I was lost for words for a few days. Friends from Britain and elsewhere shared concern and asked for information and context. I am not used to having my words fail me, but they did this time. I read incisive articles in Hebrew from wiser friends. I just wanted to crawl under a rock and cry. Today, the words finally came.
I was in Jerusalem on Friday night, and my niece Maya, 11, wanted to host me for the night in her newly decorated bedroom, across from my mother’s flat. I woke up in the early morning to the sound of an alarm. Maya pulled a face and waved her hand dismissively but then, almost automatically, got up and led the way to the “safe space” on the stairs, where my family, with the other neighbours in the eight-floor building, gathered, and we waited for the explosion sound that told us we could go back to the flat. It happened six more times throughout the morning.
