Life Goes On: A Jerusalem Family During a Year of War

Snippets of our day-to-day since October 7, 2023

October 8, 2023. My boss calls our team to a meeting. It’s not the usual team meeting – giving us space to share how we feel about what happened a day ago. One of my teammates is still waiting to hear about her dear family friend who went to save people at the Nova Festival.

Meanwhile, there’s a project due for work in 2 days. I schedule a separate meeting to get input from the team. We might need one more project meeting.

Sirens in the South. Sirens in the North.

Our oldest daughter’s a Morah Chayelet. She finished Basic Training and was off for the chagim. Her six-week course was supposed to start, I kid you not: October 8th. It moved to Zoom.

My teammate’s friend was found. His funeral’s tomorrow.

Daily NY Times puzzle apps: Wordle. Connections. Mini Crossword. Strands. And sometimes Tiles. I have an alarm so I don’t miss my Wordle streak.

My high school daughter goes to boarding school near Haifa. She WhatsApps me – can I send her a permission note NOW so she can leave her dorm to go jogging, please?

Our nephews are in the Army or the Reserves. One nephew’s in Gaza as a Commander.

Our friend got engaged! Mazal tov!

Wake up. Check phone. Hostages are released in stages. Every day a few more. Children. Mothers. Grandmothers. Brothers. Baruch Hashem.

The nephew in Gaza joins a Happy Birthday Grandpa in America Zoom. Then he has to go.

This nephew in Gaza is released because his wife is on the way to the hospital to birth their second child. He makes it just in time – it’s a boy! Mazal tov!!

Our 20-year-old daughter, the Morah Chayelet, is helping school children from the North evacuated to a Jerusalem hotel. All year long she’s their teacher assistant. They love her. A deep impact for a deep need.

We’re at our friend’s chuppah! Mazal tov!

I order groceries. Lemon juice – the natural kind. Not the citric acid+water kind. Two 200-packs of napkins. Premium coffee – caff/decaf. Bubbly wine. Bubbly grape juice. Ten-packs of Doritos – the black, the yellow, and the green.

The bris is joyful because their family is reunited. Whole again. The mother/wife talks about how it’s one thing to be alone at home with your one-year-old while your husband is off in Reserves in Gaza. It’s another level to also be pregnant. The single-motherhood of married women is rampant. Entire community towns (yishuvim) are mostly women – the men are off at war – could be 5 hours away, could be 20 minutes away. Either way, they’re away, and the women have to manage the kids alone, with the constant worry.

Wake up. Check phone. A reserve soldier from my Washington DC area – my hometown – is killed in the North. He was living in the US and flew back to fight as soon as the war started. My cousin was in his high school class. I WhatsApp her, sending condolences.

I order the weekly organic box. It’s from a farm near Gaza whose Thai workers fled after October 7th. They have volunteers, but business is slow. Next week I’ll order from my usual organic farm near Jerusalem, which hasn’t been hit by the war but I can’t leave them for the farm near Gaza because then the farm near Jerusalem will suffer financially, too. So I alternate weeks, supporting them both. Five lettuces, 2 kales, 3 kilos cherry tomatoes, 1 kilo kohlrabi, 1.5 kilo onions, 2 kilo potatoes, 1 kilo carrots, and a smattering of other greens I never heard of. Because that’s what an organic box is for. For greens you never heard of. A weekly intrigue.

Another friend got engaged! Mazal tov!

On Memorial Day, this nephew who was in Gaza visits many families of recently-fallen soldiers. Soldiers he served with.

On our way to the wedding. Waze isn’t working – it always says we’re in Beirut. As if. Lovin’ the 80s tunes on the radio at this hour of the day!

Volunteered on farms one Sunday a month for four months with the work team. My boss’s initiative.

I order our meat delivery. Beef ribs, Osso Bucco. Whole chickens. Chicken wings. Ground beef. Turkey drumsticks.

Wake up. Check phone. Three hostages killed by our friendly fire. Not our fault. It’s a mess there in Gaza. Hostages mixed in with Hamas operatives mixed in with our hostages mixed in with Gazan civilians. Hamas seeds confusion.

Project due at work in a week. I schedule a meeting to get input from other teams. We might need one more project meeting.

Wake up. Check phone. Twenty-one soldiers killed in Gaza at once.

Every Sunday, our 12-year-old volunteers with an afterschool program for Northern evacuee children displaced to Jerusalem. They love her. A deep impact for such a deep need.

Eighth-grade daughter needs to apply to high schools. In Israel that’s like applying to college in the US. Four high school open houses. Four lengthy applications. Four interviews. Rejection letters. Acceptance letters. She likes where she’s going. Phew.

