Maze of Terror: a Settler's Diary
Fear and faith in a West Bank settlement
An Israeli soldier was shot and killed at the Cave of the Fathers. Another soldier was injured. This latest murder has brought out the brave Yeshiva boys who are now hollering and throwing stones at Arab traffic. OCT. 26, 1992. In response to the deteriorating defense situation here in Hebron, the local council called a general strike, closing the schools. So I suppose after the prayers at the Cave of the Fathers, all the children will be on the streets celebrating this vacation.
What is wrong with Israel? The education system is struck every time one group or another wants to make a point. This in addition to the four months of Jewish holiday that close the schools and the half-day of learning every day. This is the people of the book? This is to be the light unto the nations?
This doesn't mean I'm not sad about each Israeli killed; I am.
Yes, life in Kiryat Arba and the territories has become a maze of terror. Soldiers are being shot and killed. We always know something happened when we hear the border police calling for a "curfew." Then the sirens. And the stones smashing against the buses.
With the wailing, beating winds on the lonely hilltops, there is such a sense of being forsaken, as if you are in a maze of terror. Dear God, please give me strength and show me everything will always be all right. Living in the valley of death is hard on the psyche. DEC. 13, 1992. An Israeli border police officer was kidnapped. DEC. 15, 1992. The police officer was found murdered by terrorists. DEC. 16, 1992. Another man has disappeared. Only his car was found. DEC. 17, 1992. This man, too, was found dead. A flash flood washed him away with the boulders. FEB. 26, 1993. I no sooner thank God than I wonder if there is one. Wednesday afternoon at 3:30, Estie's best friend, Hava Waxberg, was in a terrible car accident when she was riding home from Jerusalem with her mother and brother. Her mother says Arabs threw stones, or she thought they did. There was a boom, and she rolled off the road. Hava was thrown from the back window, which had disintegrated, and the wheel of the car went into her head.
Hava is 11 years old. After 36 hours in the hospital, where she was kept alive by life-support systems, she died at 2:45 a.m.
My children have gone into trauma.
After a day and a half of prayer in school and at home, this child, a beautiful, intelligent, talented girl who loved to dance and studied with my daughter, the only daughter of immigrant parents from Mexico, the leader of the class and the most popular girl in school, died before she had a chance to do very much in the world.
I was with her parents for five hours in the hospital, holding the mother and giving her hope. I also was allowed in to visit Hava, who was in a coma. I told her she would be late to ballet, that she overshadowed everyone in her class, even my own daughter, but no matter. She should come back to life and do it again. FEB. 27, 1993. We went to Hava's funeral in Jerusalem yesterday and took all our children. This intimacy with death, the death of someone their own age, has shaken them to their foundations. We sat after the funeral from 1:30 to 10 at night, talking, crying, drifting off, each one into our own contemplations. MARCH 1, 1993. Israel is wearing away my powers yet I am unable to move. My husband loves Israel, and my children are Israeli. And I won't leave them. Also, it is seen as a "bad thing" to think badly of Israel. So I think and feel things I feel bad about. If it isn't enough that I see Israel wearing me away, and I can't do anything about it, I also can't talk about it without hearing "Everything is from God. Can you run away from God like Jonah tried to do? God runs the show here. Your life is not your own."
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