Yesterday afternoon the residents of our Jerusalem neighborhood were given a "last chance" to return the gas masks that were distributed, I think, when the US invaded Iraq. Fortunately the gas masks were never needed. They probably should never have been given out in the first place, but Israel always seems to find funds to address worst case scenarios, ignoring the ordinary needs of the country's citizens to a shocking degree.
Early in the morning I found four of them in our basement bomb shelter - another example of "worst case" thinking: our daughter's, our son's (the one who has been living in America for the past 10 years), my wife's, and mine. Each box was clearly labeled with our names and identity numbers. Wouldn't you know that Asher's was missing!
Three young men were hanging around the parking area of an apartment building down the street from our house, lazily collecting the cardboard cartons with the gas masks and issuing receipts. It was a hot day, and their job could hardly have been more boring.
When I put down the four boxes that I'd found, one of the guys entered my identity number on a hand held computer and noticed that one of the masks associated with my identify number was missing. I explained that Asher wasn't alive, and that I couldn't find his mask - an explanation I had been dreading all day long.
Without responding in any way to what I'd said to him, the boy said something like, "Well, he's still listed," and started making out a form for the missing mask. He told me I should call a certain number. I refused to take the form from him and said, "They can go to the cemetery and collect the kit."
I walked away.
Even if Asher were alive, I don't see how his gas mask would have been my responsibility. He was 28 years old, and if they wanted to run after him and levy a fine or whatever, that would be between him and the authorities. But it isn't as if I could call him up and ask him where he left the mask.
At first, when I got back home, shaken, and told Judith what I'd said to the guy collecting the masks, I added, "That wasn't very nice of me." It's true. It wasn't nice to hit him over the head with my tragedy. After all, he's just a young guy trying to make a little money doing tedious work with no future in it. On the other hand, it wasn't nice of him not even to say, "I'm sorry to hear it," when I told him that Asher wasn't alive, and it certainly wasn't nice of him to persist in the bureaucratic procedures after hearing it.
In a much more pleasant bureaucratic encounter yesterday, I gave my address to a secretary who was issuing receipts for contributions that were made in Asher's memory, and she noticed that I live near the school that her daughter had attended, a school for retarded children. I asked her how her daughter is doing now and talked a little about the school, saying that I see the kids playing outside sometimes when I pass by, and they seem to be happy. She agreed, the school had been good with her daughter. I asked whether her daughter would be able to support herself and live alone, and she shook her head sadly. On top of the retardation, her daughter suffers from severe epilepsy.
I don't think I'd pursue the matter if it turned out that her daughter's gas mask had been misplaced.
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You collided with a bureaucrat's young hourly agent. I pray that his next job encourages independent thinking and that compassion drives his workplace (and his society!). You observed your reaction toward the agent, and then you experienced a totally different kind of interaction with someone else. How many people who are wounded are fully aware of themselves and of the kindness of others? I find that people, including me, are often embittered and hostile in response to personal pain and disappointment. You model grace in the midst of profound loss. Thank you for the lessons.
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