I ran into a good friend (and an avid reader of this blog) a couple of days ago. What, you got writer’s block or something?
I smiled. No, it’s not writer’s block. Just the dizzying pace of the events of the events in September, and particularly, of the past week. Even as I write these words, there are heavy barrages from Lebanon into Israel: over 130 missiles so far, with some hits including to playgrounds and buildings. Galei Zahal is open in the background.
The cliches, however imperfect, all feel relevant: It feels like drinking from a fire hose. I’m trying (and failing) to wrap my head around what’s going on. We’re feeling the ground moving (if not physically shaking) beneath our feet.
And we are trying to remember to breathe.
I’m going to skip the first two weeks of September (because it now seems it was last year) and recap only this week:
Sunday - 6:30 am rocket alarm (ground missile from Yemen, crater in a forest near my home, damage to the train station 7 minutes from my house.) Take
”shelter selfie” and send to Y, whose missile alert rang on her phone even as she was in the desert, because her location was still set to Modiin. Then rush to make sandwiches and ensure everyone gets to work, school and the bus to the army on time.Monday - Drive to work for my next-to-last day at the office (yes, mass cuts have reached my workplace as well… something that, given the situation, was to be expected.) My plans are now to take a few weeks off, read/write, volunteer… and finish my darn thesis.
Tuesday - work and study from Jerusalem, all while worried sick about what the imminent dismissal of Defense Minister Yoav Gallant will mean for the country… And just a couple of hours later watch those headlines vanish given reports of exploding Hezbollah beepers.
Wednesday - Remember that it’s the last day of Kaddish for Lavi Z”L. Spend my last full day at the office in meetings and handovers, and bid an emotional goodbye to my wonderful team. Then, driving home, hear the reports of the exploding walkie-talkies. Call my (now former) manager: turn on the news!
Thursday - The day of Y’s swearing-in ceremony —the end of tironut. Because parents weren’t invited, I manage to drive to Natanya to visit a friend whose father passed away recently, and call up B, whose base is nearby. Stop at a local mall to get some goodies for him — chocolate cookies and a couple of books, which I’m convinced he won’t have much time to read — and steal five minutes with him on a bench outside the shin gimmel, a real luxury these days.
After yet another selfie, rush home to join S’s class for a Selichot field trip to Jerusalem, only to learn it’s been changed to a school activity in Modiin instead. Finish the day with a chorus of 6th-graders learning Anenu and several other piyutim I grew up with in the Templo Maguen David of Guatemala, trying to ignore the roar of war planes in the distance. Near midnight, learn they were likely part of the fleet that destructed hundreds of missile launchers in Lebanon that night.
Today (Friday)- as usual, errands and pick-ups and cooking. Realize that the hostages have been bumped down to the bottom of any news coverage, and feel terrified. And finally sit down to write this.
What I talk about when I talk about the North
I believe each of us has a special affinity to a particular place— a place that, even if it’s not technically home, soothes them, and makes them feel entirely at ease. In Guatemala, it’s always been Lake Atitlan — and one can easily see why. And in Israel, it’s always been the far north of the country, particularly the area around the Dan River. A lush, green, rolling landscape cooled by ice cold streams flowing north to south, all of which are tributaries of the Jordan River.
For many years, we found rentals via AirBnB (in Moshav Yaara, in Kiryat Shmona, in in a moshav near Akko, in Atlit) loaded the tiny trunk of our seven-seater with supplies and attached the chimigag on the roof for the suitcases. The six of us spent wonderful, laid-back days crisscrossing the North each summer, or during the Passover or Succot school breaks.
Today, all these names pop up frequently in the news, but my mind fails to grasp that the pastoral images no longer exist. Schools are closed, shops shuttered, businesses ruined, forests blackened from fires, homes pockmarked with shrapnel and fear.
Tens of thousands of people remain evacuated from their homes. Dozens killed. Only yesterday, two more names were added to the list.
We might live two or three hours away from the Upper Galilee or the Golan Heights, but part of my heart is permanently there. According to news reports, more units are being sent north. To think that only a few years ago, these same kids spent their summers in Scouts Camp near Safed, or their weekends and holidays kayaking, rappelling and camping in the north would be called to return to defend those same places, in hopes that life —and perhaps, one far day, peace— remains a possibility.