Clean slate

We closed out the year of shock, fear, trepidation and I was here. For many years, I traveled to the US over Sukkot to visit my elderly mother, but this year I could not find the will to leave my beloved Israel at such a poignant time. Because last year I assayed to return, desperate to be nearer to my son who raced to battle with other heroes. I ached to be with my husband, children, grandchildren, neighbors and strangers, all mercilessly under siege. I needed to be ‘under siege’ alongside the holy citizenry of Israel. It took one full week, 20,000 still-unaccounted-shekels, wet-wipe cleanses in public toilets, agonizing hours of short dozes on airport floors in Istanbul, Paris, Rome, Newark and Baltimore, and prayer. I thought I knew how to pray before October 7, 2023. I knew nothing. I know less now.

And if the massacre wasn’t staggering enough, the months that ensued brought new emotional paralysis. We couldn’t envision the euphoria that occurred by a smattering of hostage releases, only to be followed by more soldier fatalities, errors caused by ‘friendly fire,’ school closings, entire communities irreparably traumatized by the cacophony of blasts that relentlessly accompanied countless escapes into shelters and safe rooms.

Diaspora Jewry, along with Christian friends and millions of other moral people, sent staggering amounts of money and supplies to help our nation at an unprecedented time of need. They did not split hairs and question our (frequently) restrained responses to the onslaught but, instead, opened their wallets and materially, made certain that our soldiers could, indeed, soldier-on. We have an eternity to reflect on this historical outpouring of belief in our cause.

Reflecting on the previous year, however, I can unequivocally state that the most remarkable trait of the Israeli people is their “unity under fire.” Hotels that were closed due to a dearth of tourists, opened their revolving doors to evacuees from both the north and south of the country. Entire communities made space in their classrooms for (literally) shell-shocked children who might otherwise lose valuable months of education. Pop-up weddings became the norm on army bases around the country, with khaki-clad brides and grooms listening to the ketubah (marriage contract) read along with the sound of rocket-fire in the distance. And believe-you-me, until you’ve seen a veiled-kallah wearing jungle-camo and Tavor assault rifle slung over her left shoulder, you haven’t seen anything.

Anyone with a washer and dryer has happily laundered filthy field-wear for the approximately 7,000 lone-soldiers who heeded the call to protect our people. We are baking and cooking and sewing, sending tons of home-cooked victuals to supplement the occasionally bland army meals. Privately funded barbecues are de rigueur every month, lifting the spirits of our selfless warriors. Every service provider I’ve met, whether the yogurt or doughnut shop, movies and concerts, health clubs and spas, transportation providers and others, offer free goods and services for these warriors. Facebook is replete with weekly invitations for any chayal (soldier) who is without a holiday or Shabbat meal to join respective families. The only requirements are that they come as they are, schlep a friend or three and bring along a hearty appetite.

During the Days of Awe, my reservist son was fighting up North. Although I’d dropped him a WhatsApp before lighting Rosh HaShanah candles, when the three day observance ended, I saw that he hadn’t opened the message. This lack of contact could only mean that he was deep in battle. Like so many mothers, I could not/did not sleep. I checked the phone constantly, took long walks, ate a lot and badly, and prayed. When his voice message finally appeared, weakly uttering the words, “I’m alive and in Israel,” I exhaled for the first time in ten days. It did not matter that he was in an army infirmary with others, sleeping, healing and eating. He was alive. He was in Israel. Not every parent gets such glorious messages.

Autumn ends and winter looms, rife with expectation. We prayed and beseeched and passed over that dreaded anniversary – the one that changed the landscape for Eretz Yisroel in our generation. With unity, love and clarity of vision, the months that stretch in front of us can provide hope and solace. God will do His part. The question remains: Will we?

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Reprinted with permission of San Diego Jewish Journal, November, 2024.