In Herzliya With the Survivor of a Suicide Bombing

“I was not going to mention this, but since you keep asking about the politics of Indian-Israelis…” He fell silent, perhaps considering whether to just drop the entire subject. “I am a survivor of a suicide bombing. The only suicide bombing ever in Herzliya.”

My tape recorder at that moment looked to me like some stupid device that had no place at the table. A squat, silver and black alien that I had brought in.

“It was at the Jamil Restaurant, a shwarma restaurant (2002.) The terrorist was right behind me. The blast sent me flying across the restaurant, but I was not hurt. My son Jonathan, who was eleven then, lost an eye. A teenage girl was killed. She died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”

His soft, uninflected words threw me. What had I thought? That the impact of such a narrative would break glass? It hadn’t occurred to me that the breaking of a father’s heart was a silent act.

“Indian-Israelis were pushed to the right by the suicide bombings, just like many Israelis. My wife, from Argentina, had always voted for Meretz, a left-wing party. Ever since then, she supports right-wing Likud. Jonathan also votes for Likud.”

“But you don’t. Why not?”

“I think if there is a peace candidate to vote for, we should vote for peace. But I don’t see anyone I can vote for. Also, I am not sure the other side wants peace with us. I have my doubts. I don’t know how we go forward from here.”

I didn’t say so, but I wanted to say I thought it was done his way. By stepping into the darkness with a foot that knew the depth of darkness, but was still willing to engage it. By looking for a seam of light through the absence of a son’s eye.