As I board the bus I wonder where I should sit. I try so hard to stop the thought process I know is coming, but it happens anyway. Should I sit in the front or the back? Definitely not the middle. Usually a bomber tries to make his or her way to the middle. The back is probably the safest. I'll make my way to the back.

I hate it. I hate that I think it—that I actually try to figure out where I am least likely to be killed. I hate it that, for a few seconds, I try and think like a bomber. I glance around and estimate where the most damage would be caused, and then I move away from it.

Interestingly, this happens only on buses. It doesn't happen in other places. I'm fine in crowds, more or less. I go to restaurants. I go to town. I go to places deemed "dangerous" by the government. And yet, I fear the buses.

During the entire ride I look around. I stare at every package, every person, every bus stop. I wonder if all the passengers are having the same fears, the same anxiety. I think about their lives, their families, their jobs. Everyone is going about their daily routine, running errands, returning from work. Are they all scared?

I wonder if I would know a bomber if I saw one. Would I realize? Would I do anything?

And then all the doubts come flooding in. What if I did suspect someone? Would I shout at the top of my lungs and inform everyone? Would it help? If I were right, it would be too late. The bomber would simply blow him or herself up. I would have accomplished nothing. If I was wrong I would cause utter hysteria. People could get hurt.

Would I remain silent? Could I?

There have been times that I have chosen to get off the bus. Nervously I wait for the next stop and exit as quickly as possible. Fortunately, I have always been wrong. But I don't feel any better when I exit. If I had been right, G‑d forbid, I would have only saved myself. How could I feel strongly enough to get off the bus, but then not tell others of my suspicions?

These thoughts overwhelm me, and I realize the damage that terrorism has accomplished. The problem is not that I live in a world where I have to wonder which part of the bus is most likely to survive. The problem is that I have allowed these animals to diminish my faith and my belief.

In theory, I am the first to say that I absolutely and completely believe in G‑d. I believe He rules the world and I believe that nothing just happens. I believe that every bullet has an address. In theory.

In reality, I clearly doubt. For if I didn't, I would have no problem boarding a bus. You may say that this is not so much doubt—that there is also the idea that we don't put ourselves in harm's way. I wish that were the case, but it isn't. For then the argument could continue in a number of ways. I then shouldn't go to public places. I shouldn't live in Jerusalem. I shouldn't live in Israel. But I do, and I do not fear, and I do believe and trust and have faith. Until I board the bus.

But I make myself get on. I make myself get on, because every time I don't I feel that the terrorist has won. Perhaps he has not succeeded in harming my body, but he has harmed my mind, heart and soul. I cannot allow this. I cannot give victory to my enemy, to he who seeks to destroy me.

And so I sit. And I watch. And I pray. And I await the day when my faith and belief will be stronger. When I will sit where I want to, knowing in my mind and heart that G‑d rules this world, and that there is nothing to fear.