The ceasefire and my new hanukkyia

Day three of the ceasefire and I can breathe. Only now I realize that since the last Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah, I have been holding my breath for three months, taking in air, but slowly suffocating. I have been living in a surreal semblance of routine punctuated by the incessant booms of anti-missile missiles and artillery, always on edge, waiting for the inevitable interruption of a rocket warning. And then waiting with bated breath for 10 minutes. They say, “just 10 minutes,” but every time, those 10 minutes seem interminable. We anxiously listen for a crash, and then, upon news of a hit, I think, “Who do I know who could be there?” and pray they are safe. Twice, a rocket — or shrapnel — falling out of the sky, landed close to where my parents live. (I catch myself thinking that maybe this is what Chicken Little meant when he warned that the sky is falling)?

Now I can b-r-e-a-t-h-e. I take a deep breath, deep into my lungs, and savor the sweet air, fresh after the rain, and realize how long I missed it.

I walk along the pavement in a shopping center and inwardly celebrate that I no longer have to look around to find a sign saying where the shelter is.

At last, I can sleep through the night. And wake up refreshed, and it feels like it is something new, this sleep without tension, after an eternity of sleeping with clothes ready at the foot of the bed, an ear constantly cocked in half-anticipation of a rocket alert – or G-d forbid a phone call about my son in the army (he musters out on Sunday).

Yet, at the same time, I am hesitant to trust that the ceasefire will hold, and I tell myself not to get used to it, just in case. You know those scenes in the movies when the bad guy says, “I can’t go back to prison”? That’s exactly how I feel, if the ceasefire breaks. I find it hard to contemplate going back to living like that. So, I tell myself not to get too used to this “quiet,” and mentally gird my loins, a kind of emotional insurance in case we go back to war again.

Yet, even as I savor this release, my heart is heavy, thinking about those returning to their homes, to find them destroyed, along with all their possessions, and their cherished memories, of times in their homes. I imagine how they must feel to find their home, now gutted and reduced to ashes and burnt cinders. I marvel at their resolve to rebuild, both physically and mentally.

In the city, as I drive home, I drive past a building now abandoned after a rocket hit, leaving a gaping maw where the apartment used to be. It stands there, exposed and stripped of dignity — and you can look right through it. It reminds me of a woman suddenly stripped naked in public. My eyes sting with that feeling you get before you start to cry. I see people walking past trying not to gawk, and failing, as their voyeuristic curiosity overwhelms them. I think I discern something — shame perhaps (?), as they almost physically gather themselves and then walk on, looking purposefully forwards, trying not to look back.

At the same time, my thoughts are still dominated by the plight of the 101 hostages, languishing in Hamas tunnels. I am reminded that as I joyfully inhale this fresh, exhilarating air, they are breathing heavy, fetid air, struggling to fill their lungs. When was the last time that they saw sunlight or breathed clear oxygen? And I feel sort of guilty celebrating my personal feeling of freedom.

Own image

Today, we bought a new hanukkyia. It’s beautiful and bold, and it takes big candles, which will spread a dauntless light. I think that I was thinking about the hostages in the back of my mind when I bought it. I think it is what drove me to buy it — to bolster my hope that all the hostages will be home by Hanukkah, and that they can get to light their own Hanukkah candles and celebrate their freedom.

May our determination to bring them home by Hanukkah be similarly undaunted. And PLEASE, PLEASE, may we succeed.
אז אגמור בשיר מזמור.

BRING THEM HOME! BY CHANUKA