Day 27, day #toomany
No, really. I mean it. This piece will trigger you if you are even 10% human.
I haven’t been writing much this week, which is a good sign, I guess. It means that for those of us who don’t live near the front lines, life is slowly returning to some version of normal. Many businesses are still open shortened hours because of a lack of manpower, and there’s still the business of our community asking for volunteers – physical and financial resources – to help soldiers, soldier’s families, displaced families, massacre victims, etc. But the kids are in school, most of us are working (at least those of us fortunate enough to be able to) and life goes on.
There is less buzzing on my phone lately, although it does still buzz. I don’t hear sirens in the distance anymore, which means that the rockets are far enough away that I am not in physical danger. There is still the constant rumble of distant booms, but not of rockets being exploded in the air above us. There’s still a lot of air traffic overhead, the occasional sonic boom, the occasional larger, very loud plane, but otherwise, there are moments that I forget that there are boys in Gaza battling face-to-face with the enemy, some losing their lives, all trying to free our hostages and protect me and my family.
So I was thinking about that this morning as I came to my desk and started up my computer, hoping to catch up, at least a little, with my writing. I opened my browser and the top tab was the news site I read to catch up on what’s happening with the war.
I honestly don’t know why they would post it this way, although I suppose it’s really important for people to hear the truth and the extent of evil that’s been perpetrated here so that they get it through their thick skulls that you cannot justify this. But for me, it’s just one more thing that causes me to go back into a spiral. My heart breaks over and over again. And now I read the headline:
First responder: ‘They took the baby and put it, literally, in a kitchen oven’
Most days this week, the news sounded more like a play-by-play commentary of a football game – the IDF did this, Hamas did that, So-and-so says this, we say that…
But then I’m shocked back to reality. I mean, first of all, reading that headline, well, it’s just paralyzed me again. And to think that there are actually people in the world who think that we are making this stuff up. You can’t make this stuff up. Obviously, there is significance in the action of stuffing a baby Jew into an oven and baking it to death.
Which brings me to another question that comes up in my mind – how on earth did the Arabs come to align themselves with the Nazis? This is nothing new. If you read the history of the Holocaust, you learn that the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem became very close with Hitler, y’sh, during the war, promising that an alliance would be useful to the Nazis since they had the same enemies. Of course, a fact that is lost on the Palestinians is that the Aryan-worshipping Nazis would have turned on them, too, had the war continued longer than it did. Arabs are just as non-Aryan as Jews. But I digress. However it happened, it did.
So the fact that the butchers of the Oct 7th massacre would kill a Jewish baby by baking it in an oven is shocking and horrifying, but somehow not so surprising.
But another question that pops up in my head, is why would anyone have thought of looking in the oven? Was it the smell? Was it still turned on? Imagine you are on a rescue team and you enter a home where a massacre just happened. The house is a complete shambles and there is blood everywhere. But your job is to find injured and dead people. What causes you to open an oven? Not the first place I would look, but then again, I don’t understand these monsters.
I try and shake myself from this abyss I’ve just jumped into. I need to work today and I need to have my head at least somewhat on straight. So, I watch a few minutes of something funny on the internet to turn that other part of my brain off.
Later in the day, I start to think about how much of a mess I am. I am ashamed that I’m not doing a better job of holding it together. My sleep is erratic and my digestive system is a shambles. I’ve never had such a severe response to stress before. And I’m also conflicted. A part of me wants to be that person that everyone talks about as an “inspiration” because their faith is so strong and their outlook so positive, and the rest of me – the other 90% just wants to curl up and hide.
How does anyone come out the other side of this even close to ok?
Written by Penina Taylor
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Is that thunder? I think that might be thunder. Or is it an explosion? Or is it just the kids upstairs playing? People who have never lived in a war zone, under the threat of missiles impacting their homes, have no idea what it is like to live in a constant state of hyper-awareness. Is that the beginning of a siren? Do I need to run to the safe room? Oh, no, it’s a whiny motorcycle. Is that Arab in my grocery store carrying a knife? Or is she a person I can trust? Is that Palestinian car slowly pulling up beside me trying to pass, or am I about to be shot at? Are those Arab kids on the side of the road just hanging out, or am I about to have a Molotov cocktail thrown at my car?
