By Kelly Hartog August 1, 2003
Over a year ago, I wrote two pieces for this publication, one entitled "The ripple effect," the other "Hats off to the journalists." Two major events have occurred since then, compelling me to write once more.
Firstly, "The ripple effect" dealt with the emotional fallout in the aftermath of the murder of my brother's boss - Yigal Goldstein - on September 9, 2001 in a suicide bombing. On July 1, 2003, my brother and sister-in-law celebrated the birth of their new son. He is named, unsurprisingly, Yigal.
And so, life goes on.
"Hats off to the journalists" was my tribute to every reporter who has been forced into the front lines of this bloody conflict. My praise was high, as I, an editor, safely shielded behind my desk, would not, indeed feared to, go out and tackle the terror scene head on.
Not until fate and G-d had other plans for me and placed me in the midst of the terror attack in Mombasa, Kenya on November 28, 2002.
What was supposed to be a relaxing foreign assignment -- a week-long junket to write about a Kenyan safari -- never happened. Within minutes of arriving at the Paradise Hotel, that idyllic world was blown apart forever.
The events of what happened there have been written about enough. As the only English-speaking journalist there, indeed possibly the only English-speaker, you can find my reportage of that horrific day on the websites of scores of radio, television, and newspaper sites around the globe.
But they are the stories of a journalist. A reporter going into automatic pilot and just doing her job in the worst conditions imaginable. They are not the stories of a woman who lived through the death of her guide, two angelic Israeli children, 10 Kenyans, and witnessed scores of physically wounded people.
And no article will ever be written by this woman in either a professional or a personal capacity about what she truly witnessed there, if for no other reason than no one should ever have to know the horrors of such an event.
Indeed, it is has taken seven months to even contemplate writing on this matter in anything but a professional capacity.
After five months of intensive trauma counseling I was presented by my therapist with a chart that over months clearly delineated my (thank goodness) ever-decreasing depression levels, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder levels, and my cognitive capacities concerning the entire event.
And I was shocked. Shocked at how traumatized I was, particularly when I realized that I was lucky enough to escape the attack physically unscathed.
And once again I find myself reflecting on how traumatized our entire nation must be. It's hard enough to comprehend the sheer numbers involved when we think about the families of all the dead, the physically wounded, and the ongoing traumas they all face every day.
And then there are the silent statistics. The ones who were there but walked away physically intact. I know what they know because I'm one of them. And there are thousands of us walking the streets of Israel.
I know what it's like to be scared, truly scared. To jump every time you hear a car door slam. To wake up in the middle of the night sweat-soaked and crying uncontrollably. To fear that every time you walk out the front door it might be the last time you do so. To rail against G-d. To be wracked with guilt; with questions of having lived when others died; to feel you must justify why you still have the privilege - and yes, it is a privilege - to walk the streets every day.
And I know what evil looks like. And believe me, evil does have a face. I've seen it up close and personal.
But I also know, just as those charts showed me, those fears do subside. They never disappear, but most of the time they become controllable. You learn to live with the terrible, heartbreaking memory of it all. You learn to live with the horror, rather than relive it every single moment of every single day.
There are still so many, many lessons to learn from being in a terror attack. And I'm learning new ones every day.
Here's what I've learned so far.
I've learned that I'm stronger than I think. That, despite what I wrote in "Hats off to the journalists," I was wrong about myself.
Prior to Kenya, if anyone had told me, that I, who passes out at the sight of my own blood, would take the shirt off my back to bandage a gaping hole in the arm of a wounded teenager, because there were no paramedics on the scene for three or four hours, or that I would wipe ash, blood, and flesh off shaken children, or do a live radio interview moments after being informed my guide had been killed, I would have said, "Sorry, you've got the wrong person."
So yes, I'm tougher than I realized, perhaps even more so than I want to be. I've also learned that no matter how much compassion and caring we all feel when those we know, and even those we don't know, are killed or maimed in a terror attack, that level of compassion and caring in me has increased at least ten-fold.
In "The ripple effect" I thought my emotions had been bled dry in the wake of Yigal's death and what that did to our family. Again, I was wrong.
For every terror attack that has occurred since Kenya, I realize that it hurts so much more because I know, profoundly, what everyone associated with that attack is going through.
I also know I have a level of empathy that others don't have. I don't relish how I got there. But I do embrace it.
In the same vein, I have also learned this: when pure, unadulterated evil reaches out its insidious fingers and threatens to choke you, pure, unadulterated good stands tall alongside it.
The selfess acts of scores of people in Kenya whose names I never learned, and may never see again, have overwhelmed me. I witnessed complete strangers support each other in ways I would never have thought imaginable. I know that as a result of one 24-hour-period, my life will be inexorably linked to those people whose names I don't know, and whom I could feasibly bump into in the street and not even recognize.
I don't even know the names of the couple who so kindly donated me a clean t-shirt after my suitcase was blown up. What I do know though, is that I am only one of those silent statistics. But we are everywhere.
One of us may be sitting next to you right now.
We are a traumatized nation. That is inescapable. But we are also extraordinarily resilient. Had I been given the choice, I would never have chosen to be in a terror attack. But given that that choice was not mine to make, I can say that while I have been permanently scarred by the whole experience, I have also been blessed.
Blessed with being granted the opportunity to live another day when so many, many, others haven't. Blessed with the knowledge that I can face so much more than I thought was possible. And blessed with a level of empathy and compassion that can only help make our lives stronger.
Because these are the traits that are required to fight terrorism, and evil, wherever it may rear its ugly head:
To stand upright, alongside our greatest fears and greatest enemies, and to risk the chance of being bloodied, and
broken.
But never bowed.