The Many Ways It Touches Us

In Israel, six degrees of separation is going way overboard.  One or two usually suffices.  

I'm relieved that -- for now -- my family and I have remained one or two degrees of separation from unending worry and shocking tragedy.  But within two degrees of separation, there are far too many examples. Here are a few:

I.

One co-worker, H, had just returned from a family holiday in Eilat over Chanukah, only to hear that the first missile to reach a house beyond Sderot crashed into her sister-in-law's apartment, injuring their teenage daughter.  A week afterwards the girl was out of the ICU and -- thank G-d -- on her way to physical recovery.  Her emotional recovery will take much longer.  Two weeks later, H receives word that another relative, a nephew, has been injured and evacuated.   One of her own children is serving, and she knows what could be.  She tries not to think about it.

II.

A classmate leans over toward my computer last week in the middle of class.  She has left her kids with their regular "babysitters," their grandparents -- her own parents -- in Be'er Sheva. They watched the missile fall into the kindergarten across the street, felt the BOOM rock their apartment.  Now they're afraid to leave the house, but this evening they've decided to spend a few minutes in the mall down the street, just for some air and a change of surroundings.  Now my classmate has her mobile phone in hand;  she insists on checking the internet news every few minutes.  Just in case.

III.

My cousin sends an email explaining that while her son, recently drafted, is still in training and therefore will not be going into Gaza, he is often sent to the border to provide security and support to the soldiers.  One of his closest friends lies in the ICU, critically injured after fighting in Gaza.  His friends are filled with worry and guilt that they cannot be by his side.

IV.

My friend and neighbor S. commutes to Be'er Sheva every morning.  She relates the time when she was mentally preparing herself;  She rolls down her car window and turns up the radio, should there be a warning siren during her drive.  No sooner is the window open and

 rrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr.

She stops the car, lies down alongside it, hands over her head and neck.  She explains to me that the missile shrapnel flies up to a height of 30 cm, so lying down flat is pretty good protection. She notes that our bomb shelter room ("Mamad," ממ"ד), like theirs, is on the North side of the house, so it will provide pretty good protection should the missiles start raining down on us. Meanwhile, she watches missiles falling over Be'er Sheva from her tenth-story office window, keeps her purse accessible under her chair, and cuts off telephone calls to run to the shelter when the siren wails.  I express amazement that she is still willing to come to work every day.  It's not the same as living there, she reminds me.  I come home to quiet every night.  It's not like my kids are sleeping all together with us in the shelter and we're waking up several times a night to throw them down onto the rug.*

V.

Another coworker, N, is safe (for now).   Her family is not.   She lives in Jerusalem.  Her brothers and sister and their children live in Gaza, along the coast.   Her phone is on all the time.  Her family has no electricity.  No heat.  They don't go out, to work or school.  Their only source of information is a small, battery-powered radio, which tells them whether the most recent bombings and incursions are anywhere near their home.  Every time N talks to her brother, she tells me, she makes sure to say a real good-bye.  She is afraid it will be the last time. 

VI.

A senior staff member is as close to beside herself as I've ever seen her.  Her son is being drafted tomorrow.  He will not be in Gaza, but her thoughts are there.  She doesn't spend too much time watching all those films showing soldiers and bombings and house raids, but she cannot stop thinking about it.   We can only imagine what's going on there, she tell me, emotion filling her voice.  Our army has killed 600 of them.  Six hundred.  I can't get my mind around it. Women, children.  Families.  Here I am, safe in my home, enjoying my every day activities, while over there... Nothing good ever comes when we fight.  Their next generation will only learn more hate.

* * * * *

A friend's husband, a security expert, is in the reserves along the Gazan border and comes home every night at two in the morning.  A psychologist colleague has been called up to counsel traumatized soldiers.  An oncology patient from Gaza in the hospital for treatments, worried about his father and siblings while facing a completely different threat to his own life.  Countless colleagues have children in the army.  They jump whenever their phones ring, half-apologizing for their edginess.  We give them knowing looks and continue our day.

  * * * * *

This war -- like all wars here -- has been full of the kind of wrenching decisions, moral dilemmas, and wide-scale destruction that hurt to contemplate.  Eight years of missiles onto our compatriots in Sderot?  Too much.  The killing of children forced to be human shields? Disgusting.  Our soldiers running from house to mosque, flying overhead, facing split-second, life-threatening decisions?  Painful.   I want it to stop, want a modicum of quiet, and safety, and security, and reason, to reign.  But it doesn't.

For now I have avoided the more graphic media, the photos and films.  I read some Hebrew-language articles, and tune in to some of the American media.  Knowing what is going on, on both sides, is terrible.  Often I find it hard enough walking through those hospital doors every day, and I'm not looking for more questions no one can answer.  I understand why we had to go in there and try to put an end to it.  But I worry, because I know that all that violence and destruction will not stop the hate, and hate keeps Hamas going, and going. 

