The Human Spirit: The Tourists Are Back
Jan 6, 2005
"Don't see me as a downer," Steve Averbach tells the group of jet-lagged American singles who have just arrived at the elegant hotel in Tel Aviv. Steve is the group's opening-night speaker and, because his instincts are so good, he senses the awkwardness of addressing young, ebullient tourists from a wheelchair.
Tourism is returning. You didn't need statistics last week to know; you could feel it if you tried to get a table at a trendy cafe or find two seats together in one of the popular Jerusalem synagogues. Brightened windows, like Rip Van Winkle eyes, opened in hotels that entrepreneurs once dreamed would overflow with millennium pilgrims. Happy laughter sounded on Jerusalem's Rehov Ben-Yehuda and Emek Refaim. Said a young American woman who hadn't been here for five years: "I'd almost forgotten how wonderful Israel is."
So we, like Steve, find ourselves in a dilemma. Do we remind tourists of the exploding disco, the burning buses, the blasts in shopping malls and ice-cream parlors? Do we point out where Sbarro used to be, and that Cafe Hillel, where we're eating hot Roquefort salad, was the site of horrific murder?
Or do we put the terror behind us, and boast instead that our cafes offer free wireless Internet, that aromatherapy costs half as much here, that our movies aren't dubbed like those in Europe, that our designers make clothes for real women (unlike those in Europe), and that shops feature the newest collections of Ayala Bar and Michal Negrin jewelry?
After all, these winter-break tourists aren't idealists on solidarity missions. They're here to scuba dive in Eilat, to learn about Herodian stones in archeological sites, and to bounce over the Burma Road in jeeps.
Often, in the four years of terror, I found myself speaking abroad, describing the damage done by lethal concussive waves emitted from a nail-packed explosive device in a closed area, and then urging my audience to please visit us soon.
Except for the loyal hard core of lovers of Zion who come no matter what (and especially when we are suffering), this wasn't a wise marketing strategy.
ON THE other hand, we can't exactly skip the events of the past four years. Hence Steve, 37, tells his story briefly - how he moved to Israel from New Jersey at 16, sowed wild oats and then turned his restless energy into an asset in the IDF. He became a firearms expert in the police force, and opened a private academy for weapons training, teaching security guards and edgy citizens.
In a November 2000 article in Salon.com, a reporter quotes Steve as saying: "We're all moving targets."
On Sunday, May 18, 2003, after a Shabbat of glorious picnicking and Frisbee with his wife and kids, Steve got up at 4:30 a.m. and waited for the first morning No. 6 bus from northern Jerusalem. He was worrying about paying the utility bills in his bag.
When the bus came, five other early riders got on first. Steve waited until last. The bus pulled away, but the driver paused to pick up a man in black pants, white shirt and black kippa running out of the bushes. A religious Jew, the driver thought. As he boarded, Steve noticed the man's unshaven cheeks and the bulges in his jacket. He drew and cocked his gun, but the terrorist's fingers had already gripped the trigger.
Seven persons were murdered. Steve survived the blast, but a ball bearing lodged between the vertebrae that control upper and lower body mobility. At the beginning, he wanted to die. But not anymore. He has a gorgeous wife, Julie, and four sons. There's the daily painful struggle to regain movement in his limbs. "I'm called a quadriplegic," he says. "But I don't accept it."
Steve learned later that he'd caused the terrorist to explode prematurely. The terrorist had planned to wait until the bus was far more crowded.
"I'd do it again, even if I knew what would happen to me," he says. "I'm living a different life, but I'm not sorry."
After dinner, Steve insists that the young people get a taste of Tel Aviv at Mike's Place for live music on the beachfront. Trying to describe what he loves about his preferred watering hole, he searches for the right English word for the Hebrew avira - atmosphere. Julie suggests "ambiance."
A grin cracks, wide and sharp. "'Ambiance?' I don't think so. Hey, it's only a bar."
It's not really "only a bar," as we Israelis in the room know. His instincts good as ever, Steve neglects to mention that about two weeks before his own injury, Mike's Place had been struck by a 22-year-old tourist-terrorist from England who murdered two musicians and a waitress.
Instead, he strikes the right balance for us to emulate.
"There are baskets on the bar to help out those of us who have been injured like me. Go on, drop a few dollars in. Then buy a beer and have a good time!"
