1.
So have you seen the picture of the bus that was cut in half from the accident? Have you heard the words of the uncle... who told how his nephew was saved? Have you read what was written about the driver who veered off the lane?
I don't know what you are.
I don't.
I haven't seen it, I haven't heard it, I haven't read it.
I thought that instead of seeing, hearing, and reading, it would be better to do other things.
For example, what?
For example, to cry quietly to myself and beg God to say enough is enough to our troubles.
For example, allowing my body to tremble like a leaf in the wind.
For example, understanding that I will never, yes, never, understand the ways of the Creator, and I don't need to understand them at all.
For example, hugging my child, my mother, my life.
Which I received as a gift.
2.
Lately, everything has become so noisy in the world.
Everything is written about, talked about, photographed, until things lose their meaning.
If you haven't seen, heard, or experienced it - it's as if you have nothing to do with it.
If it wasn't photographed, it doesn't exist.
If they haven't heard of him - he didn't happen.
I remember my childhood days, 40 years ago. Two of my good friends were massacred in a terrible attack, on the bloody bus, line 12, in Beit Vegan in Jerusalem.
There were almost no cameras at the scene of the attack (who had a camera then?). There was no coverage of the event that details every step of the incident.
There was a sooty bus and a crowd of silent people.
Everyone cried to themselves, without asking questions.
It happened on Friday afternoon. It wasn't until Saturday night, when the Sabbath began, that we heard the names of those murdered in the attack.
We didn't dig into the wounds. We didn't look for the films that would tell us all the details.
We didn't feel that if we didn't see, hear, or read, it didn't exist.
Unfortunately, it existed. It exists in reality. It exists in our hearts. It exists to this day without noise or ringing. And it will exist forever.
Only instead of running around and finding out every bit of information, instead of talking about the number of bloodstains seen on the benches, instead of witnessing the arrangements of the wounded spilled out, instead of witnessing the remains of the spilled Shabbat food - we stood, trembled, cried silently and pleaded with God.
3.
Let them cry quietly.
Don't bother us with the stories, the pictures, the footage from all possible angles, and the analyses. Don't analyze the incident for us. Even we, who didn't read it, know that it was terrible.
Even we, who weren't watching, know that if a bus is cut off, then whoever is in the middle will be cut off.
We also understand that the eye at the funeral did not stop tearing. When you tell us this, we feel like you are taking away the heart of the matter from us. The hidden emotion.
Understand, even when you don't specify, we know.
Even when you're not shocked, we're shocked.
Even when you are not tormented, we are tormented.
Because our heart understands everything that is not said.
He feels. And that's the main thing.
Please, let me cry quietly. Quietly. Quietly.
And that's enough.
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