‘Stay Strong, Survive’

September 1^st.

The first day of school.

Sharpened pencils, blank notebooks, packed knapsacks.

A countrywide day of new beginnings, of hope, of fresh starts, of a new year ahead.

The first day of school is serious business in this country.

Offices open late, and fathers in miluim (the reserves) are sent home from the army for a long weekend — all so that parents can see their kids off to school.

Outside the school entrance, the row of cars inching their way along grows ever longer.

Each family patiently waits its turn to pull up.

Parents get out, kiss their kids, and snap the annual picture for the family WhatsApp groups.

The kids are all dressed in blue and white to show their connection and support for their country. With bright faces, nervous anticipation and hair neatly combed, they run off to their friends, chatting, giggling, catching up after a summer apart.

It’s the typical first day of school scene. The one we look forward to year after year.

But this is no typical year. And this is by no means a typical morning.

Six precious hostages have been brutally murdered in cold blood, in a tunnel deep under the ground, after 11 months of unimaginable pain. Three Israelis have just been shot south of Hebron. And we in Gush Etzion are still trying to catch our breath after a frightening Shabbat when terrorists attempted to blow up multiple vehicles in our neighborhoods.

And if you look just a little closer at the cars coming and going, you notice that this is not the typical scene.

As I pull away, I finally let the tears I was holding in burst to the surface. My stomach sears with pain, my chest is heavy, there is a lump in my throat. My breathing is fast and irregular. The crying is messy and uncontrolled.

And then I look up and I notice the woman in the next car is crying too. And the driver behind me has red eyes. And the father on the other side of the road puts his head in his hands before starting the engine.

I turn on the radio and they are interviewing Elchanan Danino, father of Ori, whose body was returned this morning. Five days ago, it had been reported that he was full of hope and had bought new clothes to wear and bless when his son would return. This morning, he pleads for strength from God to be able to continue to function.

This country excels at being strong. It excels at resilience. It is in the air here.

Not because it comes easily. But because there is no other option.

On mornings like this one, when we want to curl up in a ball, bury ourselves deep under the covers, hug our kids tight and never let them go, our children remind us that we need to get up and drive them to school. It’s the first day!

And so we throw on clothing and pack their lunches and load the car and drop them off and kiss them and then cry our eyes out.

You can call it strength. You can call it resilience. You can call it hope. You can call it necessity. You can call it absurd.

Or you can call it life in Israel.

It doesn’t really matter. We know what we have to do.

For 330 days, Rachel Goldberg-Polin has said it over and over and over again.

“Stay Strong. Survive.”

Our hearts are broken. Hersh is gone.

The rest of us will try our best to heed her words.