Living with terrorism.

The anniversary of 9-11 just passed, and, not living in America, I almost missed it. And, on top of that, I don't feel bad about missing it. you see, now that I live in Israel, terrorism is a daily thought, not an annual one. I barely even notice the metal detectors and guards at malls, restaurants, and hospitals any more. Want to look in my purse? Fine, whatever. Last year there were 3 separate attacks in my city using bulldozers. there were countless other attacks also, but you tend to look for trends to keep yourself safer. I still wince at the sight of an Arab driving a bulldozer. Just like I watch to see who is on the buses I ride, are they too 'bulky' looking; do they look nervous; have a heavy package? I get off and wait for the next one.
But even with these (and many other) precautions, I don't have an overwhelming sense of fear, either. all the above is just a way of life. We're careful, but not paralyzed, and we can't commemorate each event because there are too many, but we have a word for it. Pigua (pi-goo-ah). It seems to incorporate all our tears, all our apprehensions into one word that is never said in the same tone as the rest of the sentence. We can't remember every name, every time, but we memorialize each victim with the word we invented to tell of your tragedy.

Pigua.