I go to bed every night to the slightly-faint echo of bombs, and wake up in the morning, in the dark, again to the sound of bombs.  I try to fit my mind around the simultaneous feelings of relief and sorrow that follow those sounds.

I think Shoilem Aleichem (via Joseph Stein's screenplay) put it best in our favorite classic, Fiddler on the Roof:

Townsperson: Why should I break my head about the outside world?  Let the outside world break its own head....

Tevye: He is right...

Perchik: Nonsense. You can't close your eyes to what's happening in the world.

Tevye: He's right.

Rabbi's pupil: He's right, and he's right.  They can't both be right!

Tevye:  (Pause). You know, you are also right.

Only, this is no outside world.  Not even close to six degrees' worth.  This is here, and this is us.

Keep the balance, and keep safe.

ALN

Roller Coaster

It's been a time of extremes.  Chanukah was fantastic - fabulous wedding, the kids (even Blondini Boy) were lovely bridesmaids / flower-kids.  Lots of celebrating, Sheva Brachot, and all those wonderful wedding things.

Then Chanukah starts winding down, the IDF winds up... and our nation's young adults -- my teenage cousin, his girlfriend, their buddies -- are going up in jet planes,  or planning down on the ground, risking their lives while our nation's kids and adults are hovering under bus stops and in shelters.  

The U.N. can condemn all it wants.  So can France, and whoever else.  Enough is enough.  Once again, Hamas is using their own citizenry as cannon fodder, and their willingness to do so is terrible for them, and ultimately, even more terrible for us.   

Hamas wants us out, wants us dead.   They say as much, all the time. But we're here.  To stay.  

Even those families who have been temporarily forced out of their homes -- in Sderot, in Ashkelon -- will be back soon.  Meanwhile, their kids did not return to school this morning along with their fellow pupils around the country.  Instead they are hovering within their houses or taking physical refuge in the homes of relatives, friends and strangers around the country.  Where does the psyche take refuge?  I do not know.

I look at that ubiquitous map, the one outlining Kassam ranges, and take note that we are within 50 kilometers of Ashkelon, only slightly beyond the farthest estimated capabilities of the longest-range weapon Hamas has amassed -- for the time being.  If you've never been here, you might have a hard time envisioning just how small this country is.  If you already live here, I don't need to explain.

I oppose war, hate violence, condemn mass destruction, and most of all, detest the thought of pain and suffering enacted by one group of humans on another.  But enough is enough.   We've been saying this for too long, while those ominous lines denoting Hamas' weapon range expand outward from the front page into our front gardens, our own front line.  

Enough is enough.

ושבו בנים לגבולם.

(For a recent report / opinion, please read one of my favorite blogs, A Soldier's Mother, here).

Keep the balance,

ALN

For Now, This Is My Part

My cousin Shula is a very busy woman.  She's in her late fifties, lives in a Northern suburb of Israel, raised three boys, the third of whom was recently inducted into the Israeli Marines. She works in computer systems analysis, as an advisor to large companies.

Shula has a large circle of friends and relatives and she makes it a priority to keep in touch and updated on a regular basis, which is one reason I've felt closer to her than most of my other relatives in Israel.   Shula is the one who hosted my friend and me on our free weekends during our ninth grade summer Israel experience.  Shula almost always picks my visiting parents up at the airport, even in the middle of the night, and drops them off at our house, miles out of her way.   Shula is not religious, does not identify with many aspects of religious observance, and does not keep Shabbat or a kosher home.  Yet her closest friend is a religious physician and mother of six who has been her neighbor for twenty years.  I have always felt comfortable in her house because she always makes an effort to make me feel comfortable, without it feeling like any effort at all.

Shula loves to keep in touch by email.  She prefers to keep it personal, but last year she felt compelled to start sending emails addressed to all of us -- her family and friends -- to keep us updated on the state of her husband, who was diagnosed with a relapse of melanoma that had spread to his brain.  Over time Shula's beautifully written group emails arrived with greater and greater  frequency, describing in detail their meetings with physicians, this expert and the next, changes in treatment, from chemotherapy to palliative radiation, to the latest drug therapy that would be extremely effective, in theory, but only if her husband's coordination improved enough to swallow it.  Last April, the day before Pesach (the Passover holiday), Shula and her sons returned home without their beloved husband and father, who was laid to rest during the week of Pesach, in a small cemetery near their home.

I understand it takes about 90 days for a human being to really digest and accept the loss of a loved one (see the footnote I wrote here).  It's now been about 130 since Shula lost her husband, and her mind has since turned to other losses as well.  With her permission, I'm including here a translation of her latest group email.

