The Taste of Waiting

Today is Shabbat. The Jewish day of rest.
A house was destroyed by a drone in the north—but apart from that, quiet.

We swing from utter depression to hope. Today, the IDF spokesperson, who had previously told us that the operation on Iran “should be over in a couple of weeks,” did an about-face and spoke about girding ourselves for “a protracted battle.” Gee, thanks. A protracted summer of nowhere to go, nothing to do, and unease in ready supply.

My Orthodox brother (who lives in London) told me yesterday that I need to stop diving into the news and “trust the Ebishte” (God). I’ve been trying—more out of necessity than anything else.

I’m mindful of my phone—how, when gnawing anxiety hits, I compulsively check one news site after another, each more useless than the last. Before I know it, I’m down a rabbit hole of experts wagging fingers and painting doom-laden pictures of a “wider conflict.”

Last night, I left my phone charging in the bedroom and picked up a pen and notebook in a desperate attempt to avoid the soul-destructive screen. My mind was blank. What to write about? Ah—about how bad phones are. But even writing about phones is better than being on one.

Today, we plucked up the courage to get in the car (tank still full from last week) and visit my parents, who live an hour and fifteen minutes away on a good day. Today we were there in an hour. Roads were deserted. We navigated cautiously, never allowing ourselves to be more than a ten-minute drive from the nearest bomb shelter.

Twenty minutes in, the subdued Radio 88 playlist was interrupted by the familiar alert tone. Drone intrusion in the north. Not near us.

The café near my parents’ retirement village was busy. I carefully stepped over a large dog snoozing on the ground to reach the counter. It was hard to choose what to eat—I mean, who even cares right now? The décor was retro: dried flowers in every corner, secondhand distressed furniture. I was a little overwhelmed by the array of pastries but opted for something healthy instead.

Kids played tag on the wooden benches of the little café. All talk was of war. As if this is just what we do here.

My 82-year-old dad has come to the grand conclusion that this war with Iran will be the last war he’ll live through in his lifetime. Given that he has one kidney, diabetes, high blood pressure, and a chronic lung complaint, I don’t think he deserves a “Prophet of the Year” prize if his prediction turns out to be true.

My question is: how many wars will my grandson, Ariel, live through?

I didn’t let talk of ballistic missiles and assassinated nuclear scientists ruin my green shakshuka (if you know what green shakshuka is, you wouldn’t either) or my “American Kar” (black cold coffee). Nor did I allow the shadow of uncertainty to interfere with our discussions about the German Netflix series Kleo, or what books we’re reading, or reminding my dad of memories he’s forgotten (I’m trying to gather material for my memoirs).

My parents had weakly protested when we said we were coming.
“But I haven’t seen you in two weeks!” I said.
“What’s there to miss? Same us—just two weeks older and crankier,” my mother replied.
But family is a balm—for me as much as for them.

Was it just me, or was there a strange sense of camaraderie in that little café? Had we, the guests, temporarily set our political opinions aside, as we huddled together under the mental and emotional bunker of an existential threat? Everyone looked the same: the teens with their braces, the toddler with sparkling eyes and corkscrew curls, the staff preparing cappuccinos, the joggers and grandparents. A hotchpotch of Saturday morning secular Israelis—some of whom were demanding Bibi’s resignation on Kaplan just two weeks ago. Something felt different. I sensed that if I needed a plaster, a painkiller, or even money for my coffee, someone would give it to me—maybe even throw in a free blessing.

Later, we drove to Pardesia, a nearby neighborhood, to visit Avi’s religious son. His Shabbat, filled with synagogue and meals with neighbors, is a far cry from the café just ten minutes away.

Pardesia—“land of orchards”—is aptly named. It was once agricultural land, and the tree-lined streets still burst with fruit: oranges, lemons, mangos, and even lychees. War or no war, crisis or otherwise, they reach toward the sun and bear their fruit. I found comfort in their generous curves.

Avi handed me an impossibly pink lychee. Unlike the plastic-packaged ones I occasionally buy, this was mostly seed and very little flesh. But the delicate flavor of its translucent insides settled gently on my tongue. I considered keeping the seed and planting it at home—but honestly, we have enough going on right now.

We couldn’t resist picking the fragrant mangos that leaned toward us invitingly. They were hard, but came off easily. Avi reassured me that meant they’d ripen in a few days.
We just need to be patient.

Apparently, lychee trees don’t bear fruit every year—but only every second or third.

My grandson, baby Ariel, was born after a long and painful wait—for all of us.

His birth was a moment of indescribable joy. We celebrated the outcome. We didn’t witness the process of his formation. When my son told me his wife was pregnant, I held my breath and clutched his hand. At that moment, I saw the tiny shoots of hope after years of bare fields. But hope should have come even earlier—because the beginnings of anything good are usually invisible to the human eye. That means that even now, when world events form one giant question mark, we are not without hope.

Our fruit is precious. The mangoes and lychees. The little boy with corkscrew curls. My precious grandson, Ariel. All of them are the product of practiced patience.

Even the land we live in—a fledgling state less than 80 years ago—is the result of two thousand years of silent waiting and whispered prayers.

Perhaps it takes the loud wail of a siren to remind us how precious our fruit really is.
To remind us what we’re fighting for.