It’s been a full month since the massacre. The country is in mourning. Yesterday marked the end of “shloshim,” the traditional 30 days of mourning that a family observes after the death of a loved one. Only this time, it isn’t only those who have lost an immediate relative who have been morning for 30 days, it’s been the entire country. Because, when you attack our people, you attack every last one of us.
We are home again. Our visit to the Kinneret was odd.
It was quieter up there. The sounds of action to the north were absorbed by the mountains that surround the sea. Every so often you could hear muffled sounds, but not much at all. Most of the sounds at the resort were the sounds of children playing.
It never ceases to amaze me how resilient children are. Children live in the moment. They weren’t home, but they made “here” their home. They ran, swam, and rode scooters. They played. Even in the midst of war, even while evacuated from their homes and squashed into one room for the whole family, children play. It’s what they do.
It’s shabbat morning. The resort, which is filled to capacity with evacuees from the North, doesn’t appear to have organized a morning prayer service. My husband trots off to the designated “synagogue” to go see if there is anyone praying there. He decided that even if there isn’t an actual service, that he would do his Shabbat morning prayers there, as there is a concept in Judaism that certain places have an inherent holiness to them, and a place where there is a Torah scroll, or where people have regularly had prayer services, is one of those inherently holy places. Besides, as lovely as our bungalow is, it’s very small and I’d be in his way, and probably a distraction. While he’s at the synagogue, I grab a cup of cold tea and go sit at the table in front of the bungalow to meditate. I’d like to call it prayer, but most of the time it’s more of a one-sided conversation. We are really very fortunate as our bungalow faces the water, so sitting there is definitely a spiritual experience. As I sat there, admiring the beauty and the deceptive peacefulness of the lake, I start my conversation with the Creator of it all. “Why, oh why, did You create humanity with the capability of such evil?”
It’s finally Friday. Today is the day that we are going up to the Kineret for our weekend getaway. But before we do that, we are going out for our usual Friday morning breakfast. Only today, we have a small guest with us. Last night our DIL mentioned that with her husband away, she hasn’t really been able to give the apartment a good cleaning and was wondering if we would be willing to take one of the kids so she can try to get some work done in the house. We agree to take her middle son – he just turned 7 – to breakfast and shopping with us this morning.
I’m still reeling from the things I read yesterday evening. Sleep last night was intermittent and fitful. I suppose I should be grateful for the fact that I almost never remember my dreams. Although, I do remember waking up many times during the night. It wasn’t anything specific, I just think that at this point my nervous system is so overwhelmed by the constant anxiety that it doesn’t seem to know how to relax anymore.
It’s Wednesday morning. Shopping day. This is the third shopping day since the war began. Our local supermarket – a large grocery store and part of a country-wide chain, serves the region where I live. This consists of approximately 80,000 – 100,000 Jews, in about 20 communities. I have no idea how many Arabs live in the area, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a similar number.
Except for the rare terrorist attack, Jews and Arabs in our area interact and live side-by-side not only without incident but without hatred. No, in general, we don’t socialize with each other, but we ride the bus, go grocery shopping, clothes shopping, eat out, see movies, and do all those public things in the same places, giving an occasional smile or friendly hello and being polite. In fact, in general, in my community, I’ve observed that Arabs and Jews interact more politely than many of the people in New York. So much for apartheid.
When I was a child I remember milk cartons sometimes being printed with the picture of a missing child. The idea being that if enough people saw the picture, maybe someone would remember their face and recognize them if they see them somewhere and help in recovering the child.
