A successful terrorist attack is reason for rejoicing among Palestinian activists. However, an attack that succeeds in Jerusalem is the jewel in the crown of a terrorist cell.

On June 11, 2003, I became a companion in the suffering of God’s people in a single terrorist act.

Half an hour after work, I said goodbye to my colleague Gordon, a volunteer with Bridges for Peace from Australia. We had been waiting together at a bus stop on Jaffa Road talking about our work day. Gordon’s bus arrived first; he climbed aboard and headed south to the suburb where he lived. My mind returned to reviewing the events of the work day as I waited alone. 

Suddenly, an enormous echoing blast ricocheted through the canyon created by the tall buildings in the heart of downtown Jerusalem. Before I could identify the source of the blast, or consciously know that it was a bomb, autonomic reflexes jerked my body into a half crouched, self-protective stance.

    As usual in a crisis, time slowed and the next few seconds seemed to take place in slow motion. I looked up and realized a suicide bomber had detonated himself aboard a bus standing one bus-length away from where I was waiting. The blast had lifted the roof off the bus and it was just coming down again as I looked up. Then I heard what sounded like bullets whistling past my head coupled with large pieces of metal striking objects around me. I knew suicide bombers packed their bombs with screws, nuts, and bolts to maximize physical damage. Those projectiles are often soaked in arsenic which keeps victim’s blood from clotting. The thought flashed through my mind, “You may die today!”

Loud crashes and sounds of metal pieces bouncing off objects continued around me. Still frozen in place and unable to move, I opened my eyes and could see something pale and translucent between me and the bus. It seemed to be deflecting flying metal objects on both sides of my body. Something was shielding me.

In a suicide bombing, or “homicide bombing” as it has been more aptly termed, zones of intensity radiate from the detonation point. The death zone is closest, the injury zone is second, shock and possible injury is third, followed by zones ranging from eye witness, to hearing the blast from far away. I stood in zone three. I could feel my body going into shock. Confusion coupled with rage were my response.

“No one should ever have to experience this!” my mind screamed over and over again. It was like a skipping record out of control.

I learned later that the Palestinian terrorist had boarded the bus only a few stops from where I stood. He had disguised himself as an ultra-Orthodox Jew. Evidently, no one suspected him. Eighteen people died the moment he detonated his device.

Still standing at the site and frozen in place, confusion took over. I could not think of what to do, or how to get home. Should I sit  down? . . .  should I walk? . . .  should I stop? . . . should I wait? . . . should I go? . . . It all crashed together in my brain. I could not make the simplest decision.

People were running from all directions to aid the injured.

Would there be a second bomb? Suicide bombers often work in tandem, waiting until a crowd gathers to detonate a second explosive. I began walking aimlessly through the running people, hoping to see someone I knew who could tell me what to do. My body felt as if someone had dumped chemicals into my blood. Anger,  helplessness, rage, and confusion all took turns cycling rapidly through my system, repeatedly.

Finally, after almost half an hour, I reached my wife by cell phone, but was incoherent and could not relay where in the city I was. After several return calls, Carol was able to help me understand that I was to walk to the train station where two of my children’s friends would pick me up by car. When I finally arrived home, someone noticed I had a substantial-sized body part pasted to the back of my shirt. How it got there, I still do not know. I never felt it, yet it struck me hard enough to remain glued to my shirt all the way home. Once again, I realized God’s protection. I could just as well have been struck with shrapnel from the bomber, or pieces of metal from the bus.

At the sight of the body parts and blood on my shirt, however, my shock broke into hysteria. It wasn’t about seeing blood. It was a deep grief that settled over me as I tried to reconcile how anyone could perpetrate such an act against other human beings. I could not stop the wracking sobs. My family called a doctor and I was given medication to sedate me. That day, the process of dealing with “Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome” began, something the Israeli medical system is very experienced in treating.