A little panic, a little disco, and a herd of goats threading through time

I’m somewhere between pride and panic and a pall of existential grief.

I’m not a military analyst. I’m not a political strategist. But I am a mother raising kids in this faultline of a region, and I know a few things from living here.

We are living through History.

Outside my window, a herd of goats is shepherded down the hill — toward the village across the road and on on into the grazing lands just before the desert. The same path, I imagine, as countless other herds across the centuries — there were even walls around the holy city. Before the Temple. Before the Church. Before the Mosque. Before the names we call this place even existed.

We’ve been here before.
We’re here now.
We must be here again.

Time folds in on itself like clothes pulled fresh from the line — heavy with sunlight, stiff with wind. The air raid sirens wail and I think of stories I heard from the Blitz — the terror, yes, but also that keep calm and carry on grit. Except here, it’s more yalla balagan — a lot of panic, a lot of disco.

We sit by the sea, let the waves lick our skin, feel the air on our cheeks and tell ourselves this can’t be it. Even as we know: the threat of a nuclear Iran would mean not just another war — it would mean the obliteration of life as we know it. We make coffee and drop off the car and pick up the kids. Wolt is still delivering. The pharmacy is open. And the ice cream won’t eat itself.

I like to imagine history moving forward — sometimes trudging, sometimes galloping, sometimes leaping into a pirouette. Right now, we’re being spun.

The fear rises, noxious. Bilious as I think about this war, dragging on and the heaviness of history pressing down on all our backs. So I take a deep breath and try to remember:

Donald Trump isn’t stupid. And we know that he can also be self-serving.

Members of his own party — the “America First” types — have begged him not to get involved in a regional war. Others are pushing him to act, because let’s not kid ourselves: when they chant “Death to America,” they mean it.

If this were going to be a long, bloody war with U.S. boots on the ground, he wouldn’t have done it. It would ruin his legacy, tank his party, and obliterate the ambitions of his handpicked heir. So whatever this is — it’s not meant to last long.

We also know now that the Iranians still have something to lose and a reason to negotiate — their enriched uranium had been moved before the strikes.

And say what you will about Prime Minister Netanyahu, but he is no fool either, and it’s not in Israel’s interest for this to be a long grueling, slog. We are already exhausted and have been since we woke up on October 7.

That’s why we’re striking now, not six months from now when the threat would be even greater and our options narrower.

I don’t want a long war.

I want decisive victory and the unconditional surrender of our enemies.

(I also want the damn preschool to open again.)

AND I know I’m not alone in this.

I saw a group praying in the streets just now — Priests and their flock.

And I think of my friends of all faiths in Jerusalem passing around board games to help the kids pass the time in bomb shelters.
I think of the mothers praying the electricity doesn’t cut so that Miss Rachel can keep singing, and the babies can feel safe.

I think of all of us — caught in that sliver of the Venn diagram between trying to go to work… and the end of the world as we know it.

I DONT feel fine, but I’m trying to remember:

These are strange, mysterious days. Terrifying, yes. But also wondrous.

Because the greatest miracle of all isn’t fire from heaven or manna from the skies — it’s the strength and stubbornness of this people, still here, still standing, still laughing, even as we cry. The miracle is in the goats and their shepherd, from one generation to the next, moving along — winding through the years, rough around the edges, a little noisy, but insistently living

They keep walking. As they always have and as they always must. This thread linking our ancient past throughout the various twist and turns of time until this moment and — please God — into the next.

And while I admire the goats, I also look to the shepherds.

The quiet heroes who guide with courage. The Families who protect their flock.

The folks who keep the country running even when we’d rather hide under the covers.

And the leaders we pray will choose wisdom over ego.
The ones who know this land — and all of us on it — are worth protecting.