Driver Eight

There is a photo on the cover of yesterday's fish-wrap. It does not make me feel too good. I know that I need to see it, for the same reason I allowed myself to exult in Saturday's photo.

On Saturday, the same publication featured a photo of Beirut Airport in flames, a parked DC-10 in the foreground.

Yesterday, Haifa's train station, in devastation. A dozen or so rescue workers look on, as a body on a stretcher is transferred to a waiting vehicle. The body is covered with a white sheet emblazoned with stars of David. The outline of the person's body is well defined by the sheet; I can see where the legs are.

The feeling I get, looking at that photo, just makes me want to rent. Eight people will not be going home to their families, ever again. And dozens more, were mutilated. One fellow who died there, was 44, same age as me, a railway maintenance technician. He left behind a wife and baby.

Another victim of rocket fire, a thirteen year old girl, who loved to play the flute, and read. The world will never know what kind of contributions she might have made.

Take a break, Driver 8. We can reach our destination.