It began with text messages, all sorts of baffled messages, one chasing the other, about a shootout in Nachmani St. Who could even think it was in our Aguda1. And then came another message. And another one. And suddenly the cold thought piercing through the mind all the way to the heart: Saturday night, Barnoar2, the place is packed with kids. And not just any kids – our kids.
I know the youth bar well, and in different forms it has existed for years. Thirteen years ago I was seventeen years old, and I was there too, at the same building, on Saturday night, at the almost only place I could be me quietly. Years passed, buildings have changed, counselors came and went – but the essence remained the same. Youngsters with no other place to go to, and a place that provides the a home. To the word’s fullest extent. Even for kids who really have no home, who managed to navigate their way in life only from there.
And in this very home they murdered our kids on Saturday. I try to find the words for it, and I can’t. I try to focus on the sequence of memories and actions. It was like this, sort of: Text messages, a taxi and a dash to Nachmani, and the first time i used my journalist card – “Let me through!” A policeman is escorting me inside, half a meter from the scene. A crowd gathers, my friends are vomiting. They’re right, honestly, we all want to. And then we all go to the Pride Centre, because that’s where the kids will come to. Should we open it? Shouldn’t we? Phone calls to city hall, to the police, to the security company. Sure enough, we open up. And then they start coming in: Children, adults, everyone. And the stream of pain is unstoppable.
At first they’re shocked, then they start to speak. About the best friend who will never be back, about the counselor who always smiled and knew the right thing to say. About the shocked friends, those who saw the scene of the massacre minutes after, and still cannot see anything other than blood. Lots of blood. And their friends, on the floor, wounded, dead.
We never thought it would really come down to murder. We sure didn’t imagine a massacre like this. We’re used to threats, as well as to cries of hatred. We know kids who got kicked out of their homes, who were beaten up, even adults that faced blades. But we didn’t think of this, we never thought we’d get here, and now we’re here. And now what do we do? What?
It isn’t easy being a teen counselor, and it’s even more complicated when it comes to a GLBT youth organization. But no counseling training ever prepers you to the moment when you understand someone got into your kids’ lounge and started shooting. Suddenly they’re dead. And then the madness begins. Children crying, screaming, confused names, misinformation. Two dead, and then three, and then two again, and the hours go by.
Who shot? Shot who? No one knows to explain, the children are terrified, frozen, and we have no solution. Gathering in the Pride Centre, hundreds of people come in with candles, dozens offer their help, and in the youth kitchen upstairs the teens are still seated, some crying, all of them refusing to believe.
Sleepless night. Try to explain to those whose life sometimes revolve between their computers and their hesitant steps at the Pride Centre that someone managed to hit their most sensitive spot, the one we spent years building to safeguard them. You see? The work with these kids didn’t start today, and it won’t end tomorrow. We take baby-steps, little by little, building them a home. To the fullest extent of the term. A home where they can feel secure, meet friends, a home to keep them from harm. Try to explain to them now that, despite everything, we’re keeping them safe.
A day after, the names are already known. Fear of the unknown is replaced with the horror of the loss, and the killer is still out there, armed. They ask: What if he shoots at us again? And we have no answer. We also have questions, a lot of them. But there’s no room for that now. Now we need to hold them, look into their eyes, look into their parents’ eyes although ours are teary too, and promise over and again: We’re watching over you, we wouldn’t let it happen again. We’re here.
Rod Avissar’s note: Noa is a member of the IsraLeft team, and the coordinator of the proud youth organization in the Tel Aviv area. She has her hands full these days, naturally. This is a translation of a text she wrote for Israeli news site Y-Net, that I put up to her request.
For further reading, see the coverage of the GLBT shootout at IsraLeft so far: Elad, Or, Maital.
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