Dryness
This dryness I carry—it’s no pretty metaphor for resilience, nor is it the elegant mask of someone trying to look strong. It’s a barren emptiness, a wasteland swallowing up every trace of humanity, reducing whatever’s left of us to almost nothing. Living here in Israel forces me to carry this dryness in my chest like a curse inherited and passed down. And why? Does loving this land mean turning to stone, going hollow until the soul disappears?
Since the attacks began, it feels like we’re being pushed to the edge. Every siren, every sound in the sky, every life taken. And peace? Humanity? It’s just a bitter echo, repeating itself in vain. Being a humanist in Israel right now feels almost obscene. We talk about hope while running through the wreckage, pretending the word still means something when, in truth, it’s just an empty chant forcing us to live one day to the next. And all for what? To feel pride in this land? To fill our chests with a shell we call “strength”?
I look at the stones—the ones that bear witness to wars, ancient prayers, and blood—and feel a rage that cuts deep. They’re unshaken there while we, the “living,” patch up wounds and pretend any of it makes sense. Peace is a lie we use to keep our hearts distracted. And I’m tired of a promise that never comes true. Each border is a bleeding scar, each wall a reminder that lurking behind every dream is death and that what we call security is nothing more than preparation for the next tragedy.
I feel this dryness growing. I feel my own bones hardening like the stones that haunt this land. Every siren, every face we lose, leaves a hollow I can’t fill. This dryness is a survival instinct—the last defense we must keep from shattering completely. Because here, to live means to become something I never imagined—cold, invulnerable, empty. And loving this land? Loving Israel? It’s a weight that crushes me and makes me want to tear at my own skin just to remember what it feels like to be alive. Loving Israel is a blade that cuts deep, the blood that dries me out. And I wonder if we remember the difference between love and hate.
The irony is unbearable. We try to survive, but we become precisely what we despise. This dry, empty shell that drags itself around, pretending to be strong, is a brutal exhaustion. Because here, peace doesn’t exist; it’s an illusion we think we deserve, like a wounded animal that no longer feels its own body. Living just to resist—is that it? As if we’re waiting for something that will never come. Each day, every new siren, every mourning, it all devours us from the inside out.
And what’s left for us? Only the dryness. This empty shell is a defense that keeps us from falling apart. But for what? Just to resist, to keep this insane cycle going? I look around and see faces that no longer express anything. We’ve become wandering deserts, dry fragments. And I think: if this life is only resistance, only half-living, then what the hell are we really doing?