There are moments in life that divide everything into a before and an after. For me, that moment came on June 11, 2003, when I boarded bus No. 14 in Jerusalem. Minutes later, a suicide bomber detonated himself just a few feet away from me. Seventeen people were murdered on that day, including all those seated and standing around me. More than a hundred of us were injured. I survived, but the person who was pulled off that burning bus was not the same person who boarded it that day.
Most people think of the Hebrew word Hineni—“Here I am”—as something said from a place of certainty. A conscious decision to step forward when called to do something. Although I have always been someone to step up when things needed to get done, stepping up in the wake of profound pain may not be most people’s first instinct.
My Hineni moment began in the middle of incredible trauma. While I do not remember everything about those first few hours, I can recall that becoming an activist was the last thing on my mind. I remember being scared, feeling all alone, and lying in a hospital bed trying to understand what had happened. Yet, by nine a.m. of the very next day, after coming out of surgery in the early morning hours, I was already sitting in front of a room full of reporters from around the world.
Looking back, it seems almost impossible that someone in my condition would agree to speak to the media. But I did. Still trying to process what had happened, I wasn’t thinking about advocacy or public speaking. I wasn’t trying to become a voice for anyone. At that point, I didn’t even know what had happened to others on the bus. It was the Second Intifada and, looking back, I think that I felt a responsibility to share what had happened to me so others around the world could better understand what was going on in Israel.
At the time, terrorist attacks had become a routine part of the daily news cycle. For people around the world, it was just another headline. For those of us in Israel, it was reality. I didn’t want people to see this as just another attack. I wanted them to understand that innocent people—people with families, dreams, and everyday lives—were the ones paying the price. I had no idea that saying yes to that interview would shape the course of my life. I thought I was answering a reporter’s questions. I had no way of knowing it then, but that one interview would become the beginning of everything that followed.
Every time I choose to stand beside another victim and remind the world that the impact of terrorism lasts long after the headlines fade, I find myself answering the same call.
More than two decades later, I now realize that was my first Hineni moment. Not because I felt ready, but because remaining silent was not an option. Over the years, I have continued to answer that same call. When I share my story, I share the story of those seventeen innocent people who did not get to go home to their families that day. As long as I keep speaking up, my voice will remain their voice, and they will never be forgotten. Given the opportunity to survive, I also received a responsibility to make sure their stories continued to be told.
As happens too often in terror attacks, the world moves on while survivors and families are left to rebuild their shattered lives. Because the victims should never be forgotten once the headlines faded, and because those who enable such attacks must always be held accountable, I now dedicate my life to advocating for victims’ rights, working with governments and policymakers, and becoming a plaintiff on lawsuits against those who finance terror.
Amidst this work, I have found the most meaning in founding my non-profit organization, Strength to Strength, established to support victims of terrorism around the world. Over the years, what started as a way to connect with other people who truly understood what I had been through has grown into a supportive global community for bereaved family members, survivors, and first responders. Seeing others realize they are no longer alone, watching lifelong friendships develop, and knowing that people have rediscovered a sense hope because of Strength to Strength has been the greatest gift to come out of such a horrific experience. What began as tragedy has become a purpose that continues to remind me and all those involved that healing is possible.
Though many people assume that saying Hineni happens only once in one’s life, for me it has been a continuous choice that I have made over and over again. Every speech. Every interview. Every meeting with a victim who needs someone to listen. Every conversation with policymakers. Every time I have chosen to revisit the worst day of my life so that someone else might be heard, understood, or feel less alone. Each is its own Hineni moment.
The choice to speak up has not come without a cost. Every time I tell my story, a part of me relives that day. Because trauma doesn’t disappear simply due to the passage of time, there are moments when speaking publicly reopens old wounds. Though the memories never go away, over time I have learned that healing isn’t about forgetting but about finding ways to carry the memory of what happened while moving forward. And while there have certainly been times when I’ve wondered if maybe it was time to step away, whenever I think about the incredible people I have met along this journey—the survivors, bereaved families, first responders, and advocates who have inspired me deeply—I am reminded of why I must keep answering that call.
Throughout my life, it has been an honor and privilege to stand beside those who intimately understand this journey in a way few others can. The opportunity to take one of the darkest moments of my life and turn it into something that brings other people hope is something I will never take for granted.
I never wanted to become a victim of terrorism. I never imagined this would be my mission and life’s work. But every time I choose to stand beside another victim and remind the world that the impact of terrorism lasts long after the headlines fade, I find myself answering the same call.
Here I am.
Hineni.
