It was August. I was taking a fashion design and sewing class in downtown Jerusalem that I liked a lot even though I wasn't doing very well. One day, my mother asked me to pick up some bagels on my way home.

So, after class, I walked to the bagel store, smiled at the man in front of the restaurant playing his saxophone, and dropped a coin into his case.

I bought five plain and two with everything bagels and walked up the street to the bus stop. The bus came within minutes and I went home.

Twenty minutes later, my father called from work, asking where I was. My mom laughed and replied, "She's here, and don't worry - she got the bagels."

"Turn on the television," my dad replied in a serious voice. Apparently he hadn't called about bagels.

"Oh, my God," I heard her say. When I looked at the screen I saw the same store downtown I'd been at, but it was nothing like 20 minutes be-fore. A suicide bomber had attacked, killing many and wounding even more. The restaurant was blown up and the streets were filled with ambulances and police. I felt tears in my eyes. I couldn't believe I had been there less than half an hour earlier! I felt a chill race down my spine as I thought about the man playing the saxophone.

That Sunday I went back to class, scared but prepared, and walked by the restaurant on my way home. It had yellow tape around it and I began crying. People were standing around me, looking at the destroyed room, crying and placing flowers in front of the building. I walked by, glanced at the saxophone player's spot for a moment, and walked down the street to the bus stop.