The shadow of the Hebrew U. bombing, 24 years later

I like to tell people that I grew up Jew-ISH in Los Angeles. After all there were enough of us at public school to make them close for the high holidays. And yet, I was unaware that I was different. I painted challah covers and Easter eggs. I can’t tell you why I did either, it just seemed fun. My connection to any religion was limited to TV and other people’s homes. And to my camp.

I went to Jewish camp. JCA Shalom. In Malibu, California. On a campership…which is a cute way of saying my mom was a single parent and didn’t have a job that bought us nose jobs. I say that, because one of my friends agreed to go to camp to get her new nose. Two summers in a row.

One day of camp could feel like a week. Those long days defined me. They were more significant than anything I learned in a classroom. They gave me more joy, pain, and memories than any weekend, vacation, or holiday. And friendships that taught me about real life, intimacy and vulnerability.

And that was when I was a camper.

When I became a counselor, I was now responsible for my campers to experience all of that, and with my high expectations, even more. Luckily for me, my former counselors were now part of the managing staff. Camp was in good hands.

Marla Bennett was my counselor growing up at camp, and now she was my boss. A boss at camp is a loose term. She was someone I came to with my frustrations when camp’s chaos got the best of me or when my crush hooked up with my co-counselor. Marla had a smile that competed with the rays of the sun. Ear to ear, eye to eye. She made every day shine.

She was studying in Israel that year, at Pardes and The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She had been inspired by her courses and asked if anyone would like to have a bar or bat mitzvah at camp. Because I grew up in the “ish” way, I had not had my bat mitzvah and decided to woman up. I sat with Marla as she spoke about Judaism, Jewish peoplehood, and Israel, in a way that I had never heard. Her words painted a picture beyond the challah covers and left the Easter eggs far behind.

The rays of sunlight that beamed from her smile, now matched a Jerusalem Gold twinkle in her eyes. Also I had never seen Jerusalem Gold. But I did in those moments. And they lit the way for me to do an aliyah that Shabbat. To dance together in a hora. And yes, she made me a better woman. A more committed Jew. And most importantly, plan my first trip to Israel.

But it was 2002 and the Second Intifada was in full rage mode. Daily bombings on buses and cafes. Children, teenagers, elderly, were murdered in cold bold by suicide bombers. As much as I wanted to visit, even with the free Birthright trip, I decided to wait it out and see her at camp that summer. Perhaps, I would go next year. Marla would still be there. And so would Israel.

That summer, Camp JCA Shalom, gave me the opportunity to staff their Tiyul trip, heading from Malibu all the way up north to Berkeley. An experience of a lifetime. And I would get to travel with my campers, giving them that same experience. Only, on the first night, I bought them pizza instead of cooking our own food. And I may have freaked them out with horror stories about the compost toilet in the woods.

So when I got a call the next day, while waiting in the van with my campers, in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere, while the more mature counselors bought the proper produce, it didn’t surprise me that the director of camp wanted to have a conversation with me. He sounded serious on the phone as he asked me to get out of the van.

I was ready to be fired. There was an inside joke at camp that when you were fired, your bags were waiting for you at the Shalom sign. It was that quick.

And while his message was fast, the meaning hit me slowly.

He informed me that Marla Bennett had been killed in a bombing at the Frank Sinatra cafeteria at the Hebrew University. She was having lunch, where hundreds of international students were finishing exams and rewarding themselves with a bite to eat. People of all backgrounds, countries and religions, eating together, learning together, living together, and now dying together.

The bomb was in a backpack on the table. A worker had placed it there. Marla sat with her friends, saying her goodbyes and getting ready to fly directly back to camp for the rest of the summer.

I would never have a hello again from Marla. I would never see her smile again. In fact the only reason I believed she died, was when the director told me they verified her teeth in the pile of human loss. Of course, I had denied what he said. Wished that I was being told to make my way home and grab my bags. Fire me. Don’t kill her. Take me. Please don’t take her.

I collapsed to the ground. Unaware of my screaming, until a woman pushing a shopping cart stopped me to ask what was wrong. I told her there was a bomb. She looked around and ran off. The kids watched the scene from the car. Like a movie. I wanted to close my eyes, live in the darkness forever.

But Marla’s smile was in the sunlight. I felt it. It was a ray so bright that it demanded me to get up and take care of the campers. She was still making me a better woman. A more committed Jew. And I promised her I would go to Israel.

I did.
I never left.
I never got over her murder.
I never forgot about her smile.
I never underestimate what the world lost that day and everyday after.

I have rewritten this story so many times over the years. While it stays the same on paper, it changes in its message to me. She would be old now. I mean culturally old. Almost 50. She would have been married. She was about to be engaged at the time of her death. She would have kids. They would maybe even be in college now.

They wouldn’t have the same fortune as us and the way we grew up. They would experience blind hate. Antisemitism. Their professors would take part in rageful protests on campus. Fraternities would be replaced with encampments. They would hide their Star of David necklace, under their shirt. Or maybe they would wear it proudly, and swallow the Free Palestine chants uttered in their presence while ordering coffee.

They would go to camp.
They would get to be as Jewish as they wanted.
They would tell her all about it.

I live for Marla.
I am a Zionist because of her.
On July 31, 2002, nine people were murdered and over 85 students, faculty, and staff were injured.
Marla Bennett, 24 (California, USA)
Benjamin Blutstein, 25 (Pennsylvania, USA)
Dina Carter, 37 (Jerusalem / USA)
Janis Ruth Coulter, 36 (New York, USA)
David Gritz, 24 (Massachusetts, USA / France)
David (Diego) Ladowski, 29 (Jerusalem)
Levina Shapira, 53 (Jerusalem)
Daphna Spruch, 61 (Jerusalem)
Revital Barashi, 30 (Jerusalem)

They were all lost that day. But I found Israel because of them.
And she is not going anywhere.