this is what national tragedy feels like

Being Israeli means so much to me. What I didn’t realize was that my connection to my people would mean that there are no layers to protect me from the true pain and suffering of my people. We have had the Holocaust, which destroyed so many members of my distant family. We have endured terror attacks, which have killed people I know and have filled me with fear. We have had rockets and missiles, which have caused destruction and chaos and sent us running to our sealed rooms. But this. This.

The memory of past ills pales in comparison. It’s as if our entire nation have entered a new bloody chapter of pain, mourning, betrayal and fear. This chapter is part two in the book of my life. As if part one my life in this country consisted of mainly happy moments, broken up by tears anger and frustration, to then be resumed again, when the temporary pain faded (though it was never forgotten).

When part two started, that Saturday morning of October 7th, Simchat Torah, I felt as if my life as it was had ended. All my priorities and irritations were scattered to the wind of הבל הבלים (‘all is vanity’) when I faced the reality of life and death and, moreover the survival of my tiny and beloved country.

There was nothing to prepare me for the utter horror of what had befallen us, endless funerals, news broadcasts that could drive a sane person mad, the non-stop stories, the desperate attempt to not become entirely preoccupied with the fate of those missing and abducted. And, of course, trying to come to terms the spewing of hate from all corners of the world.

In one day, entire families, communities, worlds upon worlds were completely destroyed in the cruelest and most sadistic of ways, while our enemies gloated, positively celebrated their barbaric acts, publicized them with pride and then continued to fire rockets and missiles over apartments, schools, farmers fields and beaches.

Within hours, our beloved sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, fathers and even grandfathers dropped everything and were summoned to war. Others simply showed up. We were shell-shocked. Words fell short of describing the gamet of emotions we felt. Basic human functions such as eating and sleeping became herculean feats. The mass trauma that was felt by every Jew in our country, nobody untouched, was something impossible to describe.

And I was the ‘fortunate one’, not the one burying loved ones, not the one sending family off to war. I was simply burying my own selfish dreams, hugging my loved ones tight and trying to switch my brain off when it all got too much.

‘How are you?’ my friends and family from around the world ask. ‘I’m like everyone else.’ is my response. I’m one of the weeping mourners of the national mass funeral of our beautiful innocents, I’m sitting on a low stool at the shiva of the heartbroken family of Israel. Tears are never far away, and it doesn’t take much to set them off. Just seeing a toddler on a swing in the park will do it.

And fear is never far away either. It’s waiting for you at 3am when you suddenly awaken from a dream of terrorists invading your home, or when your hear the wailing of sirens, or when your son or daughter hasn’t responded to your whatsapp message for a couple of hours, or when you hear a loud bang or a distant yell.

I’m desperately trying to protect myself from disturbing images, disturbing recordings or even disturbing stories but its almost impossible. My phone has become a brain polluter – I am happier when I don’t look at it at all. I listen to political commentaries in order to convince myself that perhaps I’m not going mad and perhaps there are those who see the truth. I want reassurance, but all I get is the gaping yawning question mark of what will become of my beloved country.

Our army is fine, strong and determined but the war will be long and bloody. It will be fought on the ground, on air and online. Our supporters are ready to jump into the arms of our enemies when it comes to ‘atrocities on both sides’. It is scary.

I attempt to fill myself with optimism. I know we are united. Our differences disappeared on that terrible day. Our enemies did not ask us if we were pro-reform or anti, or pro-peace or right wing, shomer shabbat or secular. They did not care whether we demonstrated for this or that. They didn’t even care whether we lived in the occupied territories or in Tel Aviv, whether we were Christian or Arab. They tortured, maimed, raped and killed everyone, babies and old age pensioners, young party goers or rabbis alike. And now we are all in the same boat. We are fighting for our right to exist as one nation on one land. And yes, the unity I am experiencing makes me feel optimistic.

We have been forced into action on every front. The outpouring of kindness is nothing short of miraculous. The injured in hospital had to turn away well-meaning visitors because they needed peace and quiet, the blood banks turned away eager donors and the soldiers begged us to stop sending them cakes and snacks.

Between fear and desperate sadness, I’m trying to get my head round this, all of this. After all, why me, why us? It’s a futile activity.

I know deep down that the only solution to my pool of despair is to sit in the house of God. As simple as that. The God of Israel is here, He is closer than ever and he wants his people close to Him. There are no leaders, there is no geo-political solution, there is no PR which will convince the world to stop believing the horrific lies of Hamas. When we are confronted with darkness, we must spread light. Our light comes from God. We know what is good and just. We know that God is one and we must be one. We know that being in God’s house means being without fear. We know that prayer will go much further than an instagram post.

I pray. I pray that our soldiers will be protected. That they will fight knowing that God is on their side. That the truth will come to light. That our enemies will be vanquished once and for all. I pray that hostages be freed, the mourners be comforted and I pray that God will not abandon me and, moreover that I will not abandon Him.

Tehillim (Psalms) – Chapter 3

A song of David, when he fled from Absalom his son.		אמִזְמ֥וֹר לְדָוִ֑ד בְּ֜בָרְח֗וֹ מִפְּנֵ֚י | אַבְשָׁל֬וֹם בְּנֽוֹ:
2O Lord, how many have my adversaries become! Great men rise up against me.		ביְהֹוָה מָה־רַבּ֣וּ צָרָ֑י רַ֜בִּ֗ים קָמִ֥ים עָלָֽי:
3Great men say concerning my soul, “He has no salvation in God to eternity.”		גרַבִּים֘ אֹמְרִ֪ים לְנַ֫פְשִׁ֥י אֵ֚ין יְֽשׁוּעָ֓תָה לּ֥וֹ בֵֽאלֹהִ֣ים סֶֽלָה:
4But You, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory and He Who raises up my head.		דוְאַתָּ֣ה יְ֖הֹוָה מָגֵ֣ן בַּֽעֲדִ֑י כְּ֜בוֹדִ֗י וּמֵרִ֥ים רֹאשִֽׁי:
5With my voice, I call to the Lord, and He answered me from His holy mount to eternity.		הקוֹלִי אֶל־יְהֹוָ֣ה אֶקְרָ֑א וַיַּֽעֲ֘נֵ֚נִי מֵהַ֖ר קָדְשׁ֣וֹ סֶֽלָה:
6I lay down and slept; I awoke, for the Lord will support me.		ואֲנִ֥י שָׁכַ֗בְתִּי וָאִ֫ישָׁ֥נָה הֱקִיצ֑וֹתִי כִּ֖י יְהֹוָ֣ה יִסְמְכֵֽנִי:
7I will not fear ten thousands of people, who have set themselves against me all around.		זלֹֽא־אִ֖ירָא מֵרִֽבְב֥וֹת עָ֑ם אֲשֶׁ֥ר סָ֜בִ֗יב שָׁ֣תוּ עָלָֽי:
8Arise, O Lord, save me, my God, for You have struck all my enemies on the cheek; You have broken the teeth of the wicked.		חק֘וּמָ֚ה יְהֹוָ֨ה | הֽוֹשִׁ֘יעֵ֚נִי אֱלֹהַ֗י כִּֽי־הִכִּ֣יתָ אֶת־כָּל־אֹֽיְבַ֣י לֶ֑חִי שִׁנֵּ֖י רְשָׁעִ֣ים שִׁבַּֽרְתָּ:
9It is incumbent upon the Lord to save, and it is incumbent upon Your people to bless You forever.		טלַֽיהֹוָ֥ה הַיְשׁוּעָ֑ה עַל־עַמְּךָ֖ בִרְכָתֶ֣ךָ סֶּֽלָה: