Where Are The Children?

On October 23, 2002, our black sedan was gliding on Military Road out of the District, under wide, somber skies, gray light filtering through the sun void horizon. Tree lined empty sidewalks snaked on both sides of the road, while the long column of colorful cars were winding their ways hurriedly as if trying to break up the monotony of the narrow two lane street.

Like the other occupants of the cars we followed or those who followed us, we too were looking bleakly ahead, each in deep thoughts, wondering, pondering about the frustrating calm of yet another day of unsuccessful attempts, possible errors, in apprehending the person or persons responsible for the tragic events of the past few weeks.

"Where are the children?" sounded suddenly the curious, innocent voice of the four years old blond little girl in the back seat.

This simple question jolted me out of my adult reasoning and plunged me into a virtual historical time I always dread and try to escape; the time, when parents were unable to protect their children, themselves, their elders...

Instead of answering, I placed my arms around her the best I could, given the awkwardness of the seat belts on her car seat. I wanted to hold and shield her from all evil.

For a moment, time seemed to have stopped for me. I felt suspended in a see-through bubble between the gray sky punctured by giant trees adorned in their green, yellow or orange-reddish gowns, and the invisible, unmerciful, horrifying coward lurking out there, somewhere, anywhere.

The lonely corner park which elicited Ariella’s question seemed surreal altogether with its colorful monkey bars, idly sad see-saw and empty sand box strewn with red plastic buckets, green and yellow plastic shovels and rakes...

"It’s overcast, honey, it will soon rain," came her mother’s sane answer, which Ariella accepted at face value, without further questions.

As I released her slowly, she gave me a rewarding bright smile and I understood that she took my grasp for a loving hug. Her light silky hair, the squeezing of her little hands reassured me in fact, that all would be well.

As soon as we got home, I switched on the news channel while she was out of the living room; same old story - nothing concrete yet, they were still looking...

The afternoon passed with some more indoor activities, art projects, stories, playing with dolls, chasing little sister, dressing up in the new Cinderella outfit, computer games, visiting Barbie.com. Later that evening, while entranced in watching the Nutcracker Barbie video, Ariella invited me with a wave of her little hand to sit by her.

"Hold my hand, Namami," she said reaching for mine, eyes peeled all the while on the screen.

I was taken a bit by surprise, as I could see she felt uneasy. Yet, there was nothing in the movie but gracefully executed computerized ballet to the Tchaikovsky’s lovely music.

"This is so nice," I said quietly, as not to intrude in her little world. "What scares you, love?"

"It’s coming up soon," she replied and brought her little index finger to her mouth in a sign to discourage me from further conversation.

"Of course," I muttered to myself, if you know of danger ahead, you can protect yourself somehow - at least, you have a chance. The only chance of protection here and now is to stay indoors. The sniper gives you no alternative; otherwise, the ultimate terrorist robs you of chance and life.

That evening I went to bed in a sad mood and sleep came very slowly.