Saturday night in Jerusalem, March 2, 2002,
Liora Tedgi became a victim of terror. A bomb placed by an Arab ripped
into the hundreds of Jews returning from Sabbath services. Eleven Jews
were killed, 51 injured. Liora, pregnant with twins, lost both in the
attack. Here in the Middle East, chutzpah can be directed even at God.
“You give me another set of twins, God,” tiny Liora said, striking a
hard bargain, “and I’ll take care of your victims.”
Apparently
the Almighty accepted her deal. Since its establishment in 2002, Ohr
Meir U’Bracha, Liora’s non-profit Terror Victim’s Fund has distributed
thousands of weekly food baskets to suffering families, providing
psychological and legal aid, winter clothes and school supplies, baby
formula and diapers, electrical appliances, and a kitchen package for
brides. There is a Kids’ Corner providing after-school hot meals and aid
with homework, and a big brother/sister mentoring program. There are
day-trips to the zoo, moonwalks and carnivals. And before heading to the
office each morning, Liora walks her twin daughters, conceived shortly
after losing her first set, with identical long braids and blue school
uniforms to their school.
Terror's raw taste is not new to the Tedgi family. Liora's
father-in-law was wounded by a bomb left at a bus station on the way to
pray at the grave of a fourth-century sage. His brother was stabbed by
an Arab while on duty as a policeman, to the horror of his own Arab
friends. Liora's great-uncle Matityahu was fired upon by Arab snipers as
he was stranded in a doomed convoy bringing food to a besieged
Jerusalem in 1948. His brother, Grandpa David, carried the 23-year old
on his back to Shaare Tzedek hospital, and suffered a heart attack there
as Matityahu died.
In
Liora's book of life, altruism calls to those who have suffered. It's
the frayed soul that feels the hole in another. "The victims of terror
are not only the ones who die," says Liora. "Children are orphaned,
parents are disabled and cannot provide for their remaining family.” Her
eyes are weary, but the flower on her trademark black hat bobs up at
the world. There's a steel determination in her stance coupled with a
genuine outpouring of love. As she walks past her neighbors or through a
roomful of orphans, a steady flow of blessings comes forth upon
whomever she meets. "You should have happiness, peace, good children...
but most of all a happy heart."
"What can a kid do in a hospital?" he asked. "Everything you can't,” young Liora replied.
"I was there too," Liora says. Not only in terror, but in the poverty
that stalks many of its broken victims. "As a child, we got food from
aid organizations. We didn't know the word spoiled. Complaining was not
in our universe. When I was a child I decided that I would give food to
people in a dignified manner when I grow up." At 12, Liora jutted out
her chin at the director of Shaare Tzedek Hospital and insisted she
wanted to volunteer there after school. "What can a kid do in a
hospital?" he asked. "Everything you can't,” young Liora replied. He
pulled out a white apron with the word “volunteer” embroidered on the
chest, and she began distributing food every day after school.
What separates the hurt and bitter person from the hurt and helpful?
"I grew up with this. When we had a bit more food, my father designated
an old wagon his ‘Fiat.’ That was for delivering food to people
relatively close to our home. The sturdier wagon was his ‘Mercedes,’
which went longer distances to feed people more hungry than us." When
Liora’s father died, puzzled families suddenly found themselves denied
credit in the local grocery. Only with his demise did these families -
and his own - discover he’d been paying their bills for years.
Hebrew differentiates between the word “
hesed,” loosely translated as loving kindness, and
“rahamim” which is mercy. “
Rahamim”
is a compassion awakened by an external source; the beggar attracts my
attention or makes me uncomfortable, so I give. Were he not sprawled
with a cup in my path, that money would remain in my pocket. “
Hesed”
on the other hand, is an expansiveness rooted inside. I give because I
need to be a giving person. This is how I feel whole. If the beggar’s
not here today, I’ll go look for him. Liora is driven by “
hesed.” Inaction, or egoism, leaves her bewildered.
Her greatest giving is allowing others to share the thrill. Neighbors
are invited – repeatedly and graciously – to get into the food-packing
party each Thursday. A carnival for victims is extended to the
neighborhood children; we all eat cotton candy together. Bar and Bat
Mitzvah missions from around the world spend a day volunteering with the
Terror Victim’s Fund, injecting additional meaning to their trip to
Israel.
Liora’s organization receives no funding from the government; she is
the queen of her staff of volunteers. She does respond to desperate
mayors and municipalities, begging her to bring their town’s children
out of sweltering bomb shelters to Jerusalem for a day of wholesome fun.
“It’s good they call,“ she says, “because we can help more people. On
the other hand, it’s more money we don’t have.” This summer, she’s
scrambling for funds to take bomb-wary children to the Biblical Zoo, to
jump on moonwalks and laugh at a clown.
Does all the pressure make Liora weary? “As long as God gave me
another day – that’s a gift, and I must be happy. It’s an opportunity to
help one more person. There’s a lot to do.”
Visit Ohr Meir U’Bracha’s website at www.terror-victims.org.il