Since last Thursday, time has felt more fluid for me. I am exhausted, shocked and despairing. Days later, my sleep remains fitful. I am only beginning to process the latest terror attack, four days ago, in the country that’s been my home for over a decade.
Last week, a deranged gunman, with Islamic Jihad leanings, made his way from his town in the West Bank to my neighbourhood, in downtown Tel Aviv. There, after wandering up and down Dizengoff (the city’s main street) for a few minutes, no doubt trying to ascertain where he could do the most damage, he walked into a bar named ‘Ilka’ and began shooting. At point blank range.
I live just a block and a half from this bar, on the lovely Dizengoff Street. I’ve even drunk there a few times (they are known for giving out tequila shots to customers, on their first round!) Just five minutes from my front door, this bar is opposite a bakery where I pick up challah, close to the Tamar juice stand where I buy smoothies and a hop, skip and jump from the cafes I sip coffee in, with a book, with a laptop or with my friends.
Never have I been so close to an actual attack - close enough to see the chaos from my salon window, able to stand at my balcony and watch the horror unfold before my very eyes. Terror attacks have hit me (like every other Israeli) hard over the years, but this one knocked me for six. Dizengoff is the beating heart of this city…one of the places I love most in the world.
I’d walked past the Ilka bar just an hour before, after running some errands and picking up some groceries. It was a beautiful evening, not quite warm enough to sit in a t-shirt but definitely clement enough to walk the streets comfortably, or linger with a drink, at a bar’s outside table. Once home, I’d grabbed a bite then headed for the shower. In the midst of a lather, I’d heard loud yelling but thought nothing of it.
I live downtown after all and yelling’s par for the course.
As I stepped out of the shower, dripping, the phone began buzzing. Ignoring it, I headed for my bedroom to dry off, only it rang again, And again. The third time, clad just in a towel, and still wet, I picked it up. One of my closest friends was on the line.
“Are you alive?” she asked. I would have laughed, had she not sounded so serious. She told me to turn on the tv but I didn’t have to. Suddenly I was aware of sirens blaring, cars screeching past my apartment building, people on the street yelling. I had no reason to watch this drama on a Samsung flatscreen - it was unfolding before my very eyes. Just a block and a half away from my front door, as I then found out.
Throwing on clothes, I ran to the window. Below, traffic had come to a halt, cars had pulled over and people were running - running north, running wildly, chaotically, with little thought for anything but to put distance between themselves and what they had just been party to. Even worse, it appeared the gunman had fled the scene and was on the loose, quite possibly close by. In the heart of my lovely city.
The phone kept ringing, with one person after another desperately trying to get hold of me. I checked my WhatsApp - I was overwhelmed with messages. Everyone knew I lived on Dizengoff, the beating heart of Tel Aviv, Everyone knew how often I was on that block. Everyone knew I had just as much chance as anyone of being caught up in the chaos.
The night wore on. Friends called me, warning me to keep my door locked and shut every window, since the police and army’s fear was that the gunman would break into a residential building, in the hope of taking hostages. Soldiers from an elite unit soon arrived, informing us all from the street below that, under no circumstances, could we leave our homes. All traffic in and out of Tel Aviv had been stopped and my block had been cordoned off.
Media reports quickly confirmed that two people had been killed instantly, with more rushed to Ichilov hospital in critical condition. I poured myself a scotch and sat, disbelieving, in my favourite armchair, still not quite able to comprehend how close I was, physically, to the scene. It could have been me sitting there, I thought to myself, waves of horror washing over me. It could have been me.
After listening to the news, non-stop, at about 1am, exhausted but overwhelmed, I fell into bed, where I proceeded to wake each hour, throughout the night, staring at my bedroom window, wondering how easy it might be for a gunman to scale my walls, smash my glass window and end my life.
By the next morning, more details had been released. The assailant had been killed in a shootout with police, in nearby Jaffa. CCTV footage, however, had been released, showing him running north, right past my front gate. Soon after, he had turned off Dizengoff and disappeared down a side street. Apparently, he hadn’t had a clear plan of escape but the police and army response had been so enormous that he’d fled to the backstreets, in a desperate attempt to evade capture.
At midday, I took a walk, in the direction of Ilka. I timed myself - exactly 500 metres and six minute’s away. The entrance was awash with memorial candles, flowers, football scarves of Hapoel Tel Aviv (one of the victim’s team) and Israeli flags. The silence was palpable.
I lit two candles, not knowing at that moment that a few hours later there would be a third victim, someone currently fighting for his life in the ICU. Like many, I wiped a tear from my eye.
Yesterday, these three men were buried by their families. Young, bright, talented, they had their lives ahead of them. Two were childhood friends (one planning his wedding). The third had represented Israel in the Olympics and was a champion kayaker. I later found out that he had coached my friend’s daughter for four years. Back at home, I heard the gunman’s father on the news, praising his son, quite proud of his actions. It was physically painful to listen to.
No parent should have to bury their child. No person should have to think twice about going for a beer at the neighbourhood bar. After the misery of the pandemic, and the recent horror of the war in the Ukraine, I wasn’t sure I could feel any more dejected, But I do. I know, statistically, that I’m more likely to be hit by lightening or killed in a car crash than murdered in a terror attack, but that fact brings me no comfort now. This happened on my doorstep - in my own neighbourhood, where I shop, stroll and drink coffee in sidewalk cafes. And it has broken my heart.
Photo courtesy of the Times of Israel newspaper
Tomer Morad. Eytam Magini. Barak Lufan. May their memories be a blessing.