Wake up. Check phone. Six soldiers killed.

Shabbat. Neighbors tell us three hostages were captured from captivity by our soldiers! Palpable joy.

Project due at work – due date TBD. I schedule a meeting to get input from other teams. We might need one more project meeting.

After much deliberation, I admit it’s better to switch our 6th grader to a different school for 7th/8th. So many WhatsApps. So many phone calls. The open house. The interview. The entrance exams. They repeatedly tell us they rarely accept girls into 7th grade.

Sirens in Tel Aviv. Sirens in the Eilat.

Daughter’s accepted to 7th grade. She’s crying about missing her very close friends, and so am I. They’ve been together since first grade. But you don’t stay because of friends. They arrange weekly meetups at the mall. Best of both worlds.

I’m doing my Pilates app at 8:45 pm – my 20-year-old daughter joins me.

Wake up. Check phone. More soldiers injured.

Every challah bake – prayers for hostages and soldiers and true peace.

Our neighbor and fellow shul-goer shares that he was in Gaza for four months straight. He’s clearly in PTSD mode. He lost five of his friends at his feet. He’s somehow alive. He’s getting help.

Every Shabbat candlelighting – prayers for hostages and soldiers and true peace.

Project due at work in a week. I schedule a meeting to get input from other teams. We might need one more project meeting.

Sirens in Jerusalem. Iran is attacking. The next day, our sixteen year old’s flight to visit my aunt in Florida is canceled.

We clean and cook for Pesach. We host the seder this year. We were organized. We had fun. We had a good chag.

I’m going running in Gan Sacher after the chag. My husband joins me.

Went to a comedy film at Cinema City. Laughed without end. Left Cinema City, crossed the street to go home and walk past the Hostage Center. A tent that’s been set up the whole year.

My son loves to sing. He tells me he composes tunes and lyrics during his school breaks and sings them in his head. He’s also rising the ranks in Capoeira and learning all the skateboarding moves. In his words, he’s “obsessed” with these sports.

Imah, can we PLEASE get a sandwich toaster?

Our sixteen-year-old books a doctor’s appointment to fill out a health form for her Army process.  She then goes for a jog in Gan Sacher. My husband joins her.

Our neighbor, Modi, who was in Gaza for four months straight is now dating someone seriously. She’s American. She was living in Chicago and  he was the only soldier she knew, so she reached out and started praying for him and his platoon. He WhatsApps her, “Eden, your prayers are working. Thank you. Keep up your prayers.” She visits Israel, she visits Modi. She stays.

I’m doing my dance app at 8:45 pm – my twelve-year-old and fourteen-year-old daughters join me.

Sirens in the South. Sirens the North. Sirens in Eilat. Hamas, Hezbollah, Houtis. Why do they all begin with H? Yes I know – it’s Arabic. But still, Arabic has other letters that start names.

My husband assembles our stand-up pool for the summer.

I fly with my sixteen-year-old daughter to a nephew’s bar mitzvah near Washington, DC. “Should I wear my Jewish star necklace in the US?” she wonders. She decides to wear it.

The bar mitzvah shul has names of hostages on the back of every chair.

My daughter goes on to visit my aunt in FL, making up for the Iran-attack flight cancellation before Pesach.

Daily NY Times puzzle apps: Wordle. Connections. Mini Crossword. Strands. And sometimes Tiles. I have an alarm so I don’t miss my Wordle streak.

Three weeks later the bar mitzvah nephew, his sister, my sister, and my dad and wife come for our daughter’s bat mitzvah in Jerusalem. No one is afraid to come. I love that. They’ve gone though rounds of flight cancellations and made it. We have a whole Shabbat with Israeli and American family – 24 people. My husband caters the affair to his delight. Trays of chicken drumsticks, rice, string beans, and tofu. Our 20-year-old bakes cakes. I bake the challot.

I search for a boys’ choir for my son to join next year. Lots of follow-up emails, Whatsapps, and calls. It’s the only boys’ choir I found in Jerusalem. Boys choir audition date is set. Prepare a song to sing, they said.

I buy a sandwich toaster for 100 NIS.

September 1st. First day of school. Wake up. Check news on phone. Six hostages were executed. One is Hersh, the boy-next-door with an inviting, hopeful smile whose American parents, Jon and Rachel, made aliyah to the Anglo-haven Baka neighborhood of Jerusalem 15 years ago. Jon and Rachel have been all over the world advocating for his and all the hostages’ release. They became famous. Time Magazine, the Democratic National Convention, and I believe even visiting the Qatar King FWIW. They tried everything they could.

