"They're extending their range of fire," my father said as I answered my mobile phone. Before I had a chance to ask him why, he stated, "They finally managed to hit Afula." Almost a week into last year's war, this was not reassuring news to hear. "Well, Abba," I responded, trying to sound comforting, "That's still far away from your home. At least they didn't point the weapon southwest. "
What more could I say to my clearly anguished father? That a strike on a nearby town was better than one on our own? Of course not. He knew what I meant. But with each missile fired at Israel's north, it was clear that they were slowly getting closer. "Well," my father said, clearing his throat. "Our pilots are doing the best that they can to knock these things out..."
I'd taken the day to work out of my house, and was standing in front of a local, Arab-owned convenience store as my father and I spoke about the situation. When we were done, I told Elie that I loved him, and walked inside to buy some smokes. "Your family in Israel?" asked the clerk, who clearly had overheard the conversation. "Yes," I said, feeling a little uncomfortable. "They live in the north."
"My parents are under fire too," he said. "In a Christian town, just across the border." "Have you had a chance to speak to them?" I asked. "Yes," he replied, sounding worried. "Apparently their power has been cut off, and they're running out of food. I am puzzled by this, because they are Christians, not Shia. Why are your people targeting us? It's stupid. We used to be your allies."
Though I have since quit smoking, I have gone by the convenience store several times, hoping to say hello again to the fellow and hear what ended up happening to his beleaguered family. He's never reappeared. Since then, I've chatted several times with his replacement. A Christian from Bethlehem, he told me that he'd escaped to the US during the siege of the city in May, 2002.
Spotting him sitting outside the store yesterday, I wondered if his Lebanese colleague's parents were lucky enough to have done the same. Oftentimes, I ask myself why I just don't ask him what happened to the guy, whether his parents survived. Seeing as several rockets did eventually fall near my parents' home, I think it's because something inside me prevents myself from asking, as though I already know why.
Comments