Up close to a suicide bombing: as the conflict heats up, suicide bombings have become a constant in Israel. A Times reporter, who narrowly escaped a recent blast, shares his story.

• Author: Schemann, Serge
• Position: International - Brief Article

Jerusalem--Memory becomes selective after a close call. A few sharp details remain, like those of the young woman in a recent Jerusalem bombing who could not shake the thought of the suicide bomber smiling and chewing gum before he disappeared in a blinding flash. One thing everyone who has been near a suicide bombing always remembers is the blast--how loud it is. I had heard it before. Today I heard it up close. Too close.

I had gone to a bakery on King George Street for a snack, and found my wallet empty. So I crossed King George and headed for a nearby ATM. As I rounded a corner, it went off. The sound was a colossal, lingering "twang," almost metallic, powerful enough to give a tangible shove.

I had absolutely no doubt what it was, nor did anyone around me. This is something everybody expects, looks for, lives with here. It was 4:21 p.m. on a Thursday, March 21.

A TRAGICALLY PRACTICED ROUTINE

I ran back. Just across the street, the shoe shop and hat store to the right of the bakery were shattered, their awnings hanging on broken rods. Streaks of blood reached to the third floor. Smoke was sailing in the heavy wind, spreading the stench of explosives down the street. People had already run up to someone lying in the street; the revolting carnage and debris that I had seen at so many sites before was still settling.

All around, people were screaming and running, some away from the blast, others toward it, others into shops or alleyways. A tall blond woman stood transfixed with her hands to her face until she passed out. Soldiers and policemen, clutching their guns, came running from all sides, pushing and sometimes throwing people away from the shops.

By then, the tragically practiced routine was in high gear. Ambulances, police cars, fire trucks, television crews, and scores of rescue workers swarmed through King George Street, cordoning off the area, smashing into parked cars, trash cans, and wherever else there might be more explosives, tending to the wounded, picking up the flesh, collecting evidence.

Now thoughts began to crowd out the instinctive reactions. The bomber, some deluded Palestinian zealot with explosives and nails strapped around his waist, must have been approaching up King George as I left the bakery.

I confess I had been on the lookout for him. The day before, I had covered another suicide bombing in a bus in central Israel, and a soldier who survived said he had instantly realized the danger when he saw a young Arab...