A Filter for the Sadness Here
The Succot holiday gives Jewish Israeli kids a weeklong school vacation. Grandparents on-duty week. We spent an afternoon with two granddaughters, the 7-year-old and 8-1/2-year-old cousins. They wanted to go to the big playground around the block. The 7-year-old inquired about its proximity to a bomb shelter.
Earlier, they drew with magic markers on paper towels, then dipping them in water to watch the color run. Talking to Haim, I mentioned the Irish embassy. The girls laughed, unfamiliar with Ireland. I explained, adding that Ireland is England’s neighbor, (sort of) like Jordan and Israel are neighbors. The 8-1/2-year-old promptly informed us that Jordan was once our enemy. Then she explained that if Gaza stops being our enemy, it won’t last, they’ll go back to being our enemy. Without questioning her analysis, I asked if she heard about Jordan from her parents or in school. She couldn’t remember.
The eve of the holiday, the 7-year-old and her 10-year-old sister came over, while we cooked for dinner, Erev Simchat Torah. The younger one wanted to go to the playground across from the entrance to our building. Could she go alone? What if there’s a siren? She asked if her sister could be considered a responsible adult.
In between granddaughter days, we went to an exhibit about Kibbutz Kfar Azza, before and after October 7. I would have passed, but two friends recommended it. Our remote control works overtime switching television stations when in the best interests of our emotional wellbeing, we skip another story about heroism and destruction on October 7 and every day since then. But we could see an exhibit. One building divided into four sections: before and after photos, art therapy pieces by Kfar Azza’s survivors displayed, media coverage of Kfar Azza after October 7, and personal stories in a space where we stood a few minutes talking without watching.
At a table outside, t-shirts, baseball caps, and canvas bags with first names on them for sale. Keith. Keith Siegel. I bit my lip, feebly attempting to restrain tears. The woman behind the table explained the items had names of Kfar Azza members still hostage in Gaza. Keith is the American man about my age. I lamely explained that makes me identify personally despite never hearing of him before October 7. Another woman from Kfar Azza overheard and asked if I’m also from North Carolina. No.
Entering the other exhibit pavilion, you face a board of text which I read, aware of three walls of video installations obscured by it. Haim approached, informing me he could not bear the videos of children, adults, each member of Kfar Azza killed October 7, with photos from birth through rites of passage – anniversaries or a bar mitzvah as a last event. It was time for me to leave.
Afterwards, I met a friend and her elderly mother for lunch. We had catching-up to do. All discussions led to the war. Repeatedly approaching descriptions of tragedies on and since October 7, each of us, activating the “well you know, I’ll spare you the details” filter.
I mentioned an autobiography I’m reading, how it makes me want to recover Israeli dreams from the 1950s, with naivete, wishing to regain the Israel I thought was supposed to be built. Still, me though, I noted imperfections in our past. Yet mentioned Yitzhak Rabin reminding Israeli soldiers that we take no joy in the loss of lives of our enemies. His less worthy statements, notwithstanding, I wish messages of the value of all life still resonated among our leaders. My friend commented that the other side never taught its soldiers or children not to revel in our deaths.
She shared a story she heard twice by a guide on different hikes she took on the Israel Trail in an area near the Burma Road. A story about fedayeen, as Palestinians were labeled then, murdering Israelis in 1948, then decapitating or mutilating the bodies in worse ways. Reminiscent, of course, of October 7. Stories familiar to me. Other narratives? They know, so I will refrain. They may be less aware of evidence of Israeli soldiers taking it upon themselves to flatten Gaza, knowing – orders or not – they won’t be stopped.
I asked about my friend’s niece, her late sister’s daughter. Her grandmother said she returned from Portugal and wants to head for Thailand. Her grandmother urged her to stay home for a while. The response, “Grandmom, it’s sad here.”
Relieved I asked about her rather than pursuing evidence of any kind that doesn’t reinstate Israel’s moral status. Just thinking, destruction in Gaza, Beirut. Just thinking, not arguing, Hamas and Hezbollah should not have expected any less.
The next day when our 7-year-old and 10-year-old were fighting, I tried explaining they didn’t have to convince me who was right and who started it. The little one said, “Grandmom, it’s ok, we made up already.” Still, I couldn’t resist telling them that sometimes – like for Israelis and Palestinians – it’s best to accept that the other side has an argument they will stick to just like you, and you can respect if not accept their version of the same event to move forward together.
Rereading a recipe while Haim monopolized the stovetop, my thoughts roamed. The evening before, Haim and I discussed Jewish burial ritual of bodies, people, burned on October 7, despite Jewish law prohibiting cremation. Shoah. The afternoon of the eve of the anniversary. I thought about Vivian Silver burning to death. Not about before. Not about after. During.
Haim heard me gasping. It was a year on the Hebrew calendar. Simchat Torah is that date. That fell last year on October 7. The kids were preoccupied. I went into the bedroom. Haim brought me water. We talked about people we know who have suffered emotionally during this war. I recollected myself.
We drove with the kids and food to Tel Aviv for dinner. Haim’s daughter, her mother, his son-in-law on leave from reserve duty, and our 2-1/2-year-old granddaughter awaited us.
Anxiety, anticipating drones from Hezbollah and rockets from Hamas, speculations about attacking Iran and the response. En route to Tel Aviv, I told Haim quietly about the report I had read about flattening Gaza – about Israeli soldiers knowing their violations of military ethics would go unchallenged. Haim mumbled something about disillusionment. Emotionally contained better than mine, I think.
Later, he sent me a clip of Gaza in 2023, before October 7. Looked a lot like clips of places we’d like to visit. But, as Haim said, Hamas didn’t care enough about that Gaza to refrain from attacking Israel. As he wrapped himself in that version, I knew things were sad enough. He didn’t need me pointing out other angles. News reports would soon remind me of stashes of money and munitions intended for Israel’s destruction, under a hotel, in tunnels, prepared by Hezbollah in Lebanon. A headline about human shield type tactics of Hezbollah agents escaping Beirut in an ambulance. If Israel attacks the ambulance another humanitarian violation is added to its scorecard?
We were eight at the dinner table. In a below ground-level apartment a safe room is irrelevant. First an app warning. Then we heard the air raid sirens. We stayed at the table. The 2-1/2-year-old, previously perceived by me as the calm child who takes it in stride began to cry, repeating the words, “alarms, alarms,” and demonstratively making the sound of an alarm as I hugged her. We heard the boom. The familiar boom of the interceptors. We resumed our holiday dinner.
Harriet Gimpel, October 24, 2024