The Next Time You Meet An Israeli

It has been over a decade since I moved to Israel, and admittedly, I am still wrestling with the culture shock. Growing up in Australia, where weekend barbies (not the Barbie you’re thinking), and riding waves at the beach, are ordinary activities for a random Sunday, an Aussie expat is truly no match for the intensity of Israel.

And yet, I thought I had it in the bag. After high school, I savored the magnificence of the changing seasons through the pulsing heartbeat of New York. Experiencing the rush of each day in the city that never sleeps, was wild and wonderful; I worked hard and played harder, with daily trips to Saks and Bloomingdale’s, where I spent my lunch breaks (and my paycheck). Navigating the chaos of the subway became an integral part of my routine as I religiously cycled through every department store to get the latest deal (otherwise known as shopaholism). It was glorious, it was grand, and it resonated deeply. So when life circumstances called on my family to relocate to Israel, I was confident that my new layer of thick NY skin would be enough to carry me through. Oh, how wrong I was!

As soon as we arrived on Israeli soil, I was overwhelmed. The air was heavy with uncertainty and the intensity was more dramatic than rush hour in NYC. Every transaction was hurried, even when I was only buying a few apples at the shuk. Getting from one place to another was quite the feat; it made no difference if I was taking the bus or a taxi or even the sidewalk! The mood around me was desperate, and I felt an acute sense that everyone was ready for a fight. 

Because they were.

While our homeland is still reeling from the most brutal inhumane massacre against our country and our nation, and as I watch the sights and scenes that remain impossible to process or digest, I finally understand.

The people of Israel have been fighting for their very existence for years on end. They are forced to defend themselves and justify why they want to live another day, to those who are determined to destroy them. Is there another nation called upon to do the same? Israelis live on the battlefield day and night, and must remain hypervigilant, lest they miss the signs of the next attack.

While I have studied the effects of trauma, you don’t need to be a trauma expert to understand that living in an unsafe, dangerous, threatening (or even unhappy) environment for any period of time, is bound to impact daily functioning. Stress forces the body into a mode of ‘fight or flight’ where the nervous system is on high alert to detect and respond to danger. Without safety, there is no time or opportunity to ‘calm down’, as the mind and body must prepare for the worst. In a life-threatening emergency, this is the body’s instinctive way to self-protect, but remaining in this state can be crippling: day-to-day tasks become difficult, sleep is restless, and every encounter can feel like a threat. 

This is everyday life for the people of Israel.

I’ve been thinking about this now more than ever as our nation still grapples to find its way following the barbaric, merciless butchery of its people. The horrendous acts on October 7th, against men, women, children and babies, the elderly, soldiers, police officers, civilians and foreigners alike, created a deep wound that will leave scars forever. 

How does a child recover from hearing the screams of his parents as they are brutally murdered while he hides inside a closet? How can a peace-loving festival participant return to normalcy after witnessing the rape and torture of her friends? What of the courageous young men and women who will never unhear their partners’ last breaths as they hid inside dumpsters together? What motivates those who have lost limbs, to learn to walk again and heroically move through life after such horrors? Is there any comfort for the wives who were suddenly widowed while carrying a new life that promised to bring them shared joy? What is there to say to the brave men of ZAKA tasked with identifying the burnt bodies of men, women, children, and babies who became completely unidentifiable? What of the ‘lucky ones’ who survived, but are haunted by guilt because they couldn’t save their friends? Or the innocents who waited for hours in the dark, without food or water, unsure if anyone would show up to save them? 

I grieve for the pure and holy souls who believed that they were protected in their ‘safe rooms’ only to be bombarded with gunshots through locked doors, and smoke between the doorposts, penetrating their sanctuaries, as they desperately fought to save their children. I cry together with the families who were held hostage inside their own living rooms, begging and pleading for their very lives while their murders were livestreamed for the world to watch. What will become of the hostages who have been ripped away from their precious families and homes, still being held by the terrorists who savagely murdered their loved ones? I think of those who were fortunate to be released from captivity, only to discover that they are now orphaned and homeless. 

How does a person recover from this?!

I don’t know if there are answers, but I ask you to keep these questions in mind the next time you meet an Israeli. 

Maybe one day you’ll meet Avigail Idan who was still three years old when she witnessed the murder of her parents and was kidnapped to Gaza while covered in her father’s blood, where she remained for fifty days, without feeling the sun on her sweet face. Or perhaps you’ll sit on a city bus beside Avigail’s siblings, Michael and Amalia, who were nine and six when they bravely hid in a closet for fourteen hours with only a water bottle, knowing that their parents had been massacred. What did their eyes whisper during those harrowing hours? Years from now, you may encounter the daughter of Yahav Winner who will learn that her father sacrificed his life to save her when she was just one month old, and her mother Shaylee Atary, anxiously hid with her for twenty-seven hours without food. Or maybe you’ll be at a falafel stand alongside boisterous teenagers, like Ori Ohayon, whose father Moshe and brother Eliad fearlessly left home in the early hours of October 7th to defend their family and community, never to return. 

In the years to come, you’ll likely encounter children, teenagers, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, grandparents and holocaust survivors who were ripped away from their homes and taken into captivity, where they endured torturous conditions, without adequate food, daylight, or basic needs for hours, days and months. You may be rushing through a Tel Aviv shopping mall beside mothers and fathers, who through sleepless nights and faith of steel, waited for their children, not knowing if or in what condition they would come home. Or perhaps you’ll be at the shuk for a few apples, behind siblings of the young surveillance soldiers from the Nahal Oz army base, who like so many others, lost their best friends that day, to a wickedness that is beyond comprehension. When you stroll through Jerusalem’s cobblestone, you may recognize the faces of those who agonizingly counted the days for the return of their loved ones, like the family members of Hersh Goldberg-Polin whose son and brother was loaded onto a pickup truck by Hamas terrorists after his arm was blown off, and who unfathomably spent his final year of life in the throes of hell, before he was viciously murdered with the beautiful five others. One day you may be stuck in traffic behind parents of those who returned from captivity, traumatized, silenced and afraid, like the father of Emily Hand who shared that she could only speak in a whisper when they were finally reunited, and she forgot how to be comforted. Even the ‘good’ outcomes are coupled with layers of pain, of relearning, of accepting a new reality that may never be fully understood or integrated.

There are hundreds of stories, many of which may never be told. But it is our duty to acknowledge that beyond the events of October 7th, there are countless survivors who are carrying the weight of the atrocities they witnessed and experienced, many of whom will never be the same. Instead of asking What is wrong with this people? the question must become, What has happened to this people? What have they endured? What may they be hiding beneath their tough veneer?

They all have a story, even if they aren’t ready to tell it just yet.