Hope is mandatory

Many years ago, although it doesn’t feel so long, the Gulf War (part 1) took place. It wasn’t because of Israel, it wasn’t in Israel, and yet it affected us; those of us here at the time had to learn what a gas mask was and carry it around. Even though the threat hung over us since about August of that year, the actual war didn’t start until January. For Israel, it was a war with sirens that stole our sleep and sent us running for our sealed rooms- a new one for Israel, who had long learned to build shelters for all our people. There were rockets that may or may not have contained poison gas raining down on Israel, who again, was not involved in the war. Miraculously only a few died because of that war- yes, some of us were killed during a war that didn’t involve us.

That war, as it turned out, was only six weeks long. I have a picture of Yaffo street, the main place downtown that is always hopping. At the end of the year, when I got that picture developed (you know, from film?), I couldn’t understand why I took it- it was just the street with two people in the bus stop across the road carrying gas masks. As I was looking at it, I suddenly understood the significance of the photo. It was Yaffo street on the first Friday of the war, and it was EMPTY except for those two people. As the war went on, more people went about their business, but we all carried those masks. Suddenly, one morning, only six weeks after it started, they announced that the war was over. We all had other masks that day, because it was Purim. But I had left early that morning, before the announcement, and still had my gas mask with me. There is nothing so Israeli as the amount of people who needed to “inform” me that the war was over, and I didn’t need the gas mask anymore, so why was I schlepping it around? Ugh, you know? But I took it in good humor and with the good intentions that were meant–everyone was just so relieved to be able to say that, and I understood. 

At this point, I don’t really remember much of last Purim. Just that we dressed up, and gave mishloach manot, and did all of the normal things. Somehow, even less than last year, when I think we were hoping to hear that same announcement at any time, we don’t have much energy to be happy. This is the month that our happiness is meant to increase, but it started so terribly, just after the horrible return of the rest of the Bibas family, and only two days after their funeral. It was hard to welcome Adar, the fun month, with that hanging over our heads, as well as day after day of additional funerals of murdered hostages. The Wednesday of the Bibas funeral I went to the highway to honor this mom, who tried so hard to protect her two little redheaded babies, whose faces, I think, will stay in our hearts and minds for years to come. That morning, I ran out with barely time to make coffee. Every time I tried to eat that day I only felt nauseous. It felt to me like the Fast of Shiri. I was finally able to eat when my husband made a nice dinner, but even then, with difficulty. After the funeral, I had to go to work, the pharmacy, and food shopping. The worst part of that day was doing “normal” things. All day long I thought of the poem by W.H. Auden:

‘Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone’

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, 

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, 

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum 

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead 

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, 

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, 

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West, 

My working week and my Sunday rest, 

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; 

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. 

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; 

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; 

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; 

For nothing now can ever come to any good. 

W H Auden

I could not understand how Yarden and the rest of the family even found the strength to stand and cry at the funeral, as this sweet mom and her babies were laid to rest at last in one grave, together forever, but at least back in our land. Even after I ate that night, I just wanted to sit in silence and wonder how things could go on. A close friend messaged to ask if I would join her in volunteering at the Pina Chama, a place where our local chayalim (soldiers) can stop in for coffee and cake. I wrote that I was not okay. She said she was coming over. Just having her sit with me and hug me helped, but what helped the most was what she said; the world didn’t stop for October 7th, and it can’t stop now. We all just have to go on, which honors them also. I accepted this and was able to get up the next morning and join my high school on a 5 K run to honor the memory of our past graduates who were killed as soldiers during this war. Because that IS what we Jews do.

We don’t sit and cry, we build and do positive things. We leave the gas masks at home and put on Purim costumes and celebrate life. We have had so many years of torture and capture that the prayer for the release of hostages is printed in our prayer books. And for the last 78 years (and counting) we have also prayed for our soldiers, those who are right now missing a joyous holiday so they can protect our people. I am so proud of them, and of those from my family and friends who are serving and have chosen to serve during a war even if they don’t live here, because they see what is happening and they choose to be part of it. (I’m talking to you, SDSRS and Batman, of course!)

Yesterday was the Fast of Esther, but all day many other names went through my head: Eden, Carmel, Shiri, Noa, Agam…too many to write here. All those young women who were murdered on October 7th, or taken, or suffered. All of the tough wives and mothers who have lost their loved ones or are in constant worry over their babies. Rachel, Rachel Polin Goldberg, Rachel Imenu- the mother who stood on the border and screamed for her sweet Hersh, who was finally returned but only to be buried. Now she has to learn how to live without him. There are too many, and there are still 59 who wait. Wait for their miracle, wait to come home to heal, wait to come home to be put to rest in their country. And countless others who wait and hold their breath, all of us whether we are with you in Kikar Hachatufim, Hostage Square, which should never have had to be renamed, or in Kiryat Gat with those from Nir Oz who lost so much, it hurts to think about, or all over the country; we are all waiting with you.

On the Thursday that Shiri and her boys were returned, or were supposed to be returned had we not had to deal with monsters who only seek to hurt and torture, some of those monsters who we released in our earlier deal with the devil thought to add to our trauma. They planned a massive, country-wide series of bus bombings. In the end, it was a real miracle, as the bombs were discovered, mistimed, and didn’t kill a single person. I remember the week before when I found out that one of the recently released terrorists was responsible for planning the suicide bomb that killed my friend, Sarah, and her fiance, 29 years ago when they were visiting Israel at the age of 23. I remember how much that hurt because, I guess, unlike the release of the murderer of Ari Fuld and those who brutally killed the Fogel family (if you don’t know that one, look up the details and you’ll understand why we are trying to weed out the devils), Sarah’s was so long ago I guess I thought her killer had died or something. But no, he was released. And as we knew, they are ready to continue evil. The next morning, what was said here was the dark humor that sometimes is all we have- Israel is the only country where five buses blowing up was not the worst thing that happened that day. The following week, when Shiri, 4 year old Ariel, and baby Kfir, who never even got to see his first birthday, were laid to rest, it was February 26th. As I waited with friends and fellow citizens for their funeral van to pass, I realized- February 26th was the date that Sarah was murdered. 

Sometimes it’s just too much. Sometimes we have to let ourselves mourn and be sad, and tell ourselves that it’s okay not to want to celebrate. As my high school did last night at their Purim party, we can also take a break from the dancing and say prayers for those who can’t, and sing a few sad songs. All I know right now is that six weeks came and went last year. We didn’t get our Chanukah miracle. Six months passed; we didn’t get our Purim miracle then either. 

What has been occupying my mind for the past week, as talks have stalled, and in the past two months, as relief and anticipation turned to horror as we saw Eli Sharabi and others return looking like they had been through the Holocaust, is that we really need them back NOW. The world needs to give us a gd break and understand that every day, every hour, every minute that passes is Hell for those who are still alive, Hell for their families, and also Hell for those waiting just to bury their dead and start to somehow start to heal. 

We know, we know, that Hope is Mandatory- it is what we have. Sometimes, though, Hope is also purgatory- the waiting, the hoping itself hurts. So I ask you, Hashem, that this Purim we see a miracle that will lighten our hearts. We want to put down the posters, the proud blue and white flags stained with a yellow ribbon, put away the yellow chairs and take down the signs that seem to be endlessly counting, counting. Sometimes it hurts to hope so much, but hope is what we have.

May we all be able to truly celebrate the next holiday, the Festival of Freedom, together. Biyachad ninatzeach!