This week Israel’s main milk producer, Tnuva, did something similar, with the pictures of the 212 known hostages. It says on the box, “Kidnapped” (on the top) and underneath the pictures it says, “kidnapped since Sat, Oct 7th” “last seen in Western Negev” and 1-BRING-THEM-HOME. While posting their faces on the carton may not make them come home any quicker by being recognized, it’s a reminder that there are real people – A LOT of real people – suffering, being held hostage. More than 20 of them are children, some babies. Many of them are elderly, not capable of enduring the same hardships a younger adult can…
I’ve gotten behind again on my journaling. When a wound is fresh, when the anger is sharp, it’s easy to express yourself. The burning inside acts as a propellant for the words to come out. But as time goes on the fire gives way to hot coals and what remains where the burning used to be is exhaustion. I am so tired on so many levels, sometimes I feel like I have to push the words out like trying to roll a boulder uphill.
A new week has begun.
Before the war began, and before the Fall holidays, my daughter and I had the custom of spending an hour together every Sunday morning to have coffee and chat. We’ve been doing it for years. Over the holidays, we paused our weekly coffee date because the kids were all home and it was just too difficult for her to get out. The war extended that hiatus. But today we are finally getting together for coffee. I really treasure this time together, and in many ways I feel like my daughter is my best friend.
Buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz
I had shut off do not disturb mode from my phone so that if the security needed to send emergency instructions, I would get the call. I still haven’t figured out how to do the configurations correctly so that the things I want to come through will and the things I don’t want to come through won’t. Maybe by the time the war is over I’ll have it all figured out.
It’s 3am and the buzzing of a rocket alert wakes me up. Boom. I hear the booms. In the end it turns out that the rockets were over on the coast, near Gaza. I did a little research and according to what I found, I shouldn’t be able to hear the booms all the way over here, but I do. My husband thinks my research was faulty. It’s very possible. But I heard the booms and then drifted back off to sleep.
Hard to believe that this has now been going on for two weeks. It’s Friday, and time for us to get ready for shabbat.
I look over to the shelf where I light my shabbat candles. The seven-day candle I lit on Wednesday is still burning and I am reminded that no, it’s not over yet. We still have no knowledge about the condition of our hostages, the red cross has made no effort to see them.
When I woke up this morning and checked my phone, I was shocked to find that there hadn’t been any rockets fired from Gaza since 10:00 last night. In fact, the first alarm today wasn’t until after noon. I’m guessing that we must have done a reasonably good job at destroying their terror infrastructure. But maybe I spoke too soon. Buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz…
Boom. That was close. But we didn’t get any sirens.
Wednesday morning, shopping day. This week venturing out to go grocery shopping at our local supermarket wasn’t as scary as the previous week. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly a frightening situation can become “normal” given enough time. Wow, just saying that to myself is a different kind of frightening. No one should have to get used to rockets going boom overhead, or the threat of violence in the streets. No one should have to get used to not knowing if food they need for their children will be available when they get to the store. No one. And while I’m writing this I’m thinking about the people who live in Gaza…
I wake up feeling more focused today, I think it’s going to be another productive day. I’ve fallen behind on my blog posts, and I’m getting messages from people who say they really appreciate them, so I should keep writing. Well, when you put it that way…
It’s Tuesday. My SIL went back to base on Sunday morning. I know it’s only been a few days, and he’s working in a logistics unit now – which can be stressful at times, for sure, but he’s not in the same kind of stressful situation he was last week. I’m relieved about that, but still feeling like I want him to know how much he is loved and how much we care about him.
I’m finally sleeping better. I guess in some ways I’ve grown a little numb to the buzzing of my phone and the horrors of last Shabbat have begun to get duller around the edges – if that’s a thing. It appears that the massacre was so horrific that it’s caused global leaders’ humanity to overtake their normal apathy and even bias against Israel, meaning that we are getting support (or at least not being condemned) in ways that Israel has never before experienced. So I guess I’m not feeling the threat of complete annihilation the way I was last week, and that’s relieved some of my anxiety. Last week I was paralyzed, this week I’m just very (very) distracted.
