I think many of us are still stuck on that first day.
I was in Jerusalem when rockets first started falling from the sky. I was sick with a fever and my daughter had to shake me awake, “Ima, quick, I think I hear a siren.” I recall that moment with such clarity; when the sirens were reverberating off the hills of Jerusalem, vibrating through the valleys, filling the pit of my stomach with a sense of certainty. That we were at war.
By the time my 10-year-old son ran through the rockets, ducking for cover under garages, weaving in and out of bomb shelters till he found his father, and they made it home – we had been in and out of the shelter four times, praying that they would be safe.
Shul was canceled, Torahs in their arms, mid-dance. The sukkot were frozen in time, the tarps and schach waving abandoned in the breeze.
The news first started in whispers, “It’s bad.” “They say there are hostages.” “The south has been infiltrated…” For the first time in my life, I turned my phone on during Shabbat because we had no idea if we were next.
The images and headlines that fed into my screen were beyond nightmare. My brother, fully dressed in his uniform, was given a beracha by my parents; he then jumped in the car and sped to join his unit called up for duty. We had no idea where he was going or what he would face in the future. We just prayed he would come home to us, safe and sound. Soon my brother-in-law was to join his own unit, too.
Those first days, we couldn’t believe the numbers. First, it was 50, then 100, then over 250 hostages? Could it be true? How could we ever bring them home??
It has been 150 days of asking the same question.
How are we ever going to bring them all home?
These days I walk the streets of Jerusalem in a daze. On every lamp post, there is a yellow ribbon tied tightly, frayed from the rain. They were not meant to withstand the weather for so long. Dripping down the Jerusalem stone walls, graffiti with the date 7.10 and “Bring Them Home” are everywhere you look. This morning I passed a bus stop where the walls were lined with signs looking for the missing hostages, some of them with big red hearts covering their faces indicating that they’d come home. Others, ragged and weary, waiting to be redeemed. On some, red marker with the word “MURDERED” scrawled above their names.
“Where are they??” we whimper to each other. We know we aren’t supposed to count people, but we count them. All who have come home, and all who we are waiting for. Those who will never return.
There are too many funerals. Too many young souls to mourn. Too much tragedy and shock all stuck in our lungs, leaving us to breathe shallowly. Those who are not fighting with weapons fight to hold down the fort. To soothe anxious children who refuse to sleep alone, who jump at loud noises, who dream of growing up and saving their people from evil. Children who cry when they miss their parents, uncles and aunts, siblings, and friends who have been buried or are away fighting for all our lives.
There are those of us who are holding space, making sure there are homes and families and a place to return. We keep busy by making sure there is laundry that is clean, soups, challahs, and cookies to nourish bruised souls. We attempt to sustain the economy through working and shopping at the supermarket, or local small businesses. There are those of us who record what is happening, make art, or show up to make sandwiches, pick tomatoes, and listen to loved ones weeping on the phone while we are trying everything in our power to just keep it together.
One-hundred-and-fifty days doesn’t feel real. Time has lost all sense of meaning. Sometimes in my fitful sleep, I dream of grabbing my children and running for our lives again. Sometimes the sun shines gently on my face while I watch them play freely in the park, not worried about where the nearest bomb shelter might be, surrounded by my family, including my brothers home from war.
In those dreams, all our prayers have been answered and we live with peace restored.
But not today. Today, on this 150th day, we are still at war.
