“Down, Down, Everyone Down”

By Chavi Israel

They say you never know when it’s going to be your last. It’s 8:07 PM. The hell began apparently just one hour ago, but it feels like a lifetime ago. I am writing on my sister-in-law’s iPad because I don’t have my phone, I don’t have my keys, my pram or anything, everything has been left there. I feel naked without my phone and I can’t stop fixating on it, yet I am so grateful for my life. Most importantly, my baby’s life.

I can’t even believe I am writing this. I am in shock, in disbelief. I want to vomit. All I remember is that, in one minute, everything is nice and grand. I’m chatting to my friend about joining her beach plans on Friday, and then I hear fireworks. Huh, I thought to myself as I look up at the sky, confused. I don’t see fireworks.

Suddenly I hear everyone and see the (Community Security Group) CSG guys saying, “Down, down, everyone down.” I am bewildered, confused. I leave everything and shove down to the ground, my brain thinking, no, no, this can’t be happening. I am in Australia. People don’t have guns. This can’t be happening. I am shoving my body over my baby.

All I want to do is protect my baby. I start saying Tehillim. I am with my friend Chaya. I say to Chaya, “Chaya, what’s happening?” I am saying Tehillim, bewildered. I see crates. “Quick,” I said, “let’s put these crates over our heads,” as I try to move them, protecting my baby. My baby is hot and sweaty and crying, earth and mud going into his teeny little eyes. His face is bright red. He is sweating. He is screaming. I am holding the bright orange crate over our heads and random baby wipes, trying to protect him.

The whole time I am in complete disbelief. What is going on? I hear loud, pounding shooting all over the place. I am saying Tehillim and saying over to my baby, l’Torah, l’Chuppah, ul’maasim tovim. This is what I say to my baby every day. As I’m saying this, I’m thinking: this is not my last day, this is not my baby’s last day. I’m half crying. My baby is screaming. “What is going on?” I say to Chaya. I’m so confused. Where is the police? Why aren’t they doing anything? Chaya is on the phone making sure her husband and baby are okay and saying, “I love you.”

I yearn to call Ezry, but he is singing at a wedding three hours away, and my focus is just staying alive, as best as I can. Chaya and I start breathing on Meir to cool him down. Time is moving slowly. So slow. The reports say the shooting was at least 15 minutes, well, that sounds about right. How is this happening? How is this happening? What is going on? My brain is half frozen, half speeding, just protect my baby, just protect my baby, please. I keep thinking, if the bullet will come, at least it will come onto me. Maybe the crates will protect us, or the bullet will go through the baby wipes, and the baby wipes will protect us. There is a face paint lady next to us who keeps popping her head up. My friend Chaya tells her to get down. WTH is going on? Where is the police?

And then we hear silence, and then chaos, and someone asking us if anyone is injured. Chaya asks, “Who are you?” I tell Chaya I don’t trust anyone. We then look around and see people running. I don’t know if the shooter – well, it turns out it was shooters, plural; my family and friends saw them with their own eyes holding massive hunting guns, are on the loose.

We run. I say to Chaya, “Wait, let me get my phone,” but there is no time. There is chaos and I don’t even know where my pram is. We run down to the beach, collecting missing kids whose parents are not around. One is my friend’s sister-in-law, who has a newborn baby. She has blood on her back.

“It’s okay,” she says, “I just got grazed.”

We run to behind cars. I see this lady and burst into tears.

“I need to call my father-in-law,” I say.

I know only my husband’s number off by heart and he is playing at a wedding three hours away. She tells me to calm down. “You have a baby,” she says. “He feels everything.” I try to get it together.

We then run to the beach, to underneath protection. There are travellers there. They are crying. I say, “This is what happens to Jews.” One of them looks at me and gives me a compassionate, solemn look. A random lady gives me water. My baby is crying. I give him water. He is so thirsty. We then continue running, travellers giving us confused looks, some dudes walking and chilling as if nothing has happened. I manage to get through to my father-in-law, who is on his way. I start feeding Meir, trying to calm him down. My father-in-law comes. We all stack into the car, on top of each other, the highway patrol police screaming at us to hurry up.

How rude and uncompassionate and insensitive. I try to remember their number plate, but my brain is in a tizz and can’t. We drive off. I manage to speak to my husband for a second, thank G-d. Hearing nonstop sirens, seeing ambulances and police cars, I’m shaking.

We get to my in-laws. My mum is about to take off to Israel. I was covering Meir. I tell her, tears streaming down, and I break down sobbing. I am okay though. I am okay. Meir is okay. We are OK, for now. I pray that everyone else is OK, but I have been hearing bad news as I write this.

As this is happening, Hillel Fuld’s article is stuck in my brain, something bad is going to happen and everyone will be running to Israel. Oh, how his words echo. And yet we still light the menorah tonight. We sang the songs, and all I can think about is, G-d, you owe us big time. Look how amazing Your people are. It’s 9:20 PM now and the sirens are still going.

Hashem yishmor.