Kelly Hartog is a journalist and theatre director living in Jerusalem and can be reached at kelly@jpost.co.il.
	5 Israelis killed in 3 attacks; first citizen suicide bomber

Living through the last 18 months has been nothing short of hell for everyone in this country. It is rare these days that anyone here exists who has not been directly affected by a terror attack or knows someone who has. As the list of victims of terror grows I find it impossible to comprehend how their families find the strength to carry on. But until the terror reached out its long arm and directly touched me six months ago, I never truly comprehended how much the death of just one person changes the shape of this country forever.

It was then that I started to worry about my brother. That's not to say I've never worried about him before. Despite the fact that he's married with three small children, he will always be my baby brother, the one whose nappies I changed. But now I worry about him more than ever.

On September 9, 2001, Yigal Goldstein, a 47-year-old Jerusalem architect and father of three, was killed by a suicide bomber at the Nahariya train station. He died along with his cousin and a young soldier. The bomber, who had the dubious honor of being the first Israeli Arab to strap explosives around his middle, not only blew apart the lives, hopes and dreams of Yigal's wife and children, but those of every person whose lives Yigal touched.

One of those people was my brother. And by default, myself. As a news reporter I am not allowed to air my views on the current conflict in public. I must be as objective as possible. But on that day, as I sat in the office and received my brother's call that Yigal was on the train to Nahariya and no one could contact him, and could I possibly use my resources to find out what had happened, my professional skills went out the window.

I spent the entire day using all my contacts to speak with police and hospital staff who kept telling me to call back in "half an hour". The sinking feeling, as the day wore on and Yigal and his cousin's name were not on the list of wounded and their cell phones remained unanswered, found me unable to move from my desk. My hand stayed glued to the telephone receiver for what seemed like hours. Colleagues kept plying me with hot drinks. Hours later, it was confirmed that Yigal's remains had been taken to the Abu Kabir morgue. As a result of the severity of the blast, it took DNA testing from Yigal's 16-year-old son to positively identify him.

It was the first time since the outbreak of the Intifada I was unable to do my job. We are taught to distance ourselves, to write copy and in my case, to also read out, on air, the names, ages and funerals of the dead. But I could not do that with Yigal. I was unprepared for the following morning when I saw his photograph in all the papers and heard other newscasters reciting the bare facts that would become the sum total of this man's life to the public at large. In a country where we soldier on by picking up and going to work every day, work was the one place I could not go. I would not be covering this funeral for work, instead I would be going to it to grieve.

But far, far more than myself, I worried about my brother.

Yigal was my brother's boss, a rare breed of architect and a rare breed of human being who believed in shutting his doors at 5 p.m. every day to be with his wife and family. He told his employees to do the same. Yigal opened his arms and his office to all. I would often sit in his small, busy office in Rehavia chatting away with him and my brother as we discussed my latest theatre production. Yigal would donate his time, energy and whatever he could to support our fledgling projects. His slide projector continues to play a major part in all our shows. As such, our last production was dedicated to his memory. He'd happily let my dog run around his workstation and always brought his kids to our shows, despite the fact that English was not his first language.

Yigal was a peace-loving Sabra. A secular man with a respect for all streams of religious affiliation and political persuasion. He believed in the Palestinians having their own independent state. And yet he was renowned for bridging gaps. He employed several religious, kippa-wearing architects in his firm, one of whom was my brother. The diversity and the vast numbers of people spanning the entire spectrum of religious and political affiliations who showed up to his funeral was a testament to the open minded all embracing man that he was. The irony of the fact that he was killed by an Israeli Arab was lost on no one who knew Yigal.

Yigal was buried on September 11, 2001, three hours before terrorists slammed two jets into the World Trade Center, forever changing the world, as we know it. And yet, the magnitude of that event, did not, could not, change the grieving that was going on in the hearts of Yigal's family and those who loved him.

When Yigal died, his widow, Sylvia, was forced to close down his offices. An independent architect with an independent spirit and an independent way of working, there was no way his work could continue. Because for Yigal, his projects were more than just concrete and steel. They were imbued with his Sabra heart and soul, and contractors sought out Yigal, chose to work with Yigal, because of his visions. Goldstein Architectural Firm was ultimately buried alongside Yigal Goldstein, the man.

Aside from the emotional fallout following his death, projects that were incomplete will now be taken over by large companies who do not have Yigal's vision. Yigal's employees suddenly found themselves out of work overnight. Nothing was organized, no plans were made in case Yigal didn't come back from a routine trip to the town of Shlomi in the North of the country to check on a project, which is why he was on the Nahariya train that day. It was a project my brother also worked on and often accompanied Yigal, but not, thank G-d, on that fateful day. Yigal was tying up loose ends before he and his family took a well-deserved four-week break and made a trip to Canada. They were due to leave just days after the bombing.

My brother, Yigal's longest running employee of five years, was left to sort out the office, close shop and simultaneously grieve. In the meantime he did not have the luxury of taking time out to mourn his personal loss. He has a wife and three small children to feed. He did not want to move on to a big architectural firm where the love, commitment and modus operandi of Yigal's work ethic had seen my brother become a much-valued employee and a much-loved friend. And yet he had no choice.

My brother didn't lose only his boss, or his livelihood on September 9. He lost his mentor, a man for whom he had enormous professional and personal respect, and perhaps, most of all, his best friend. He would often sit with Yigal discussing his problems, his hopes and dreams. For my brother who as a small child lost his own father, Yigal filled a void as the father he never really had. On September 5, 1983 my brother lost his first father and on September 9, 2001, he lost his second. If there was any doubt of the unique relationship Yigal and my brother forged, it was confirmed when Sylvia asked my brother to deliver the eulogy at Yigal's funeral.

My brother has been forced to move on professionally and he has done so with a level of strength and fortitude, which makes me proud to be his big sister. But now, six months later, I reflect on how the death of one man has affected so many people. Volumes of diagrams and plans with Yigal's unique stamp now lie in storage gathering dust. So many people, not just Yigal's employees, but firms, contractors, construction workers, lost their jobs. Buildings that would have been part of this country will now never be built. Those that were in mid-construction have been taken up by people who do not have Yigal's vision. His mark will no longer be on those buildings.

Yigal's wife and children are forever linked to every other person in this country who has lost a relative to the senseless violence over the past 18 months. But Yigal was not my brother's blood relative, and yet for all intents and purposes he may well have been.

As such, that's why I worry about my brother. Because he, along with so many other people are those whose lives are forever altered because of the unnecessary violent death of one person. Of the almost 400 people who have been killed in terrorist attacks here since September 2000, how many people beyond their immediate relatives have been directly affected by their deaths. Hundreds? Thousands? How much has the State of Israel been altered by buildings never built, dreams never realized, people never married and babies never born because of these individuals deaths?

The ripple effect caused by the death of one individual in this bloody conflict may never be able to be accurately measured. So while my brother was never a blood relative of Yigal, his life has been directly affected by this man's death as has his wife's and children's, together with me and our entire immediate family.

In January my brother turned 30, and when my sister-in-law asked him what he wanted for his birthday he simply said: "Yigal"

Like I said, I worry about my brother.

Views expressed by the author do not necessarily reflect those of israelinsider.

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