Day 374: Golani Shelanu

Plus some reflections on the first year of this blog/newsletter

Welcome to new subscribers. This post marks 374 days since the war, and 368 days since I began writing them in English instead of Spanish, and posting here.) Scroll to the end of this post for more on this topic.

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Golani

Even if you know nothing about the Israeli army, chances are you have heard of the Golani brigade, probably the best known of the five infantry units (the others being Givati, Kfir, Nahal and the Paratroopers.)

The fact that any Israeli can sing along to the chorus if the unit’s song, “Golani Sheli” (“My Golani”) says it all. Golani is the ultimate melting pot. Golani is all of us.

Shortly after 7 pm last night, there were reports of a drone strike near Binyamina. I texted a friend who lives in that city. “No, it wasn’t here, it was farther East, closer to Wadi Ara.” [the nearby valley that is is home to three large Palestinian-Israeli cities.]

As reports of number of wounded kept climbing, the lack of an unspecified location of the community that took the hit raised my suspicions. It didn’t take more than a quick look at Google Maps to understand what was going on. “I think they targeted the Golani training base.”

That fact was officially announced a few hours later, as was the death of four soldiers, all “tironiim” (new recruits,) aged 19. Seven more soldiers were seriously injured, including one still in critical condition. Some 50 others were taken to hospital with injuries of varying degrees, including one of Y’s friends from mechina, who sustained light injuries.

The names of the four soldiers killed were released this morning: Sgt. Omri Tamari from Mazkeret Batya, who attended a sister school to my own kids’ school; Sgt. Yosef Hieb from the Druze village of Tuba Sangaria; Sgt. Yoav Agmon, 19, from nearby Binyamina-Giv’at Adam and Sgt. Alon Amitay, 19, from Ramot Naftali, a moshav in the Upper Galilee that has seen heavy bombarded by Hezballah rockets and missiles.

Just to put things in perspective— a barrage nearly 200 sophisticated ballistic missiles from Iran two weeks ago caused one death (a Palestinian from Jericho) and relatively little damage, despite their size and payload. But a single, inexpensive, slow-flying drone with 20 Kg. of explosives crashed without warning into the roof of a cafeteria during dinner killed four and wound dozens of people in what is considered to be one of the safest areas in the country.

The oak tree that represents the Golani Brigade, as reinterpreted today by artist Dana Barlev

Between Yom Kippur and Succot

It’s usually the quiet of Yom Kippur that makes it so intense.

The airport is closed. There are no cars (except for the occasional ambulance, more often than not, tending to a kid who fell off their bike.) There is no TV, and nobody calls you. And those of us who walk to synagogue enjoy doing so in the middle of the empty streets.

But this Yom Kippur, of course, was different. Many of us carried our (muted) phones to synagogue, just in case the Homefront Command sent dedicated warnings. We could hear the roar of war planes above us. And we laughed nervous laughter when, in the middle of the silent Amida prayer, a phone rang. A young guy, an officer in a combat unit, blushed, and rushed to take the call outside.

Whatever his commander said, it must not be that bad, I thought, because the soldier soon returned to his seat.

We later learned that there were hundreds of missiles and drone attacks over the holiday, including a drone that exploded on the side of a nursing home in a suburb of Tel Aviv. (Air raid sirens had been activated, and the residents made it safely to the shelter.)

The day after Yom Kippur, things were back to normal. No visible progress in the plight of the hostages. Bickering in the government. And, in a decision that is still raising eyebrows, yet another official government memorial ceremony planned for late October, close to the Hebrew date of the October 7 attacks.

As one particularly sharp tweet by a local comedian put it, “every Israeli in danger can rest assured that the government will always mark a memorial ceremony for him.”

The status by comedian Reshef Shay

Next up in the Jewish Calendar: Succot, which was, until this year, my absolute favorite holiday. Not only because the weather is perfect (even, and maybe especially, when it rains,) but because of the what it represents: simplicity, gratefulness, and the ability to sit in a terrace or garden with friends. I even find comfort in the “depressing” assertions of the Book of Ecclesiastes, which is traditionally read on the holiday.

But the day after Succot is Simchat Torah, which will forever now be tainted by the events of October 7th. My synagogue is still busy figuring out what to do this year. For starters, no large communal dinner-celebration, but each family is encouraged to host a few friends over instead. And special prayers and symbols interwoven throughout, to remember the fallen, and to pray for the hostages.

If Priya Parker were to do a reprint of her bestselling book, Why We Gather, she might consider adding a dedicated chapter on this. Because gathering is really what has sustained me throughout this last year. As a friend reminded me this morning, the only thing that keeps us going these days is the sense of community. And that means a lot.

Not everyone in my family will be home for Succot. Y will probably be here for the first half of the holiday, according to what the army told her. But B won’t be home, according to the last update he gave us before disconnecting his phone for a while. How do you cope? my friends ask me. Well, it helps to know I’m not alone. I try not to think of where exactly he might be, or what he might be experiencing these days. Thought it doesn’t always work.

So it’s just a matter of keeping busy, especially with productive things, and especially in any project where I feel I’m helping someone or something.

And believe it or not, by writing this blog.

One year of this Substack

On October 12 2023, after days of a few days writing daily updates for my friends and family abroad (in Spanish, over WhatsApp,) I opened a Substack newsletter as a way to share those same updates in English (for those friends and family members who don’t speak Spanish) and let everyone access the “archives.”

I thought I would do this for a few weeks, or a month tops (to also cover the “post-war” period.)

I never expected I would still be writing it on Day 374. Or that by now, there would still be hostages in Gaza. Or that my son would see combat in both Gaza and Lebanon. Or that this war would have no end in sight.

I never expected to continue getting new subscribers a year later. Or feedback from readers saying they never miss a post. Or that most of my readers would be people I’ve never met.

This newsletter birthed two published pieces. It gave me material for a prize-winning essay (which I’m revising before submitting for publication.) It’s also helping me write the last bit of my thesis.

But more than any of these “results” (or the “stats” that Substack shoves at me,) this blog has been the single most important way to stay sane. Or sane-ish. It has helped me process the crazy, overwhelming reality by helping me focus on the little things. The things on my to-do list. The songs, the stickers, the ceremonies. The anecdotes from friends. The news. The ways we’ve changed. And those in which we still need to change.

I credit this blog, and particularly its readers, for giving me a small sense of purpose. For helping me focus on the good things, too (because who wants to read a blog only filled with doom?)

For all this, and for so much more, thank you.