into a Jewish cemetery. With all our strength we proclaimed that it is a joyful, soulful place where the exultation of being a part of rebuilding the Jewish nation permeates our very essence.

Afterward we walked to the site of the actual bombing. In a solemn, respectful way we continued with the Friday evening prayer service. For the sake of the two victims, and for our own sake and that of Jerusalem, we felt it necessary to recite the words of the service in this location, to turn the unholy into the holy.

Then something amazing happened.

As we began to pray, a few chasidim who had never set foot in our shul stopped by and joined our minyan. A moment later, also drawn by what seemed to be some inexplicable force, a number of secular Israelis -- clearly on their way out for the evening -- stopped by and prayed with us as well. Soon we heard some rustling from behind the plastic wrap that had been covering some of the windows blown out during the blast. With his TV still playing in the background (I think it was a soccer match), and visible only by his shadow, our newest member shouted to the many prayers, "Amen, Keyn Yehi Ratzon" (Amen, May it be Godís will).

So there we were, from those with no head coverings and jeans to the knitted-yarmulke, blue-and-white wearing Zionists, and from the T-shirt clad TV watcher to the black-covered shtreimel-bedecked chasidim. For a moment, singing praises to God and psalms of brotherhood, we were all united. For a moment, we all felt the bond of our shared history, the tragedies and triumphs, and perhaps more important, the necessity of our shared future. For a moment, a glorious and splendid moment, all our differences disappeared.

Yes, it took a tragedy to get us there, but it was pride, hope and love that kept us there and made that moment so special. Pride in what our people had accomplished; hope that we will do so much more; and love for one another and God as we embark on this journey.