Fear of the unknown

Headline on Times of Israel: Israel nabs 20 Hamas terrorists deep inside Gaza, brings them in for questioning

Warning: Lots of Hebrew coming up.

I am sick. Literally sick. It started last week as a tickle in my throat, then progressed over the weekend, and I woke up this morning g’mura (done). I dreamt of my dad last night; he passed away about 18 months ago before he saw any of this hell on earth. He would have had quite a few words to say about it, but in my dream, he hugged me as I cried.

I’ve been drinking tea every other hour, sucking on lozenges, and doing my best to take care of myself while also running my kids around to school, gan (nursery/kindergarten), and chugim (extracurriculars) since my husband is working (when he’s not tired from doing his miluim (reserve duty) service in and around Netanya from seven in the morning.

Life is really odd right now. My thoughts and feelings are scrambled.

In Netanya, things are pretty quiet. Kids are in school full-time, chugim are on as usual, but we all know that it can change in an instant. We know that our children are safe for now, but we also know that there are approximately 245 hostages still sitting underground somewhere, likely malnourished, and separated from their families, brutally and illegally.

Netanyatis (people who live in Netanya) are far enough from the north and south that we don’t get rockets very often, if at all (tfu tfu tfu), but east/west is a different story.

If there were terrorists who wanted to cause trouble, as they say, we aren’t that far. That’s why we need our kitat konenut (first response team) who trains weekly in urban warfare, close combat, and more. In the south, the villages and kibbutzim with the most highly trained kitot konenut were the ones who suffered the least amount of loss.

What I learned this week: one of the things that Kibbutz Be’eri (one of the hardest hit) liked to do was help Palestinians who were in need of medical assistance. Be’eri was established on October 6, 1946; according to Bret Stephens of the New York Times, “Be’eri was well known for its pro-peace sympathies: It had a special fund to give financial help to Gazans who came to the kibbutz on work permits, and kibbutzniks would often volunteer to drive sick Palestinians to an oncology center in southern Israel.”

What did Hamas do in return? Murdered elders, men, women, children, babies. Threw molotov cocktails and set their houses on fire. Blew up safe rooms to get to the scared civilians inside. Kidnapped dozens. A fine thank you.

Our IDF soldiers tried to supply Shifa Hospital in Gaza with 300 liters of fuel to help them; Hamas blocked it. A humanitarian food truck came to Gaza – Hamas terrorists brutally beat any Palestinian who tried to access it, and took the food for themselves.

Photo credit: Israel Defense Forces

Hamas doesn’t care. About those who live in Gaza, about Palestinians, and certainly not about Jews living anywhere.

It’s an odd feeling that comes over you after over a month of war and hatred. Almost like apathy. I guess I am war weary. I am tired of seeing the hate around the world, and I am also terrified that the world is getting tired of it as well – and will forget us – or worse, threaten us into a ceasefire (a sick joke considering we had one through October 6).

We are trying so hard not to be racist, trying so hard to continue seeing the humanity within the atrocities. We’re trying to guess daily who truly wants peace (after the war) and who is willing to do what is necessary to gain it – two very different things.

I am war weary, but the very thought of quitting now, putting in place any sort of cease-fire, any acceptance of an exchange for hostages (for prisoners arrested and jailed for a reason) scares the hell out of me.

This war sucks – any war does. But this is a necessary war. And if you’re going to do something, do it right.

So we continue and pray for the safety of our soldiers as they free the world of the murderous, barbaric pieces of trash otherwise known as Hamas.

But I sit on my couch with my doors locked, and in the safety of my little apartment in Netanya – between the river and the sea – I wonder.

How do I know which Israeli Arabs are my friends?
How do I know which Palestinians cheered when this (or other) attacks took place?
How do I know who will be left the day after the war ends?
How many years (months?) will pass before this happens again?
Will my children have to fight the same battle again in ten years? Fifteen years?

The questions are chilling.
The answers… are unknown. And that is what scares me the most.