David Young – Israel: What a way to die! Based on a true incident
I was sitting at home in front of my computer wondering how to continue writing my historical novel about Doña Gracia. I was not very satisfied with myself for doing this as we in Israel are now in the middle of a war with the Palestinian Hamas terrorist organization. Writing about this woman seemed like a weird form of escapism. She was a wealthy 16th. century Jewish philanthropist who, because of the Portuguese Inquisition had been forced to leave her native Lisbon and move to Constantinople via London, Antwerp, and Venice. I was mapping out the timeline of her stay in Venice when I heard the phone ring.
“Hello, it’s Ilana,” a woman’s voice said.
“Ilana?”
“Yes, Ilana from the volunteer centre. Do you remember that you called up to volunteer yesterday and said that you were prepared to drive people or equipment and…”
“Right,” I interrupted her. “What do you want me to do? Where do you want me to drive to?”
“We want you to pick up some bags of clothes and several mattresses at this address in north Jerusalem which I’ll give you in a minute and then bring them to our centre near Ben Gurion airport. Could you do that today soon, like in the next hour?”
I said I could and Ilana gave me the addresses of Sarah, the donor in north Jerusalem, and also of the volunteer centre. Half an hour later I was at Sarah’s house. After we had stuffed several large bags of clothes inside my Toyota and strapped down three mattresses on the roof rack for people in the south who had been forced to flee from their border kibbutzim, Sarah asked me if I wished to have a coffee before I set out. I declined as I was anxious to get going immediately.
Fifty minutes later I was greeted by Ilana. She was a short, plump woman of about 35 with brown curly hair, a tanned face, and twinkling eyes. She thanked me for bringing everything over and within minutes she was on the phone, telling someone that she received clothes and mattresses for their family. I took everything from the car and was pleased to know that my cross-country journey was being really appreciated. After a glass of water and a couple of biscuits, I set out for the return trip. I was going to take the main Jerusalem-Ben Gurion highway instead of the minor road I had used earlier.
After ten minutes on the highway, I suddenly heard the piercing sound of an air-raid siren. I knew what this meant as I had already heard several of these back home earlier in the week. I immediately pulled over to the gravelly shoulder by the side of the road, switched off the engine and lay down as instructed by the “What to do if there is an air-raid” notices in the paper. I made a point of lying down several yards away from the car with my feet pointing in its direction. I put my hands over my head and waited. And thought, what a way to die. Lying here by the side of the road hoping that a rocket or piece of shrapnel won’t kill or maim me. The crude rocket was probably fired somewhere from some a wasteland in Gaza by a Hamas terrorist dressed in grubby army-style fatigues. He would also be wearing a green bandana proclaiming some Hamas nationalist slogan.
But what an undignified and stupid way for me to die. Absolutely nothing heroic. Nothing like dying with a rifle in my hand defending the country. No, just lying there on some dirty grey gravel by the side of a now silent highway being blown to bits. A completely pointless death would achieve nothing nor contribute one iota to my country’s war effort.
I blew a small piece of gravel out of my nose and suddenly became aware of a small black insect making its way towards a clump of grass. I was sure it wasn’t thinking about the war or being blown up at any minute now. No, as I observed, it was crawling along to meet a fellow insect near the side of the highway. It wasn’t interested in me or the wartime situation at all.
Ah well, I thought. I have done what I’ve been told to do. I have left my car as it could be a death trap and have laid down some distance away from it in case it was blown up. I have also covered my head. The notices in the paper I remembered said nothing about praying. The air-raid siren stopped and I waited for another ten minutes as instructed. I got back into the car and one hour later I was home. In the bathroom I looked in the mirror and then took a comb and removed a few bits of gravel from my hair. I had accomplished my mission. I wondered what the next one would be.
David Lawrence-Young