I need to make school lunches and be sure they pack snacks and eat breakfast and brush their teeth. It’s the friggin’ First Day of School.

I decide to tell our twelve year old the news as we walk to the bus to go to her new school. Better she should hear the devastating info from me than at school. She’s seen the Bring Hersh Home bumper stickers all over town this whole year.

Can someone please buy sandwich bread, sandwich bags, and dairy cheese and vegan cheese? It’s time to inaugurate the toaster.

I walk to Hersh’s funeral. A 45-minute walk from my house, so of course I go. Jon and Rachel say they tried everything they could to save him. I need to decompress afterward.

Daily NY Times puzzle apps: Wordle. Connections. Mini Crossword. Strands. And sometimes Tiles. I have an alarm so I don’t miss my Wordle streak.

People start blowing the Shofar because it’s the month of Elul. What a welcome long, boisterous sound. A not-at-all siren. A call for positivity. Not a danger warning.

Our son auditions and is accepted to the choir. Starts after the Chagim. Mazal tov!

Shabbat. Neighbors tell us ding-dong Nasrallah’s dead! Exhuberant shock and relief. Judaism says don’t delight in your enemy’s demise. Judaism also says delight in the killing of a mass-murder orchestrator whose elimination can mean our lives and those on our side can now be saved.

The kids use the toaster every day. How they ever ate a non-toasted sandwich before – no one knows.

I join Achot l’Barzel, an organization of women who help out wives of reservists with small kids. Once a week, I drive with my twelve-year-old daughter and nine-year-old son to a mother whose husband is serving in the heart of Gaza. She has children ages four, two, and eight months old. My kids play with the older two. I give the baby a bath (he’s so adorable!), do the dishes, do the laundry, and listen to the mother talk about how hard it all is to handle by herself. All the while worrying they might get the worst news. All single mothers have it hard, but they don’t usually have to worry about getting the worst news.

Things heat up in the North so my now-12th-grade daughter who goes to school near Haifa is relegated to Zoom school, I joke: What’s worse – booms, or Zooms? Definitely the latter, definitely.

Daily NY Times puzzle apps: Wordle. Connections. Mini Crossword. Strands. And sometimes Tiles. I have an alarm so I don’t miss my Wordle streak.

It’s almost Rosh Hashanah. Which means it’s almost Simchat Torah. This year, October 7th comes between these two holidays. The new year and all of its blessings coincide with mourning, assessing, taking stock. Who shall live and who shall die. Keep positive.

I consider outsourcing my Wordle to a non-Jew because it’s going to be a three-day chag and I’ll lose my streak. Someone tells me you can change the date on your phone and then do Wordles retroactively. I can’t wait to try this after Rosh Hashanah. (Spoiler alert: It worked!)

Project due at work in a week. I schedule a meeting to get input from other teams. We might need one more project meeting.

Nephews are called up for Reserves again.

It’s 3:00pm the day before erev Rosh Hashanah. The news says Iran is going to attack soon. Soon – as in I’m guessing 1:00am ish? Last time we had twelve hours’ notice. I need to buy my son pants before Rosh Hashanah because due to his Capoeira and skateboarding “obsession,” he’s ripped every pair of nice pants in half. Better go buy them before Iran attacks!

I take my son shopping. He tries on the size 10. They fit. He tries on another style, size 10. They fit. We buy three pairs of each style. We leave the store. Two minutes later, his Nokia phone starts beeping and buzzing with an SMS warning us to seek shelter. This kid is nine years old and he’s telling me what to do. My phone also says the same. Still no sirens. We join the crowd walking into the Binyan Klal basement parking lot shelter.

Sirens in Jerusalem. Sirens all over the country. Yep, Iran is attacking already. At least we got the pants! We’re in the shelter for half an hour until we get word we can leave, but during that half an hour we didn’t know if we’d be there for days. Feels a teeny tiny bit like being a hostage – that not knowing when we’ll be released back to our homes. But only a teeny tiny bit. I need to decompress afterward.

We need to cook and clean for Rosh Hashanah.

Twenty four hours later, we sit at our Rosh Hashanah table after all the cooking and cleaning, with newlyweds (mazal tov!) and other dear friends. Apples and honey. Pomegranates. Dates. Beets. Leeks. Carrots. Black-eyed peas. Fish head-not-tail. Yehi ratzons against our enemies, and good tidings for all others. Laughter. Love.

The next day: Shofar. Contemplation. The Rav speaks – putting the Shofar blowing in context of this past year,
The next day: Shofar. Contemplation. Another Rav speaks – putting the Shofar blowing in context of this past year.

Shabbat. Modi and Eden come. They tell us they’re engaged, Mazal tov!