The Siege of Tel Aviv

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IN OCTOBER OF 1973, I flew to New York from my home in Israel to tell my parents their younger child, my twenty-six-year-old kid brother Lawrence, was dead. This was not something I could do by phone. Freshly married, Larry was an architect working for an Israeli government agency responsible for planning new Jewish settlements in what some called liberated Judea and Samaria and others called the Arab West Bank. Whatever you called it, on a dirt track near Jericho the car he was traveling in flew off the road and tumbled into a dry river bed. An Arab shepherd nearby heard the stuck horn and managed to flag down two Arabs in a pickup truck, who drove them to the nearest Arab hospital, in Ramallah, bypassing Jerusalem. Bad luck. The Arab doctors in Ramallah then sent my brother and his driver back to Jerusalem. Thus what was probably an act of Arab terrorism was balanced by the humane reaction of other Arabs to try to save their lives.

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