Israel has a TV station of the dead. A continuous loop of the names, date of birth, and pictures of the 1,400 slaughtered babies, children, parents, grandparents, and soldiers.
Such is our reality. Too many names to announce on the nightly news.
I can’t get my head around the numbers. Macabre questions creep into my thoughts.
How many people can be buried in one day? How many grave diggers are needed? How many funerals can you go to in one day when over scores of your neighbors were butchered? Is there enough raw material for all the headstones? How many stonecutters are needed to chisel those stones?
How many shiva calls can you make in one day, in a week, before your comforting words sound as hollow as an empty bullet casing? How many shiva tents and white plastic chairs do municipalities have for their mourners?
Try living in a reality that begs these questions.
This is just the beginning. We’ve barely started the ground war. The Ground War. I can’t let my mind go there. I resist with all my strength, just like the families who held on so desperately to their mamad door handles to keep the terrorists out. Try doing that 24/7.
One of the names in the continuous loop on TV lived on our street. We walked through the open door and out to the small backyard, where people were sitting on those white plastic chairs, in a mishmash of rows. A group around each sibling and one for the parents.
The mother, Yifat, her red shirt ripped at the neck, her head covered with a turban popular with modern orthodox, sat on the low chair, engaged in conversation with a Haredi woman. The pieces of conversation I picked up over the distraction of the fans and the young mourners around the sisters, were about faith. Apparently, the traditional purification ceremony was not needed for the victims of Hamas because they were murdered for being Jews, making them “Holy.” Yifat seemed to accept this, saying she knew how pure her daughter was, with her innocent soul and the goodness that had inspired her deeds.
We sat in silence for a while before approaching the bereaved parents, explaining that we are neighbors and wanted to comfort them. I repeated the same condolences they had heard for the last several days. Yifat took my hand in hers as she thanked us for coming. I wished I had hugged her.
Outside, I saw the Haredi lady.
“I couldn’t hear everything you were saying, but it sounded so comforting and supportive,” I said.
“I understand what they are going through,” she said softly, “People came to us from all over the country when we were sitting and it was such a comfort.”
I was momentarily stunned. But quickly recovered.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
I wanted to add, “What terrorist attack murdered your loved one?” but I didn’t.
“Now we go around the country to comfort others,” she said.
Walking home, I felt spiritually uplifted. I may not have the same level of faith as these two mothers, but looking around at the diverse collection of people who made the effort to sit in this Shiva tent, I felt a unique shared devotion to our people and our country.
We have strangers who suffered tragic losses from ruthless terrorists and yet find the inner strength to give of themselves to help others. We tune into a TV station dedicated to the memory of people we didn’t know but who suffered unimaginable atrocities. We go to funerals of friends and strangers and visit shiva homes of friends and strangers. We will get through this.
But we in Israel cannot live with the imminent threat of this happening again. We cannot live with Hamas-ISIS terrorists just a few hundred meters from any of our borders. Could you?
If we are not allowed to destroy the Evil that controls Gaza, you just might have to. They won’t stop here.
If we are not allowed to destroy the evil that controls Gaza, you just might have to. They won’t stop here. Look at the pro-Hamas rallies in Europe and on campuses of American universities. If Hamas is still standing after this war, it will be perceived as a victory for them and their sponsor Iran, creating an explosion of global terror.
Galia Miller Sprung moved to Israel from Southern California in 1970 to become a pioneer farmer and today she is a writer and editor.
