Today is Tisha B'Av, the saddest day of the Jewish year. Or rather it is supposed to be.
Weeks ago when the bodies of the three murdered teen aged boys were found, it felt as though Tisha B'Av had erroneously arrived early. The mourning that enveloped the Jewish people was unrelenting. My grief pervaded every activity, although I did not hold the status of a mourner according to Jewish law. And then, without a breather, we were engaged in a war with an internationally recognized terror organization. For the first time in the seven years since immigrating to Israel, we finally felt like Israelis. It was not the falafel, nor was it mastery over the language, no sudden eye-opening cultural understanding. Plain and simple, it was the siren that sounded abruptly one evening as we prepared for dinner.
We knew that the situation had been heating up in Gaza. We saw the writing on the wall. But it was the terrifying rise and fall of the siren that woke us up to the very real threat we live with, yet feel only on occasion. At the sound that instinct told me was no false alarm, I yelled to my children to run up the stairs and into the safe room. My son closed the heavy metal window guard and we all waited, waited for the sound of impact, for the signal that it would be safe to leave the shelter. While my daughter cried softly in the corner, my boys, stimulated from adrenaline, high-fived each other on the excitement of their reality. And I did my own reality check as I pondered what might be occurring outside of the safe room, outside amongst the innocents I was certain were as unprepared as I was.
By the following night when the siren came, I was upstairs working in another apartment. Without thinking, I flew out of the office, down the stairs, into my apartment and up to the safe room. The door was closing with most of my children safely in it. I yelled, "I'm here!" and entered with them. "Mom, we're fine! You didn't have to come," they protested. And to my relief, against the backdrop of a wailing siren, my daughter sat on a bed, eating ice cream and posting on Instagram. Already, the tide had turned. Innocence had gone, with strength and faith left in its place.
After three weeks and 3,000 rockets, we haven't completely adjusted. Perhaps that is a good thing, is it not? Is the adjustment of reality to daily rocket attacks not an acceptance? Acceptance is not a part of wartime vocabulary. We cannot completely accept the deaths of 63 soldiers, young men who have left behind grieving mothers, fathers, siblings, grandparents, wives, children, and fiancees. We cannot accept sirens wailing at 2 am that force us to drag our young children from their beds. And though the world urges us to accept the demands of the terror group that seeks our extinction, we say to them "NEVER AGAIN."
Though the terror tunnels have been destroyed and large weapons caches along with it, the war feels far from over. The suffering inside my head doesn't cease. And this day, the day of mourning on which Jews long for the Holy Temple and the Messianic age, is more another day of mourning for the heaviness that a peaceful existence in this world again eludes us. The insult to injury of comfy critics who do not, cannot fathom an ounce of our discomfort wears on us, their boastful, self-righteous voices like nails on a chalkboard, punishing our people for insufficient casualties this time around. The abounding miracles in plain sight, such as the majority of missiles not intercepted by the Iron Dome that have landed in fields or empty buildings, or the one that was blown out to sea, don't speak to such people. A shame for them to witness such miracles in their lifetimes, yet remain unaffected. But we feel the intensity of G-d's love, so intense that it burns through us at times. It has the bipolar effect of euphoria and a greater longing for that love through vulnerable and trying times.
If only the world could help, would help. But the civilians in Gaza continue to live under terror with no saving international task force in sight. And my beautiful country, well, we will continue to fight for the good and pray for all.
I thank all whom have sent in letters and photos of support to the JPost site, and I send my love out to all as always. Shalom.
Weeks ago when the bodies of the three murdered teen aged boys were found, it felt as though Tisha B'Av had erroneously arrived early. The mourning that enveloped the Jewish people was unrelenting. My grief pervaded every activity, although I did not hold the status of a mourner according to Jewish law. And then, without a breather, we were engaged in a war with an internationally recognized terror organization. For the first time in the seven years since immigrating to Israel, we finally felt like Israelis. It was not the falafel, nor was it mastery over the language, no sudden eye-opening cultural understanding. Plain and simple, it was the siren that sounded abruptly one evening as we prepared for dinner.
We knew that the situation had been heating up in Gaza. We saw the writing on the wall. But it was the terrifying rise and fall of the siren that woke us up to the very real threat we live with, yet feel only on occasion. At the sound that instinct told me was no false alarm, I yelled to my children to run up the stairs and into the safe room. My son closed the heavy metal window guard and we all waited, waited for the sound of impact, for the signal that it would be safe to leave the shelter. While my daughter cried softly in the corner, my boys, stimulated from adrenaline, high-fived each other on the excitement of their reality. And I did my own reality check as I pondered what might be occurring outside of the safe room, outside amongst the innocents I was certain were as unprepared as I was.
By the following night when the siren came, I was upstairs working in another apartment. Without thinking, I flew out of the office, down the stairs, into my apartment and up to the safe room. The door was closing with most of my children safely in it. I yelled, "I'm here!" and entered with them. "Mom, we're fine! You didn't have to come," they protested. And to my relief, against the backdrop of a wailing siren, my daughter sat on a bed, eating ice cream and posting on Instagram. Already, the tide had turned. Innocence had gone, with strength and faith left in its place.
After three weeks and 3,000 rockets, we haven't completely adjusted. Perhaps that is a good thing, is it not? Is the adjustment of reality to daily rocket attacks not an acceptance? Acceptance is not a part of wartime vocabulary. We cannot completely accept the deaths of 63 soldiers, young men who have left behind grieving mothers, fathers, siblings, grandparents, wives, children, and fiancees. We cannot accept sirens wailing at 2 am that force us to drag our young children from their beds. And though the world urges us to accept the demands of the terror group that seeks our extinction, we say to them "NEVER AGAIN."
Though the terror tunnels have been destroyed and large weapons caches along with it, the war feels far from over. The suffering inside my head doesn't cease. And this day, the day of mourning on which Jews long for the Holy Temple and the Messianic age, is more another day of mourning for the heaviness that a peaceful existence in this world again eludes us. The insult to injury of comfy critics who do not, cannot fathom an ounce of our discomfort wears on us, their boastful, self-righteous voices like nails on a chalkboard, punishing our people for insufficient casualties this time around. The abounding miracles in plain sight, such as the majority of missiles not intercepted by the Iron Dome that have landed in fields or empty buildings, or the one that was blown out to sea, don't speak to such people. A shame for them to witness such miracles in their lifetimes, yet remain unaffected. But we feel the intensity of G-d's love, so intense that it burns through us at times. It has the bipolar effect of euphoria and a greater longing for that love through vulnerable and trying times.
If only the world could help, would help. But the civilians in Gaza continue to live under terror with no saving international task force in sight. And my beautiful country, well, we will continue to fight for the good and pray for all.
I thank all whom have sent in letters and photos of support to the JPost site, and I send my love out to all as always. Shalom.
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