I’ve been thinking of a way to explain war in the age of Iron Dome. In the age of David’s Sling and Arrow. In the unfortunate age of the Ayyash 250. It’s difficult to give voice to the ephemeral sense of calm routinely disturbed by moments of slicing panic. A calm that renders us somewhat safe from the onslaught of rockets, yet damaged by the harsh tongues of media. By the agony of death and loss and the unknown.
Despite the seemingly bottomless well of pain, I have seen so much beauty this week. It’s a strange thing to say, knowing that my friends stand await at a border, at the entrance to a tunnel, inside a tunnel; a light at the end of which we might never see. Not for the lack of
hope – that is inside of us.
It surrounds us. The beauty. It is the sound of women, cancer survivors, their hot pink shirts set to match the bougainvillea behind them, sorting chili peppers. Why? Because each month they meet for coffee. Except in war, a farmer, FARMERS, need their help. And they know what it’s like to need help. So they show up.
Together makes light work.
Today, my Dad picked zucchini with a PR firm and a group of high schoolers. Why? Because they are part of a nation. And when a nation has a need, NEEDS, it resonates with all of us.
Beauty is abundant. It is a homecoming. From the North. The South. An endless tunnel. A journey across oceans to join the cause. It is my Mom buying school bags for displaced children. Why? Because we are part of a nation. And when a nation has a need, NEEDS, it resonates with all of us.
Shlomi hands out cherry-flavoured popsicles to the people he thanks for saving his crops. He smiles with gratitude. An electric smile. Around him, rain and lightning pour down. Recent immigrants from America, Ethiopia, and Ukraine toil the earth in the elements and I’m reminded of black-and-white photos. Pioneers. Alive again in our generation, following in the footsteps of those who built our Home.
Now, like then, more than a duty, it is a privilege to rebuild.