Attack in Jerusalem

I jog down my beloved streets of Israel, breathing in the different smells, the spices, and wince as I pass the fish market, the deep salt scent causing a light shock to go through my body. I feel a tempting itch at my nose, and sneeze with such force, I have to stop and momentarily remember my fish allergies, then push on again.

I look around and take in my surroundings; colorful clothes, a wide road, stray dogs and cats, my favorite place in Jerusalem.

The market.

I wave at the street vendors, familiar faces occasionally grinning at me, a friendly  “hello!” or a “Shabbat shalom!” which I always answer with a polite nod–getting too close in the streets causes problems.

I weave through a bunch of people and smile. I could feel the people’s happiness, their joy to be in Israel, but I could also feel the atmosphere.

My smile faded. The thick feeling of worry and fear, it had been there ever since the attacks began. Always.

I was worried it wouldn’t go away.

I slow down to a walk as I think, last week there had been six attacks, and the week before that, four.

I feel regret gnawing at my stomach like a rat.

Should I be out here? Is it safe? I feel anger pulse through my blood at the thought of the slaughtered children. They were innocent, all of them.

I feel a lone, salty tear roll down my cheek at the thought of the boy; kippah on the floor; eyelids open; glassy eyes frozen in place; matted blood sprawled on his chest.

All of them were young. He was only seven.

I brush the tear away, being vulnerable would make the guilt worse.

Why wasn’t I there to help him? Why was this happening?

I freeze. In front of me are two police officers dressed in black. They have battered guns coated in scratch marks. Both their eyes glint with pain and regret. I can tell they are loyal to Jerusalem.

On their left arms sit identical armbands, saying “I.D.F”, the Israel Defense Force.

My blood turns cold, and my eyes are bloodshot, as I stumble out of their way. My eyes follow the officer’s identical marches until they stop.

“What’s going on, why are you here, I … …”I stutter, as my voice trails off in fear, “this is not … …”

I crumble to my knees, petrified, another dead body.

Eva Spier, an 11-year-old, wrote the above story after visiting the Jerusalem market last month. If you'd like to email the author, her address is eva@spier.ch