Accidental Heroes
Etel Leit
4:30 a.m. The landline in my little apartment in West Hollywood rings.
My youngest sister, Libby, is on the other end from Israel. It is early in the morning and my jet lag is still lingering. I’ve just made it back from my sister Lee’s wedding in Israel.
“We cannoooooot find Sam!” Libby yells hysterically from the other line.
“Sam?!”
She explains that a few moments ago there was a big explosion, a terror attack in Jerusalem, in Sbarro, a pizza place.
“We cannot find him!” She is desperate.
She cries. She is almost screaming.
After every terror attack (and there are many this season), all of us siblings and my mom call each other, to make sure we are safe.
But, today, Sam’s phone is off.
“Call me with any news!” I commanded her, sounding strong.
“Don’t worry, everything is okay, he will call soon, the lines are probably busy.” She tried to comfort us both.
I hang up the phone and the walls close in on my body.
“Sam!” I am shaking.
Without thinking about it, I grab the first book I see. It is a prayer book, and this is the first time in my life I’ve opened it. I quickly, frantically, browse the words.
“Sam!” I repeat his name, falling on the carpet, my head down to the floor. “God, please, please not my brother!” I scream and beg.
I crawl to the living room, find the remote control, and turn on CNN. A horror movie is flickering from my Holy City.
The main intersection of my hometown, which we used to call the center of the world when we were kids, is now the center of a terror scene.
The street is covered with blood and body parts. Ambulances with loud sirens wail. Policemen, paramedics, and civilians run from one body to another. Debris and dust were everywhere. The entire restaurant is destroyed and its ceiling had collapsed.
In the short footage that plays on a loop, I hear emergency workers and passersby yelling for help in carrying wounded women and children. There are even bodies of babies. Dead bodies are covered with white sheets.
I cry. I cry first out loud, then quietly like a wounded animal. I plead with God.
“Please, please not my brother. Please not Sam!”
“He is on his way,” the trauma psychologist at the emergency room explains to my mom in a calm voice, “he’s in the ambulance.”
My mom’s desperation conquers her body, and she starts yelling at the psychologist.
“You are lying to me, tell me the truth! It doesn’t make sense that I got here in a taxi and he is still on his way in an ambulance.”
She almost shakes the man, screaming, “Tell me the truth! Is he alive?”
As she is held up by two nurses, the emergency doors swing open – and in comes a stretcher.
It is Sam. He is unconscious, his uniform is torn, and he is connected to an IV drip with a white bandage over his head. He is covered with blood.
My mother races to his side.
Sam will spend three days in intensive care before he is out of danger.
His life was saved by a wooden pole that stood between him and the suicide bomber.
Fifteen people who were right next to him died, seven of whom were children.
Nearly an entire family was among the dead: a father, mother, and three of their kids, with two orphaned siblings, left alive.
One hundred and forty people were wounded.
The force of the explosion – which hit Sam as he stood outside the pizzeria – threw my brother twenty feet into the air. He landed on his back in the middle of the intersection, breaking all of his ribs.
There were dozens of pieces of shrapnel embedded in his back
(still are). The terrorist hid the shrapnel in an unassuming guitar case, along with the explosives.
The suicide bomber, Muhammad Al-Masri, became a hero and a martyr in the eyes of Hamas. The woman who assisted him, Alham Tamimi, never showed remorse during her trial and was sentenced to life in prison.
She was released in a prisoners’ exchange on October 18, 2011.
A week after my brother returned home, my mom added to his name the word Chai. Chai is the Hebrew word meaning life. My brother became Sam Chai: Sam, alive.
>>>>𝘌𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘜𝘯𝘈𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘠𝘰𝘶, 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 9: 𝘈𝘤𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘦𝘴.<<<<
Dedicated with love to my brother Shmulik Chai.