MIFTAH
Wednesday, 3 July. 2024
 
Your Key to Palestine
The Palestinian Initiatives for The Promotoion of Global Dialogue and Democracy
 
 
 

A little before 6 P.M. Tuesday, the siren went off near the northern entrance to Ashdod. It was rush hour, and already dark. But hundreds of Israelis quickly abandoned their cars and lay down in the sand by the side of the road, covering their heads with their hands, as per instructions. Parents sheltered children with their bodies, and a vast silence reigned.

A fireball split the night, met a second fireball high above and merged into one; that was followed by two booms above our ostensibly protected heads. I lay there under a tree, arms over my head, sand in my mouth, fearing the shrapnel.

That's how the road north from Be'er Sheva was that night. Three times, we leapt from our cars and lay exposed on the ground: once in Ashkelon, once in Ashdod and once in Rishon Letzion. That's how it was at 6 P.M. before the end of the war - or so we hoped. That, it seems, is what everyone hoped last night.

That morning, we had climbed the highest hill on the outskirts of Sderot to see what was happening in its twin city, Gaza. In both cities, fear reigned.

Alongside us were three yeshiva students from Jerusalem who had been sitting here since early morning watching events. There are always yeshiva students here, hungry for action, which is evidently lacking in the tents of Torah.

Also present were a dozen or so television cameras and crews, broadcasting pictures from Gaza and Sderot in multiple languages. It's so far away, Gaza, and yet so near: Hold out a hand and touch it, send a plane and bomb it.

A bus full of tourists arrived and unloaded its passengers; they, too, had come to see Gaza. "If the Arabs had sense, with a Jewish brain and their money, Gaza would be a flourishing tourist city," said Sderot resident Moti Danino. "Do you know what beautiful beaches we left them?'

On to Be'er Sheva. It had already been through several barrages that morning; the blue skies were still littered with smoke trails. We visited a well-tended neighborhood of single-family houses. There are two cars in every garage; this is where the city's bourgeoisie lives.

But the peaceful scene was shattered in an instant. A rocket, apparently a Katyusha, landed on the Hachmon family's two-story house. The destruction was worse than anything I'd yet seen during the current round of fighting.

Outside was a lawn of artificial grass, an ornamental pool, flowers and a fountain. The door bore the standard nameplate: "Ronit and Aharon Hachmon live happily here." None of it hinted at the destruction that lay inside.

Walls had crumbled into cement blocks; the second floor, where the children slept, was destroyed. I climbed what remained of the stairwell to take a look; virtually not one brick remained atop another. But a black figurine of a baby elephant remained intact, as did a teddy bear bearing the slogan "I love you"; children's books and a woolen scarf rolled around in the dust.

A young girl dressed in black was being interviewed by the TV crews about the destruction of her bed, while her father was being informed by the Home Front Command that the second floor would be sealed for now, and then razed. The man seemed stunned by the wave of strangers descending on his home - until Tuesday, his castle. Upon hearing the siren, all six residents of the house ran to its bomb shelter; that saved their lives.

Outside, someone had already hastened to bring food, as if at a house of mourning, spreading it on a plastic table for the uninvited guests. The refreshments were from the Agamim events hall, "For life's beautiful moments."

Beautiful or not, there was no anger or aggression in this neighborhood, just helplessness and quiet sorrow.

Sderot was deserted. A red sun, just about to set, was visible over Gaza from the hill to which we had returned. A BBC reporter who was broadcasting from the hill informed his viewers that Israel had strewn fliers urging residents of the northern Gaza Strip to leave their houses immediately. Before darkness descended, there might be another bombardment here. Or, just perhaps, a cease-fire.

 
 
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