search
Mori Sokal

Let us deal wisely / Do our loved ones yet live?

Rakafot in Israel 2021 Picture by Mori Sokal
Rakafot in Israel 2021 Picture by Mori Sokal

Tick tock, tick tock. Hope and dread, dread and hope. Hope they are alive, dread they are not. Hope they are returning, dread in what state. Hope we are not releasing the next murderers, rapists, hostage takers, schemers, dread that we have no other choice. We wait and wait and wait for the names, who will be here soon, who will have to wait longer? They torture us; they are good at torture. We hear names of those we are meant to release from prison, not innocents like they took but those with blood on their hands and we cry- that monster? That baby killer? No! Horrified, it is so much to bear. But we hold on, we do, because at least ours are returning. A deal with the devil and we have no choice.

Yesterday’s parsha (torah portion) was Shemot- names. How appropriate. We hear names of our sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, who may be home soon- for a given value of soon- and we celebrate. We hear names of their monsters, raised to kill with no feeling, and we scream and cry. 

In the beginning of Shemot, Pharaoh notes how the Jewish population is growing, and says the most evil words in the Torah: Let us deal wisely with them. The first Solution, way before Nazi Germany arose. Let us first “tax” the Jews, stop them from reproducing, then quietly start to drown their babies. No, the word kill isn’t said. And so the Egyptians look away, pretend not to notice. Modern day monsters take down posters of mothers, young girls, babies. They scream that we are the aggressors, the bad guys. C’mon, it’s not Purim- why is everything upside-down? The world says we are committing apartheid, genocide- let’s throw some dictionaries and law books at their heads, maybe that will help them understand the hypocrisy they are spouting. It doesn’t feel like it’s been 471 days. It feels like the wound is still fresh, like it just happened- and it is. It can’t scab over or heal when it is ongoing. I want to say something good, to give hope, but it hurts so much. I hurt for the families waiting, aching to see their loved ones again. I hurt for the families who have to hear that those monsters who murdered their loved ones are going free. The monster who murdered our friend Ari, even though he was a person who helped Arabs as well as Jews, even though he worked to protect many and didn’t give up his life without doing his best to save others. The girl who was only twelve when she found her family, who was murdered in their beds- her mother, father, little siblings, and her baby sister, only three months old, now has to live with the fact that their murderers are going to be freed.

I want to scream at those protesters, who aren’t here, have never been here, who don’t know anything, who are saying we are wrong. They protested us fighting back already on October 8th, 2023, before we had even lifted a finger or a fighter plane at Gaza. They know nothing and spout nonsense.

I search for hope in tehillim-psalms, the one that says the wicked will rise up and flourish only so they could more easily be cut down. From the depths our souls cry out to You: avenge their blood! Protect us! I search for hope in my husband, who says the definition of hope is knowing that there are people who are still doing good things for each other. 

Then I search for hope in dark places, like taking comfort in the fact that those who murdered my good friend, Lucy, and her beautiful daughters, died while resisting arrest, so they can’t go free to kill again. At that time, I said it didn’t matter that they died, because it wouldn’t bring my wonderful friend back. It would not return half a family to a devastated father and siblings, a community in mourning. It would not refill their half-empty table and chairs. But now, my hope is for no more prisons, no more trials. That is dark, but it is what I have.

I wait, and pray, because what else can I do? 

Six weeks to get back less than half of those still dying slowly of lack of light, air, and hope. While we release those who deserve no less than the death penalty for what they did. Six more weeks, when it should have ended long ago. The world should have spoken up for us: Send Them Back, instead of forcing us to take the heavy burden on ourselves to Bring Them Home. 

All along, we have been chanting in our heads, in our hearts, the saddest line from the Torah, from the portion read two weeks ago when this new year began: Yosef finally breaks down in front of his siblings, almost too scared to hope, and cries: Does my father yet live? 

We hold our breath because letting it out means more screaming in frustration at an uncaring world. But we look at all of the empty chairs and empty tables and say Enough! This is what we were given to do, so we will do it. We look at the clock- one more minute of torture while we wait, two more minutes. The clock is ticking, the names are fading, the chairs and tables are still empty, waiting to be filled.

Then, looking through the news, I find this. A video of Nazi descendants singing with us, Am Yisrael Chai- the nation of Israel lives. “Taaseh shalom beneinu- Make peace between us” “Shmor Al yeladenu- Watch over our children” “Ayn lanu od medina-We have no other State” “Ki lo avda emunaynu- because we haven’t lost our hope” “We are not alone, when the wars burn.”

We have held each other up this year with music and hugs, the song of the moment being “Latzet MeDikaon- To get out of depression”. This song helped many of us get through this endless year, this nightmare. We are like our national flower, the rakefet. It grows in the winter, under rocks, hiding its beauty but flourishing nonetheless. We are a people who suffer constant slings and arrows, pain and suffering, slander and lies. Yet we stand up again, and as ever, we hope. I was at a gathering in Kiryat Gat last weekend, and despite the people yelling at and cajoling the government, begging them to make a deal, still the gathering ended with a solemn but present Hatikva. It is our banner, our mantra, our Anthem. Yes, Rachel, Hope is mandatory. It is what we have. We will hold onto hope and to each other.

About the Author
Mori Sokal is a SIXTEEN year veteran of Aliyah, mother of three wonderful children (with her wonderful husband) and is an English teacher in both elementary and high school in the Gush Etzion-Jerusalem area. She has a Masters’ degree in teaching, is a copy editor, and has published articles in Building Blocks, the Jewish Press magazine.
Related Topics
Related Posts