Nothing is normal in Israel after 11 months of war, after constant battles on three fronts, after 11 months of desperation for our hostages still held captive, after the execution of six of them. We know exactly how many days we’ve been fighting for them and for our survival. All broadcasts begin with: “Today is Day X of the war.” And the number is written in the corner of the TV screen. No escaping it.
But what does it really mean to be in the abyss of 11 months of war?
It means that a five-year-old girl, whose father has been in the reserves for months, can tell you with the matter-of-fact seriousness of adults, “My father can die, you know.”
It means that another child, whose relatives are still held by Hamas in Gaza, can say to you, “My hostages might never come back.”
It means we are anchored in grief, never able to enjoy pure happiness.
It means some days we allow ourselves not to cope.
It does not mean that we are weakening, that I am weakening. No. I’m active. I volunteer at army bases, attend lectures, meet friends for coffee, swim and go to exercise classes. I am strong and determined. Some days, however, heartbreak and anguish bore holes through that prickly sabra (okay, U.S.-born) skin.
Heartbreak and anguish. Words without much depth. I attempt to describe them, give them physical sensations and texture. I can’t combat what I can’t envision.
It’s heartbreak, I think, that tightens my chest without warning, that makes taking a breath feel like a desperate search for air.
It’s anguish, I think, that brings a surge of adrenaline rushing through my body even though there’s calm all around me.
The pressure in my head intensifies with names and scenes and stories and feelings of helplessness, until, like a stick of dynamite, it explodes in a scream that grabs its energy from every inch of me. A silent yet internally deafening scream that starts out slow and low and doesn’t end until I collapse from exhaustion. Then, for a minute, I am free of thinking, of remembering.
For a minute.
Then it’s back to the brutal, terrifying war. War in the South. War in the North. Rockets from all directions and distances have come from high and low to attack us.
It’s back to vigilance, awareness and being prepared.
We stocked up at the beginning of the war, so long ago. With every renewed threat of missiles, power outages, damaged infrastructure, it’s time to buy “just a few more items” to add to the two dozen bottles of water, the cans of corn, hearts of palm, tuna, chickpeas, stuffed grape leaves, more tuna. Crackers, peanut butter, energy bars, chocolate, almonds, peanuts, battery packs and emergency lights.
We share lists on WhatsApp.
“Have you bought a generator yet?” a friend asks. “We don’t know if we should.”
“No, but we looked at some the other day. Do you really think we’ll need one?”
Sometimes items disappear from the goodie box in the mamad, the safe room – victims of our cravings for crackers or chocolate bars or some nuts. We’re allowed to nosh, we tell ourselves. It helps us cope. And, after all, these are semi-perishable items and must be eaten before they go bad.
Nosh. Restock. Nosh. Restock.
We will allow ourselves a day to feel despondent, to cry, to scream, to pray. Then we will take a deep breath and push forward. We are still at war, but we must — and will — keep going.
We aim for normalcy as we navigate the maze of our reality. But no matter which turn we might choose in the coming weeks, we will end up in the dead end of Oct. 7. The weight of despair will try to pull us down deeper into the abyss of heartbreak. But we will not hit bottom. We will allow ourselves a day to feel despondent, to cry, to scream, to pray. Then we will take a deep breath and push forward. We are still at war, but we must — and will — keep going.
Galia Miller Sprung moved to Israel from Southern California in 1970 to become a pioneer farmer and today she is a writer and editor.
