Shalom all,

"The Devil himself has not yet invented

the revenge for a young child's blood".

Too often we quote Bialik's words. Written in response to horrific pogroms in Russia 100 years ago, they usually come back to us whenever another terror attack is inflicted upon us, devastating the lives of yet more innocent people.

But it is not limited to Israel alone. Watching the unbelievable, terrifying pictures coming from Russia, we know that the devil doesn't distinguish between children. His evil is not limited nor directed. It doesn't make any judgment. It is spread out, hurting and killing anything in its way. The evil of terrorism is as ancient as civilization, but our times have added the novelty of ability to it: in a world that has become as small as a simple plane ride, as well-known as a "breaking news" report from the other side of the planet at real time, it has divided the entire world into two groups: those who endorse terror and those who appose it. Simplistic? Of course. But this week, try explaining it differently to over 350 families in Baslan. We grieve with each and every one of them, knowing their pain and horror only too well, for they have just lived one of our worst nightmares: sending your children to school, not knowing that you are sending them directly into hell.

Simplistically, it has thrown each and every one of us into a game we haven't chosen to play. I was surprised by how much so the other day, during a simple taxi ride in New-York. Like many others, I enjoy talking to taxi drivers. I find their stories interesting, down-to-earth, usually the stuff that everyday life is made of. This ride was no different: I started "interviewing" the driver almost instantly.

Tall, fair-haired and with a sweet baby face, he had a strange accent. "Where are you from?" I asked, expecting to hear something like Italy, Ireland or South America.

"Lebanon." he answered, and I felt myself stiffening instinctively, against my will. Unable to control my thoughts, I was horrified to hear myself thinking: I have a (almost) perfect American accent, definitely to his ears. He can't recognize who I am unless I tell him myself. I must be careful not to give too much information, in this world – who knows who he really is. Even the 9/11 terrorists looked innocent.

"When did you come here?" my curiosity came over me.

"I came here 3 years ago. My family is still back there and I visit them sometimes, but this is my country now."

He went on to tell me about himself. He told me how Lebanon was beautiful, and I thought: I know, I saw the pictures David brought back from the war. He said he came from a small village in the south, and I thought: maybe we ate cherries from the same trees. I asked him how things are in his village, and he said – "The socio-economic level is low and I hate politics so I don't get involved in them", and I thought: this is probably the same answer he would get from my fellow Israelis, who live on the other side of the Boarder from him, had he asked them the same question.

And yet I was still sitting stiff and careful, not giving away where I came from.

"I am going to college next year" he suddenly said, proudly. "I want to study business and open something of my own. When I first came here, I worked for a Dunkin Doughnuts – I want to do something like that" and he continued to tell me how he likes working with dough, and that he is a baker in heart.

But I still couldn't bring myself to tell him who I was. I justified myself by thinking that I have no idea why he left his country, I don't know how he and his family and friends survived the war, or what relationship he has with the situation back in our shared neighborhood. For all I know, he could be a friend – maybe an ex-TSADAL – one of the army that fought with us – or enemy, an ex-Hizballah, or a current one, for that matter. He has elegantly avoided relating to the situation back home. Most chances are he's just a baker who will soon go back to school. But I am in a small car with him while he is at the wheel driving through the alleys of New York, and I have three kids that are waiting for me to come back home.

And I thought, we're sick. We have a terrible disease. I knew it before, but it still hurts each time I re-visit it. I know he had no problem telling me, a perfect stranger, who he is, but I still felt sorry that I didn't feel secure enough to tell him who I am, and he didn't feel he could tell me what he thought of the situation in Lebanon. We have so much "baggage", so many strings tie us up the minute we relate to our identity.

When I left the car, I wished him best of luck. I hope that someday, soon, I will be eating "Lebanon Doughnuts", and thinking only how sweet they are. No strings attached.

Shabbat Shalom,

Liat