Assaf Gavron - Almost Dead

In the afternoon Mahmuzi’s name was released, and the fact that he came from our camp. The army was already roaming the streets, and though it wasn’t yet an official curfew, people stayed in their houses. I joined Bilahl for the night prayer— Salat al-Asah —and on the way back from the mosque we walked by Mahmuzi’s house. It hadn’t yet been destroyed. Soldiers had been posted outside, and a small crowd had gathered. Hamad, a cousin of ours who worked for a locksmith’s in the camp, waved us over. ‘I don’t understand what they’re thinking,’ he said. ‘They’re going to beat the army? What’s the point of it? It’s asking for trouble. And now we’re all going to suffer.’ Neither of us said anything. ‘My father’s furious,’ said Hamad. ‘He said whoever set it up’s a fucking son of a bitch. That it’s impossible to live here because of them. He’s fed up with all these wars.’

‘In my eyes,’ Bilahl said, quietly, ‘he’s a hero. He’s given us pride.’

‘Some pride…’ Hamad sneaked a look at the soldiers. ‘I can’t remember when we had any pride. Tell me, Bilahl, how proud does it make you to have them barging into our houses and turfing us out in the middle of the night?’

The curfew was announced, so grocery stores would be open late, until it started. We bought stuff and made our way home quickly under a cloudy sky lit by flares. I made both of us tea from a single teabag while Danny Ronen told us the mission couldn’t have been in revenge for Halil’s death because there was no chance we could have got organised so fast. Bilahl snorted.

‘This Danny Ronen, you look into his eyes, and you see how dumb he is.’ The real bomber would’ve been in Jerusalem for weeks, Ronen declared. ‘You dumb shit,’ Bilahl jeered. ‘Now we need to plan the real thing.’

With the two glasses in my hand, two fingers in each handle, I stopped where I stood. I raised my eyes and smiled. ‘Are you joking?’

‘The mother of all operations. Something no one’s ever seen before in this country.’

Outside, the soldiers were announcing the curfew over loudspeakers. I pulled the mattress down and threw a sheet and a blanket on it. They’d carry on shouting at us for several minutes, but there was no need to. Suddenly I was too tired to do anything other than crash on to the mattress. Bilahl continued watching the TV in silence, lowering the volume to a minimum. Before I fell asleep I thought of our father, after Mother’s death, crying without stopping and laying a hand on my shoulder, for my support, or possibly for his own.

I woke to moans of pain — whose, I didn’t know because I was surrounded by a curtain. I hadn’t slept much. Every time the bump on my forehead touched the pillow a wave of pain shot through me and I pictured the army boot kicking my head over and over. At some point I gave up and decided to visit Shuli in the emergency room. I had a vague idea that, Bruce Willis-like, I’d probably have to creep past some sleepy guard in order to reach her bed. But the emergency room is on high alert twenty-four hours a day: critical patients coming in, nurses and doctors and beds on wheels, the screams of the injured, the tears of the relatives. Even at 3.24 in the morning, when my ward was as silent as the grave. The nurse at the entrance looked at her clipboard and told me I couldn’t come in. I looked at the board too. I asked how Shuli was doing and she told me ‘stable’. I said, ‘Good,’ though I hadn’t a clue what it meant.

‘Maybe let me in anyway?’

‘No,’ she said, and answered the phone. I crawled back to my bed and I guess I must have fallen asleep for a while, before the moans of pain woke me up.

Breakfast arrived on a tray. The next course was a psychological counsellor.

He started gently with a ‘How are you?’ before moving to a full-on attack. What did I see? What did I hear? What did I do? What did I think? What did I feel? I was to tell him everything and he would write it down. We were going to reconstruct everything that happened to me on the day of the event. It was very important. Even the events before the trauma itself. They were important too.

I answered drowsily and then told him it was my right to know what had happened to Shuli. He agreed with me, then carried on.

‘OK, Eitan. Your system has been thrown out of balance and is still extremely sensitive. Right now, however, there is a window of opportunity. Immediate therapy is critical for your recovery. Do you understand?’

‘Recovery my ass. What are you talking about?’

‘Your condition is highly labile and without therapy it is likely to deteriorate. I suggest a group of nine to twelve people, all like you, in your condition, victims of shock or people injured as a result of terrorist attacks. Some of them might even be victims of the same attack as you.’ He wrote something in his notebook.

‘You think I’m a shock victim?’ I thought he looked more in shock than I did. I couldn’t stop staring at the large beauty spot by his eye and had noticed that he couldn’t hold my gaze.

‘It’s too early to say, Eitan, but it’s best to take all the measures we can in order to diagnose and treat it, if this is indeed the condition.’

‘So what happens in these meetings?’

‘Everyone tells their stories. Group therapy is known to be very helpful in these situations. I recommend that you at least try a few meetings. The mentor’s called Ilan. Look. Nobody’s going to force you if you don’t find it useful.’ He bent closer, trying to establish an intimacy between us. Was there a touch of French in his accent? ‘Being in such an incident causes damage, that’s certain. But the damage is reversible. Without therapy, it will be much harder to turn the trauma around.’ I frowned. ‘Without therapy, I guarantee you will feel much worse in the long run. I guarantee it.’

We were interrupted by my phone and I apologised and answered. It was Yaara from IDF Radio, good morning and how was I doing? They were patching me through? Right after the next song I was on air? I explained to the counsellor that he’d have to wait a few minutes, and suddenly the deepest voice in the history of voices was tickling my ear, an all-business voice rumbling me fully awake.

‘A devastating attack in Jerusalem. Eighteen killed and fifty-three injured. It seems not a day passes this week without news of another tragedy. Joining us from the Hadassah Ein-Kerem Hospital in Jerusalem is Eitan Enoch. Hello, Eitan.’

What should I say? Hello? Hey there? Hi, Rafi?

‘Good morning, hello, hi,’ I said, and regretted it immediately.

‘Morning, yes, let’s just explain to the listeners, Eitan. You were sitting in Café Europa on Emek Refaim Street during the attack yesterday.’

‘Yes.’

Did he want me to say something else?

‘Tell us about it.’

‘Uh…we arrived there a little before noon.’

‘“We” arrived?’

‘Yes. I was with a friend.’

‘OK…’

‘We got our coffees and sat down. I had an egg-and-tomato sandwich.’ I felt like an idiot. ‘It was a very bright morning. She said I’d chosen the table where she always used to sit with her boyfriend. Giora. Uh, he was killed in the Tel Aviv attack at the start of the week.’ The counsellor’s eyes widened.

‘What?’

‘Yeah,’ I said.

‘Do you remember anything from the…explosion?’

‘No. A foot hit my head. It was dark. I don’t know how I got outside. There was a woman with a South American accent. A guy who looked a bit like Shlomo Scharf shouted at her. Maybe it was Shlomo Scharf.’ What was I talking about?

‘And your…friend?’

‘What about her?’