What it’s like being in a country with constant terrorist attacks

I am sitting on a stone bench with my friend Shoshana in a square in Jerusalem, Israel, listening to a woman play the violin. She sits on a bench, the violin case open in front of her with Israeli coins littering the bottom, her facial expressions casually mimicking the course of the music. Around us are the listeners: a mother with her young daughter, who cannot be older than five years old, sits a few feet away; three teen boys lounge around on another bench; and people stop for a minute or two to appreciate the music before they resume their shopping.

Then, an explosion. A flash of flame. Like a roaring pop.

The mother in front of me immediately spasms off the bench and crouches on the ground, her arms around her daughter, her eyes wide as she scans her surroundings for danger. There are no more ensuing pops, however. She continues to squat on the stones, her eyes flicking back and forth around the buildings for the source of the noise.

I turn to my friend Shoshana, my heart beating fast. “What was that?” I ask, my voice high with alarm.

She squints in the direction of the noise and shrugs. “Just a firework. You okay?”

I look back at the woman, who is still on the ground with her arms entwined protectively around her child. I think back to a series of pops in late 2015 some number of miles away from here, which caused my cousin’s brain to stop working. How Israelis are ready in a second to switch from enjoying their music to fighting for their lives. To throwing themselves in front of their children. To getting shot for no other reason than some people just really hate Jews.

“Yeah,” I say softly, watching the mother climb unsteadily to her feet. “I’m fine.”