Hello Girlfriends,

Last Thursday I was with my friend N. in Kikar Rabin (Rabin Square, in central Tel Aviv), to "celebrate" / mark the birthday of Gilad Shalit.  There was a birthday cake on a chair, but the candles weren't lit... A number of good people spoke, Gilad's commanding officer, the head of the NPO Return Our Sons, Yuska Groff,who was once captive and is now a member of the NPO Awake at Night (that is to say, while we sleep, they have nightmares), and many others.

The evening's planners told us that for the past several weeks they have sat in the Square every night between 8 and 9 pm, calling for his return home.

The evening was moving, and especially sad.  It was sad because Gilad still isn't here, and we don't know where he is, and how... even were we to fully summon our powers of imagination we would not come close to understanding how his parents live with this.... it's awful.

It was also sad that so few people (around 300) turned up, and all the others just mention how terrible it is and cluck their tongues.

It is sad mainly because the night-by-night activities of these youth really don't move anyone.

We met a few more friends and thought that we -- mothers, grandmothers, aunts -- must shake people out of their complacency.  We thought about organizing a regular Friday evening presence outside the Prime Minister's house.

Every Friday, ten of us will station ourselves outside the Prime Minister's residence for two hours.  The plans aren't final, and we're open to additional suggestions and ideas.  The only thing that's clear is that we need to do something, immediately, before all of our captives return as "gestures" / "measures" / "intensifications" and all those other excuses.

So, if you also believe there's a place for action, and not just talk, we'll be meeting to analyze the situation and formulate a plan on Thursday, 4 September at 8 pm at Rabin Square on the corner of Ibn Givriol and King David streets.  Please pass this message on to anyone you feel is appropriate.  We'll be there, waiting...

Shula later told me she hesitated before sending me this letter, since she knows from experience how hard it is to be a working mother, without taking on all those extra activities.  I also wish I could do more here, but I'm realistic, and I believe that for the time being I have enough on my plate, doing "my part" in a different realm.   I also know there are many others out there who would love to take on a greater part in this critical fight.  And so, my friends, I'm passing Shula's message on to you.

Keep the balance,

ALN

In This Together?

This year three countries are celebrating 60 years on independence -- India, South Korea, and, of course, Israel.  

A recent festival in a smallish town in California brought people from all three of these communities together to celebrate.  Although I no longer consider myself a member of the local community, and haven't for many years, I was curious about the festival, and wanted to attend in support of these cross-cultural efforts.

It was easy to recognize who was who:  A majority of the Indian women present, including those not performing, were beautifully dressed in bright colored Punjabi suits and saris.  The Koreans, of course, had the facial features of Koreans, and several of them wore traditional costumes as well.  And the Israelis?  Why, they were the ones wearing t-shirts and jeans, talking on cellphones.

Among the attractions were information booths from local Indian, Korean and Jewish/Israeli organizations and religious centers, food booths (of course!), including kosher falafel, and performances by local singing groups and dance troupes.  Among my favorites:  kids as young as three, doing a very decent imitation of famous Bollywood dance routines, and a group of Indian tabla drummers, ages seven to fourteen;  even the youngest of them played solos, and they were fantastic (see here for a picture and description of  the tabla).  

For me it was nice meeting and chatting with some Israeli women who have been living in California for many years.  One woman I spoke with, originally from Hertzelia, had just returned from a month-long visit to Israel.  She told me that if it weren't for her husband's hi-tech job in the U.S. (for an Israeli company, of course), she would move her family back to Israel in a second.  She was worried over what would become of her son in two years, when he would be drafted into the Israeli army.  

For her, there wasn't a question of whether he would serve -- it was obvious to her that he would -- but she was worried that he would be a kind of hayal boded (a "lone" soldier, a Hebrew term usually reserved for kids who immigrated to Israel without their parents).  It got me thinking:  now that so many Israelis are living abroad, there must be a huge number of Israeli-born, American/British/etc.-raised soldiers who are serving in Israel but have no family to come home to, since their families are in the diaspora.  I wonder what's happening with all of them...

What gave me the biggest pause for thought was the observation that during the Indian performances, almost all of the audience members were Indians.  Same for the Korean performances (there were hardly any Jewish/Israeli ones).  At times, my kids and I were the only non-Indian or non-Koreans present in the audience, which felt strange.  Not because we were suddenly a minority-within-a-minority, since everybody there was.  Rather, I was intensely disappointed that people were interested in seeing performances from their own cultures.  And that is a real shame -- there were a lot of interesting things going on there, and I was glad my kids could see and learn from all the different people around them.  I wish more of the adults could.

Keep the balance,

ALN