Current and recurrent history

The Kitchen Sink
    By Karen Abravanel

Saddam Hussein has traded in the military fatigues and Tariq Aziz has lost his original haircolor—otherwise I have a sick sense of déjà vu. Last week, citing the "increase in tension" between Iraq and the United Nations, the State Department issued travel warnings for Kuwait and Israel. "Private American citizens may want to consider departing the country," the advisories said.

Eight years ago, these advisories applied to me. When Iraq invaded Kuwait on Aug. 2, 1990, my family had just entered the final month of our three-month stay in Jerusalem. We anxiously spliced together English language reports from the Jerusalem Post, the BBC, and the Voice of America radio broadcasts. Hussein had proclaimed Israel his next target. We considered departing the country.

Since Israelis have yet to see a decade without war, Hussein's proclamation seemed part of an eerie routine. For the next few days, as their government leaders debated the need to distribute gas masks, Israeli citizens prepared themselves for the latest in a long history of threats.

A week after the invasion, we received a visit from the old woman who lived upstairs. "We know that you're living here," she said, speaking in broken English on behalf of the building's other residents. "So we want to tell you what to do. You just go upstairs if it is gas, and downstairs if it is not." This was a routine for her, but not for us. We considered departing the country.

"Also," she said, "buy some baking soda. If you don't get the gas masks in time, you soak some pieces of cloth in baking soda and water, and if they send gas, use these to cover the children's faces."

That afternoon, my father and I descended into the cool, dark basement to look at the building's fallout shelter. As we stared at the heavy concrete walls, we considered departing the country.

We packed our suitcases a few days after we bought the baking soda, placing our American passports within easy reach. But we decided to stay in Jerusalem for another two weeks, awaiting the culmination of my summer: a Bat Mitzvah at the Western Wall.

Each night, as we lay awake in bed, we wondered if we had made the right decision. Our Israeli friends expressed shock at hearing us answer the telephone. "You're still here?" they explained. "All of the other Americans we know have left!" They explained that as temporary residents, Americans could always go home. As Israelis, where could they go?

Three nights before my Bat Mitzvah, we awoke to the sound of an explosion and the smell of something burning. "It's happened," my father said as he threw our passports and several bottles of water into a bag. "Get the children. We waited too long." By the time we heard the sirens, we were dressed and ready to leave for the American Embassy.

We left our apartment, only to discover that the explosion was not the deliberate act of a vengeful dictator, but rather the bizarre act of a vengeful storeowner. That night, a disgruntled business rival had bombed one of the two small grocery stores on our block. Charred boxes of crackers littered the sidewalk for days and melted dried fruits oozed between the cracks in the asphalt. This time, it had not been Hussein.

But next time, it would be. A week after we returned to the U.S., the Israeli government finally decided to distribute the gas masks. Some time later, Iraqi scud missiles started to fall on Israel. We imagined which room in our apartment had been designated the "sealed room," a precaution in case of chemical warfare.

Hussein's recent stunts and the resulting advisories prove the continuation of this eerie routine. Six months from now, when we return to Israel to celebrate my brother's Bar Mitzvah, such advisories may apply to me again. Since the routine has not changed, the next few months seem to hold little promise.

William Faulkner once wrote, "The past is never dead; it's not even past." Living in the birthplace of antiquity, citizens of the Middle East cannot escape their history. It repeats again and again, forcing itself upon those who must live through it—those who cannot consider departing the country.

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