One Day News

Mrs. Shahar calls this a classroom but we all know it well enough to be a bomb shelter. Thirty small naïve eyes stare at a beautiful journalist on the old television, long brown hair and expensive suit. She reports that a terrorist blew himself up in Beit Lid junction, just a five minute drive from our school. It happened at the big bus station, gray and dirty for so many years, so close it’s amazing we didn’t hear the blast. Although it’s frightening I’m not afraid at all, just glad that there won’t be any more classes today.

The camera focuses on her make-up, curly black eye lashes and powdered cheeks. "Four people died," but all I can hear is – "no math homework checkup." She says – "authorities are still withholding names," and I hear – "no math homework tomorrow either." Then she starts telling the whole thing over again, all the little bits of information – the route of infiltration, the name of the bomber, a description of the area, but all that I hear is a creak of the shelter’s door. Altogether we yank our eyes off the screen, it’s the manager of the school and she’s calling my name.

Stepping outside to the sunlight my heart pumps fast - what have I done that made the manager come for me? It’s not about the fighting the other day, because I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not about the homework either, because I never got caught. She walks me past the green grass blanket, spreading to our sides, then into the short main building, the steps-echoing hall, the small frightening office. On a chair, a simple plastic chair, my mother sits. Her hands cover her face, she cries, stands, lowers herself to my height, holds me, caresses me and whispers – “dad passed away”, and I was thinking – well, at least it has nothing to do with the terrorist attack.