The broadcast screeches to a sickening but familiar halt. Faint cries,
the Doppler wail of sirens, air surgically hacked by chopper rotor
blades, the voices of authorities grating with shock and panic. The
disembodied speech of spluttering witnesses. On site reporters at a
loss for words record mere moans and keens. An orgy of smoking flesh.
The breaking news has cast us all in moulds of frozen dread and grief.
Here burly finger poking nose, there basket petrified in midair haul,
my neighbour absentmindedly rotates his hefty ring.
The announcer warns of imminent terrorist attacks on public transport.
It recommends to err on the side of caution and to exhaustively inspect
fellow commuters. Trust no one - exhorts a representative of the law -
be on alert, examine suspect objects, call on your driver if in doubt.
Pay heed to dubious characters and odd behaviours.
Our bus is trapped in a honking row of cars, under a seething sun. The
baking asphalt mirrors. I am anxious not to be delayed. The wardens
warned us: "Never be late. Make no excuses. Even if God himself comes
down - be back on time." Latecomers lose all privileges and are removed
to maximum security in Beersheba.
I debate the fine points with myself: is mass slaughter ample reason
for being tardy or merely an excuse? No force is more majeure that
prison guards.
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