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I couldn't stop the ringing. Standing on the swerving Jerusalem city bus tapping my ears while trying to keep my balance, passengers were staring as I tried to end the incessant ringing. Didn't they hear the bombs that just exploded?

It was Shabbat morning Oct. 14, 1978, and I left my shabby Old City rented room around 9:30 a.m. and walked toward the Arab market as I had done many times previously. This was my first Shabbat stroll, however, through the Old City and the market. After stopping for a leisurely cappuccino at an outdoor cafe, I sauntered toward Jaffa Gate on that beautiful fall day while taking in the varied smells of the Old City -- strong coffee, falafel, slow-cooking fish and meat hanging overhead, and the wonderfully diverse fragrances of ethnic cooking.

Walking through the various kiosks was a real treat for me even though the endless yelling by the Arab shopkeepers to come into their shops scared me, and I truly loved walking in this maze of booths boasting so much merchandise. I decided to buy a blouse for my sister in New Jersey and made my way to a particular kiosk with lovely apparel hanging in their entryway.

Immediately upon entering the shop, I heard a massive noise. I jumped back. I had no idea what happened. Suddenly people were running and screaming. My whole body shook from fright. I couldn't move. All I could hear was constant high-pitched ringing in my ears. Things were blurry. After a few moments, I ran out of the shop back into the maze and was turned around a few times by people running into me. I couldn't remember how to get back to Jaffa Gate. I started running and stopped abruptly when I saw a young girl's bloodied face approaching. Her mother was leading her to safety. I watched and turned as they passed by me.

Then another explosion. A nearby vegetable stand blew up and sent fruit and vegetables flying everywhere. I managed to duck so I wasn't hit by flying fruit and ran as fast as I could. But to where? By now I could see several soldiers in the maze and I tried to stop someone, anyone, to find out how to get out of the shuk. Everyone answered me in Hebrew, of course, and my knowledge of this language at that time was minimal, so I tried to follow the direction their arms pointed. I finally saw some American-looking folks and ran to them begging to know what happened. A bearded man looked at me and said, "What do you think happened? Bombs." He turned away from me, took his little boy's hand, and started running in the other direction.

A few soldiers grabbed my arms and led me out of the marketplace where I boarded the first bus I could find to make my way back to the safety of my hotel room. As I walked in and lay down on the bed, uncontrollable shaking began. I curled up in a ball and finally understood, to a very small extent, what the Israelis live with daily.

I had come to Israel from N.Y.C. at that time to see if I wanted to make aliyah. It was my first visit to this fascinating country and I was hooked. I was not going to let this incident deter my decision to return -- hopefully permanently.

Fortunately, these two bombs were relatively small and did not inflict massive destruction or any casualties. For me, the shock of the sudden explosions, people running in every direction, the soldiers encircling blocks within the maze, and the inevitable sight of blood on the ground was more than this American had ever experienced. Within a mere few hours, the shuk was back to normal as if nothing had occurred. The persons responsible for the blasts could have just as easily injured or killed their own people -- it is indiscriminate terror and its victims are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was in the right place at the right time. My sister's blouse I wanted to purchase at that particular kiosk on that particular day quite possibly saved my life.

As things turned out, the ringing in my ears lasted nearly 10 days. I made aliyah as planned and studied Hebrew at Kfar Sava, an ulpan within a town near Tel-Aviv, very close to Qalkilya on the West Bank. I rented a flat in downtown Tel-Aviv with a woman from the U.K. after the initial three months at the ulpan. I remember paying the rent by taking American dollars in an envelope across town to a lovely Israeli couple. The rent was never the same month after month and I never knew how much more, rarely less, the rent would be until a few days before it was due. We didn't have a telephone in our flat, which was indeed very difficult, as well as having to wash our clothes in the bathtub the entire year. I stayed in Israel just for that one year before returning to the States. In retrospect, I realize I didn't have what it takes to live in Israel.

Shortly after landing at JFK on my Sunday return to the States, I relived the horror of loud explosions and people running for cover. Some monster placed a bomb in a suitcase, which exploded at international baggage claim. Once again, I was saved by being one of the first to grab my bag and quickly walk out of the airport as fast as I could to waiting relatives. This time there was no ringing in my ears and I was able to fully hear the sirens while waiting on the curb for the police cars to pass.

Janet Hughes is a published playwright and poet and lives in Princeton with her beloved cat, Marilyn from San Antonio. Her current project involves personal travel memoirs from Europe and the Middle East.