I don’t remember much, but I remember it all. I remember the confrontation, I remember being surrounded, I remember the loud boom, I remember the windows shattering, and I remember feeling something fall on my back.
I remember seeing my guardian angel, Gulu, at that moment while I was hiding under my jacket. I remember closing my eyes.
I remember, despite all of it, holding my phone out and remembering I was still filming.
Then I remember the radio. Stopping, opening the door, and looking at myself for the first time. I was covered in glass. I had two rocks at my feet. And a huge boulder that my friend Jessy had picked up from my back. She was sitting beside me. I burst into tears, and I remember paramedics, cameras being shoved in my face, the army, ambulances, the police.
Exactly five minutes before, we had entered a village as part of a delegation I had been invited to join at the last minute. We were told we would have an opportunity to learn. Although there were many people in the car with us, I was not affiliated with anyone’s political campaign or any nonprofit organization. I wasn’t meant to be there. I was a last-minute invite, yet I’m the one who got hit the gravest.
There are many questions about why I was there, what we were told, and what happened that day. Believe me, I have questions too. But those are not details I am prepared to discuss publicly right now.
Two seconds from death
The second we entered the village, I told the driver: “I have tumma, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” Not 30 seconds later, we were being surrounded by Palestinians. There was so much noise, there was so much chaos. We felt we were going to be lynched. The hatred in their eyes was deep and terrifying. I was starting to see the darkness. The only thing protecting me: my phone. The driver managed to drive off.
I kept filming. I was starting to feel something was terribly wrong. Then I heard him scream: “Duck your head! Duck your head!”
In the corner of my eye, I saw a Palestinian man pick up a rock.
I ducked. One or two seconds later, I heard the boom. The boulder had entered through my window. A boulder, bigger than my two hands, had fallen on my back. Had a not moved my head. I wouldn’t be here today. I was two seconds away. The adrenaline saved me. I felt nothing in the moment.
Suddenly, it was everywhere on social media. I knew that if I didn’t post something, the narrative would be taken from me. With shaking hands, I edited the videos. I squinted and closed my eyes every time I heard the boulder.
I posted. It went viral, but suddenly, the comments arrived, from my very own community. The assumptions, the questions. When no one knew what was going on. Truth is, I was invited on a delegation. I went with certain expectations and requirements and I am still trying to come to terms with everything that happened
At the end of the day, I’m just a regular person who was attacked by senseless violence. In writing this piece, I have no agenda, just a reflective and nuanced testimony of what reality can often be like in Israel.
The lesson? The hope? Truth is, I don’t really have one right now. I don’t have a pretty quote to end things with. I just have more questions and more confusion.
I now have an immense gratitude for life (thank you, God) and for having been given another chance. But in parallel, I also have a deep sense of despair for the future that didn’t exist before.
And perhaps, for now, that’s enough. To be grateful to be alive, even when I’m still trying to make sense of what happened. To hold on to that gratitude and to not have all the answers. To wake up and realize that sometimes life isn’t about the black and the whites. It’s about enjoying that cup of coffee with a friend, that fall breeze sweeping by in the moonlight, the sloppy kiss of a toddler, and realizing that our time on Earth is limited. Stop and live it.