We are all sick to death of war

The wars have different names. For most Israelis, they feel like one long war that never ended.

As usual, last Sunday I gave Yaakov a ride to our community Hebrew-speaking improv session. For some strange reason, Israeli men seem to be more drawn to improv than women. Or at least, that is the case in Jerusalem. Of late, it’s been me and eight or more guys of various ages, and Benji is one of them. Yaakov is in his early thirties, but has a baby face. He made aliyah from Australia at the age of 19 and still speaks Hebrew with a soft accent (mine is more pronounced). He loves comedy, sings karaoke whenever he gets the chance, and has a large mongrel dog that needs frequent long walks. I often spot him on our street, trotting along behind his beloved canine.

Except come July, I won’t be driving him to improv for a while. He’ll be on reserve duty in Lebanon for four months. It won’t be his first time. He told me about his memories of his previous reserve duty in Lebanon, three years ago. He lost some good friends there, but doesn’t go into details.

“It’s a beautiful country,” he remarked. “It looks like Switzerland.” He recalled staying with his platoon in an abandoned multi-generational home where there were great books to read in English, including the entire Harry Potter series. The bookshelves were located not too far from a framed photo of Nasrallah. The basement housed missile launchers and a large array of weaponry. His description sounded almost fictitious. I wish it was.

This week I have not seen Julie. She’s the bookkeeper at our school. She is petite, with long, dark corkscrew curls, and loves wearing black. It’s hard to guess her age, but I know her kids aren’t young anymore. Julie is my essential go-to person, as I sadly have to run a budget for the extracurricular activities of the Diplomacy elective. Except Julie is now in the hospital in Haifa with her son, who was injured in a drone attack somewhere in Lebanon, probably not far from where Yaakov is headed in a month’s time. By all reports, the prognosis is good. He will pull through, give or take.

And I’m worried about who will sign the cheques for the farewell trip I planned on Sunday. Please.

Nati, a high school literature teacher and a colleague I’m very fond of, just returned from Lebanon after his third round of reserve duty in the past three years. I think he’s done a total of about 500 days so far. I may have lost count. He has a two-year-old. He is doing a master’s degree in Yiddish and teaches Hebrew literature at my school. Nati is chubby, but in a lovable way, and has a runaway beard he often jokes about. Nati is a nerd like me. I’m always relieved to find him in the staffroom, but today in particular. I desperately need someone I can talk to about Tolstoy, Byzantine history and life in general.

“How was it?” I asked.

“It was the shortest round of reserve duty I’ve done so far, but it felt like the longest,” he sighed, digging a spoon into his oatmeal and fruit.

“Everyone is just so tired,” he said with a bitter chuckle.

Last week I received a message from the school management. Ilan got injured. Ilan? Our ex-principal? It couldn’t be. I’m guessing it was a drone, but I don’t know the details. Our secretary pooled money for a get-well-soon bouquet, chocolates, or whatever. Ilan is a commander, or maybe something higher. He gave a talk to our students about military service options last year. Ilan has a passionate love for his country. It often felt like he was born a principal. Ilan taught me a lot about leadership. One Purim, he impersonated one of our more lively students, Nevo, by riding a bike (his bike) around the school yard, as the students watched with delight from the amphitheater. And Nevo, a great actor, in turn, impersonated Ilan. He wore an IDF uniform and saluted with great pomp and ceremony. His impression was flawless. We roared with laughter. Nevo is now in an elite unit doing dangerous things in places he can’t talk about, and Ilan is recovering from his injuries at home. And so it is.

I remember that during his years at our school, Ilan was out of his office on reserve duty a fair amount. And that was before October 7th.

As the Yiddish expression goes, you can’t dance at two weddings. But Ilan would politely disagree. On hearing the news, I felt myself drowning in a pool of helplessness, a feeling that is now almost as familiar as my own two hands.

And I don’t want to hear about our successes right now. I don’t want to hear which part of Lebanon we conquered. I don’t want to hear about Beaufort or Hormuz, or this officer, commander, munitions depot, or terror tunnel being eliminated. It’s all just noise.

All I want to hear is that they’re coming home. All of them. From Gaza and Lebanon, from Tul Karem and Hebron, from checkpoints and hidden bases, from naval ships, submarines, and underground bases. Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of our army, but I want them to come home. It’s time. We are sick and tired of this.

And so I think of Yaakov, Julie, Nati, and Ilan. I think of my graduates who, two years ago, were sneaking glances at their phones or whispering to each other in their overly loud, barely broken voices. Most of them are there now, rifles propped beside them, still joking with their comrades, sleeping under open skies. I know of two of my graduates got injured this year, and more who were injured after October 7th. I honestly don’t know what goes through the heads of my 12th graders who are busy with gym and kosher kravi, not knowing what the future holds. They barely remember anything close to normal in this country.

My friends’ kids are there. My daughter’s classmates at university are there. And a charred part of our hearts is there: the friends, mothers, wives, children, sisters, colleagues, and fellow citizens.

Lebanon, Gaza, and every war front are just a sea of faces. Of young, handsome, vibrant men who are willing to pay the ultimate price for a war that never seems to end. It’s just one war, really, with a few breaks here and there. Since when? I can’t remember. I don’t know if we would actually recognize real peace with our enemies if it slapped us in the face.

In the meantime, I’ve got a lot of events pencilled in for June. But everyone knows that it could all go to dust. One word from Trump or Bibi and we’ll be back to Home Front Command directives and safe rooms before you can say “Red Arrow missile systems.” The north is under attack. The word ceasefire has as much weight as ash in the wind. But we are the ones carrying the true weight of it all. The hundred-ton weight of wars, wars, and more wars.

The exhaustion goes beyond our bones. It’s profound. It forms a sticky coating on everything we do, the way we frame our lives, our here and now, and our future.

My car radio blasts endless ads for a luxury retirement complex by the sea in Rishon LeTzion. The kicker? Each apartment has built-in safe rooms. “So you don’t have to get up in the night when there’s a siren,” the cheerful voice announces brightly.

I wasn’t thrilled about getting old beforehand. Now I’m apparently expected to factor missile convenience into my retirement planning.

Yes, the post–October 7th patriotic pride worked for a while. But, like all painkillers, it wore off eventually. We’re all so tired. We’re sick of this war. We don’t need the world to love or understand us. We just want to get on with our lives here. We don’t want insurance packages. We don’t want lie at night wondering which front our kids or our grandkids will end up on. We want a future. And it’s just beyond our reach.