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■1••■•■

gouges in the masonry. But that
was all.
The Jerusalem lion was in his
place guarding the city from the
rooftop. From far below, we could
not see the places on his stone
body where bits of human flesh
and bone that had been thrown
to the heavens had been gath-
ered a week before to be interred
with the devastated remains of
the victims of the second bus ex-
plosion. There, before us, only
the flowers at the site of the ter-
rorist attack, only the small can-
dles and the personal messages
left by the spiritually devastat-
ed pierced the night with their
bitter silent cry.
I looked toward Zion Square,
a few blocks away. Suddenly, my
mind raced back almost 20
years. I was thinking of Ribby
who had been a camper and
counselor at Camp Ramah. She
had played the shepherd's flute,
sung in choirs, enthusiastically
led the Israeli dancing. I had vis-
ited her in Jerusalem after she
made aliyah.
Ribby was killed there down
the street on a Friday morning,
she and her husband Michael
Ben Yitzchak. They had come
out of a toy store; Erev Shabbat
was their time to buy little gifts
for their two children. In an in-
stant, the children were orphans;
a bomb had been placed in a re-
frigerator abandoned at the
curb.
I remember the funeral: two
shrouds lowered carefully into
the graves, formless because the
force of the explosion had ripped
their bodies apart.
So many others. And now
again. The numbers multiply so
grotesquely, the precious lives
so heartlessly torn asunder.
Near the entrance to Jerusalem,
another improvised memorial for
the first bus explosion and in Tel
Aviv, more flowers, more candles
— a shrine to small children in
Purim costume killed while
crossing the street, to innocent
teen-age lives so savagely lost.
The impressions sear the
brain — thoughts to be remem-
bered at the seder — "Pour out
Your wrath."
Two days of filled moments in
Israel build other memories: the
visit to Hadassah Hospital; Ayal
Adjani is sitting up in bed; a
young woman is attending him,
plopping the pillows, feeding him
orange juice. He is 25 years old,
a storekeeper ... and he has been
forever blinded in the bus attack.
The young woman looks at us.
"We must go on," she says. "We
can't allow Hamas to destroy the
peace process."
Yona Gavriel drove Bus 18.
His spleen has been removed —
he lost a dear friend in the oth-
er bus destruction. He tells us
from his hospital bed that his
son's bar mitzvah is in two
weeks. "Dr. Rifkin is an angel.
The nurses are so caring. Go

back and tell our friends in the
United States I'll be driving No.
18 again, and thank you for com-
ing."
"All who are hungry" — hun-
gry for Jewish identity — come
and partake. Travel through Is-
rael. Spend Shabbat in Yerusha-
layim. Let your children
understand the glory of being
Jewish in 1996.
We visit Rene Cassin High
School. Six teen-agers speak
with us. Their English is flaw-
less. They are children and
grandchildren of Americans who

Is it
safe?
Where is it
safe?

have settled in Jerusalem. "Hey,
tell the kids that life goes on. We
lost friends. We postponed our
Purim party, but we're happy
here; it's the greatest."
"Next year in Jerusalem."
Next year? But, Rabbi, is it safe?
Is it OK?
No one calls to ask me if it's
OK to take the Metro in Paris.
No one calls to ask me if it's OK
to shop on Bond Street in Lon-
don. No one calls to ask me if it's
OK to ride the subway in Tokyo.
No one calls to ask me if it's OK
to get on an airplane or.walk by
a school in Scotland or Okla-
homa. No one calls to ask me if
it's OK to travel downtown in
New York or Los Angeles or De-
troit.
Is it safe? No. Where is it safe?
With reasonable prudence and
care, I must take risks in life to
give it meaning. I want to stand
with my Israeli brothers and sis-
ters to find meaning in my own
life through the inspiration and

commitment of theirs.
Terrible, terrible tragedy has

taken place we realize as we sit
down to seder. We dip into the
wine cup; we chant the plagues.
It's easy to bring a plague into
the world. It didn't require
Moses' staff, even the finger of
God. Pharaoh's magicians knew
how to cause a disaster.
But the assurance is given us
at the seder, on that Lel
Shimurim , that night of God's
special care and watching. We
need that assurance now as we
confront the unspeakable. We do
not know how to ask or pray in
the face of these horrors. God,
You show us the way.
Despite the onslaughts
against us in every generation
— the drowning of the children,
the burnings at the scaffold, the
crematoria, the buses pulled
apart — the Holy One, Blessed
be He, takes us out of their
hands and saves us.

❑

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