What Do You Buy the Children of the Terrorist Who Tried to Kill Your Wife? Publisher
Oneworld (London) U.S. pub. date
Sept. 10, 2013
ISBN-10: 1851689966 Reviews
Readers can be forgiven for expecting Harris-Gershon to
tread on familiar ground in his Memoir of Jerusalem. But this
enormously compelling title smashes preconceived notions while
delivering an unforgettable and provocative story about the roots of
terrorism and the nature of victimhood ...
Bracing, intense, and relentless, this is a
book about how we as humans get to the darkest of places and the
questions we must ask to find our way out. A transformative reading
experience. — Colleen Mondor
Fierce ... A tale of redemption and new beginnings and of truly
embracing the other. Harris-Gershon’s story is not really about Middle
East politics so much as it is a story of healing—a debate about whether
South African–style reconciliation and restorative dialogue can really
bring about closure after an event of unspeakable pain and violence." — Dahlia Litwick
From The Daily Beast
It is a story about how a great personal trauma can lead to a journey
that upends long-held beliefs and ideas. The terrific thing about this
book is that the author manages to tell his story without
sentimentality, grandiose pronouncements, or false humility. He pulls
the reader in with an unpretentious, laconic style, and with his
refusal to shy away from acknowledging his own flaws." —
From The Guardian
A brave and impressive book. — David Shariatmadari
[Harris-Gershon] boldly stretches the confines of memoir and lets
it deserve the adjective of its literary category, creative nonfiction. — Ilene Prusher
From The Telegraph
The force of the blast tore through the ceiling, blew out doors, tossed tables
across the cafeteria. Salt shakers, plastic trays, and barbed nails were
sent flying. And after the flying, there was wailing. And after the wailing,
anarchy, as students in torn khakis and hijabs scrambled over the splintered
tables. After that, they say people began stuffing pages from their Hebrew
exercise books into the wounds.
From Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
When the phone rang in our Jerusalem apartment,
I was eating spaghetti with sun-dried tomato pesto, red-tinged olive
oil dripping down the strands of pasta, my lips greasy. Smacking.
I put down the fork and answered. "Hello?"
"David? This is Esther. Your wife, Jamie, is here with me. There was
an explosion at the university, but I just want you to know she's fine.
OK? She's fine." (Click.)
I was still chewing, twirling the fork, knew I didn't know an Esther,
and didn't know what she was talking about. After a few seconds,
puzzled, I thought, That was nice of her; thought, There must have been some kind of electrical explosion; thought, Keep eating. Although I'd lived in Israel for two years, had been anticipating this, fearing it, I was oblivious. An electrical explosion.
As if people routinely called strangers to alert them of transformers
on the fritz or wires sparking overhead. But as I continued to eat
lunch, the beginning of unease, the sense that something was off,
I turned on the television.
Nothing. Channel 2 was showing its daily Spanish soap-opera with Hebrew subtitles. I ate.
Then, 10 minutes later, the news broke in. A man saying the word: piguah -- terrorist attack. Then a map. A star in the center. The words, Frank Sinatra Cafeteria, the words, Hebrew University. Ceasing to chew, I thought, Not an electrical explosion; thought, She's fine. She's fine. Thought, Why didn't Jamie call herself?
Then the phone rang again.
"David. This is Esther. Jamie's OK. But she's lightly hurt. They're
taking her to the university hospital. She wants you to meet her there."
Lightly hurt. She was still
fine, I thought, probably just some cuts and bruises. A scrape here or
there. Skinned knee. I didn't rush, called our program's dean to let him
know what had happened while gathering some clothes, saying into the
His voice was quiet, knowing, after living in Israel for decades, that the word lightly when conjoined with injured did not mean she's fine. Finally, he asked, "David, what does that mean, lightly? What did they say?"
"I don't know," I said, the tears suddenly rising, sticking in the
throat, the panic, the fight, the flight. I was lost. In over my head.
Clueless, I began packing, frantic, then sprinted down a flight of
stairs, ran to the street, flagged down a cab.
The driver rolled down a window and smiled through a cigarette.
"Sorry. Impossible. Place is blocked off. No way."
I opened the door, got in anyway. Slammed it shut. "Look. My wife was
injured in the attack. She's at the hospital. I don't care how you do
it. But you get me there. Now. Understand?"
"No problem." (Read more.)