After a pretty restful shabbat, for which I am very grateful, I wake up ready to start the week. Or so I think. In Israel the weekend is Friday and Saturday (Shabbat) instead of Saturday and Sunday, so Sunday is the first day of the work-week. One of the few things I actually do miss from the US is having Sunday off. Somehow, even when I had to work on Fridays, I managed to get ready for Shabbat and then I had Sunday off. It’s good to have a day between Shabbat and the work-week. In Israel, it’s different. Friday, which should be like Sunday, isn’t really a day off if you are religious because there’s always the looming deadline of sunset when everything has to be ready for Shabbat. In spite of my best efforts to start the week off being productive, there’s a million other things vying for my attention…
Friday night. Shabbat. Shortly before setting my phone up for the special shabbat-during-war mode, I noticed that people were suggesting lighting an extra two candles for the women who were in captivity or serving on the front lines, who wouldn’t be able to light candles for themselves. I decided not only to do that but to also light a yahrzeit candle.
I wake up and check my phone. No sirens since 1am. That might be a record since the war began.
Normally, on Friday morning, my husband and I go out for breakfast. Friday is a day off in Israel, and being without small children at home, this is something we can do. It’s our sacred time. We’ve always advised married couples, young and old, that they must make time for each other. Date night – once a week or at least once a month is a necessity, not a luxury. Being a little on the older side, I find the idea of going out in the evening exhausting, just the thought of it. So we decided that instead of date night, we’d have date breakfast. Sometimes we have friends join us, sometimes we have family join us – like last week. It was my birthday on the secular calendar, so all the kids in the area (not our one set of kids who live in the center of the country, because it’s just too hard). It seems like months ago, not a week.
I’m still having issues with sleeping, but I managed to get almost 6 hours last night. That’s not bad, honestly.
First thing I do is check my phone. Is everyone ok? And then the news sites. And then I make a mistake that I make over and over again – I check social media.
On my Instagram feed there’s a famous speaker and author that I really respect speaking out about what’s happened here. Amazing. I knew this guy was great. But then I make the real mistake. I look at the comments. NEVER ever look at the comments. I know this. I know there’s a lot of awful people out there.
Every Wednesday morning my husband and I go grocery shopping early, so we can avoid the crowds, get in and out quickly and get back home in time to start our work day. I wasn’t sure we’d be able to go shopping this morning. But we are fortunate, our local supermarket is open and relatively well stocked, all things considered.
What was that? I mean, obviously it was some sort of aircraft, but it was really REALLY loud. At 3:15 in the morning, I had only had a few hours sleep, but the jet passing overhead sounded like it was close enough to scrape our apartment building. Ok, well, maybe if I don’t think too much I can get back to sleep. After all, I haven’t actually had a good night’s sleep in several days now.
I closed my eyes and had barely drifted off to that place that feels so good when I was awakened again by a very loud jet. This one wasn’t as close as the first one, but super loud. Enough louder than the air traffic we’ve been hearing 24/7 for the past 3 days that it woke me up. I squinted to check the time, without my glasses on, and really still ¾ asleep, that was not an easy task…3:18. Wait…what? Only three minutes since the last one? I must be mistaken.
I managed to get a few hour’s sleep. Not enough to function well, though. I’ve got to get more work done or this month is going to be hard in more ways than one. I check Facebook again to see if I can mark myself safe in the crisis – this will help lower the amount of people asking me if we are okay. I appreciate the concern, and it’s heartening knowing that so many people care about my welfare, but it’s hard to answer everyone. Facebook still hasn’t listed the war as an option and I am livid. There are ways of doing this that don’t have to be about “taking sides”, but ignoring the situation is abominable. Nope, still no option.
Drawn like a moth to light, I cannot put down my phone. I cannot shut down my computer. What’s the latest count? Who has been found? The booms continue, although much more distant now. The buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz of my phone has a few more minutes between each set. But it’s 1:30 am and I have to work in the morning. So reluctantly I head to bed. Sleep is fitful, but I’m exhausted.
I get up, get dressed, as usual. I get my coffee and sit down to work. One website…just one…no, I need to work. I try to work. But websites and LinkedIn profiles seem so trivial at the moment. I am so distracted.
It’s Saturday morning, Shabbat, but also the last day of the festival of Sukkot in Israel, called Shemini Atzeret and also Simchat Torah. This is the day we celebrate the greatest gift God gave to the Jewish people (and the world, really). I’m laying in bed and my phone begins to buzz – buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.