July 11, 2014 by Katia
I wrote this post in November 2012 when my hometown was targeted by Hamas missiles. If you are emotionally invested in this subject, I ask that you read the post in its entirety, or at least the last paragraph, to realize that I support the end of violence on both sides. I’m appalled by what’s going on in Gaza, but cannot not feel for my pro-peace friends in Tel-Aviv and other Israeli cities.
This is not a political post. I am not a self appointed spokesperson for my country and do not intend to argue politics. What I set out to do here is to talk about feelings and what I know best is my own. I would also like to talk about situations that my friends and family face to illustrate what it is like to be under fire. And if anyone wants to use my words against me to say that this is what the other side feels like most of the time, or thst it must be a nice luxury to get a warning in the form of sirens, you are preaching to the choir, I agree with you.
This is my first war away from home. Us “war veterans” have our own clichés. One of them states “it looks much scarier from the outside than it actually is”. I don’t know about that, both situations have their moments. On the outside you don’t hear the siren but then again on the outside you DON’T hear the siren.
The sound of the siren is a terrifying one. The sound of sirens is a wailing promise of something wicked this way comes.
And then there is not hearing the sound of the sirens that sound off in the city you’ve spent most of your life in, the city you identify yourself with. It feels unnatural not knowing that that just happened. And again, and again and again. And when you’re away, watching from the outside, another emotion creeps in, an emotion at times just as strong and overwhelming as the fear and concern for your loved ones, a sense of estrangement. Isolation. That thing that immigrants work so hard to suppress. It feels unnatural to not have heard the siren that sounded off in the city I’ve spent most of my life in- MY city, to not know if we’re ok and by we I mean my family, my city. It feels weird to be cut off from the routine that follows, the one that is so predictable and well known to me – the endless discourse and the 24 hour news updates, the phone calls from concerned friends overseas. And it’s a whole different kind of helplessness. A guilty one.
And now I become the concerned caller.
Here’s another cliché for you followed by a gross generalization. We call Tel-Aviv the city that never sleeps. Us Tel-Avivians are laid back when it comes to major life threats, we sweat the small stuff and our answer to everything is eat more, drink more, party more. Tel-Aviv is notorious throughout the rest of the country for its decadent partying ways. That’s why I wasn’t surprised to hear yesterday when I called my mom after the attack that she is not in the bomb shelter and moreover doesn’t seem to understand why you would need to be in one, I’ve learned from her and other calls I’ve made that cars are running, that there are people on the streets and noticed that some of my friends are posting Facebook updates from the restaurants they are in. This is how we roll and that is what makes us who we are.
But each story has two sides even if that story is being told by the same person. My mom wasn’t worried, but even if she was she couldn’t possibly walk down 6 flights of stairs in a minute and a half with my 91 year old grandmother so they stayed in the apartment instead of hiding in the bomb shelter. And she wasn’t worried for herself, she tells me the next day, but it’s so uncomfortable, she chooses this word, to know that you are in charge of someone else’s safety, my grandma, and you don’t know if you’ll be able to protect them. And I call my best friend back home and she tells me she was scared, because her daughter was with her father today and there was no phone service when the missile fell and when she finally spoke to her, her daughter was anxious and all my friend wants to do as a mother is to hold her hand. And on the next day I call her after another attack and she tells me how she and her daughter were surprised by the siren while in their car and my friend left the car in the middle of the road and ran with her 9 year old to hide under a building as they are instructed to do. This is some crazy movie shit stuff, she tells me.
I write this blog about my two boys. I try to keep it light hearted. It’s a blog about the funny things my two boys do. The reason I am not raising these two boys in Israel is because I’m a coward. I am driven by fear. The world’s biggest mama’s girl uprooted herself and moved continents overcoming grief over the loss of a familiar reality and guilt and shame toward her family, friends and country so that her future boys would not serve in the military. It’s a shameful thing to admit in a country that so many died protecting.
And then there is this.
I get off the phone and am off to daycare to pick up my son and there is this. On a day like this it feels so right and so wrong at the same time. I couldn’t have been happier for my sons who are raised in this pastoral atmosphere and at the same time everything around me screams on a day like this “you are not there!”, the piles of yellowing leaves on the ground, the chilly November air, the language spoken in a cheerful stress-free tone and the chirp of unfamiliar birds.
As I am writing this post I hear the sirens live. My husband is talking to his mother on the phone and she is on speaker with the grandchildren. In a very calm but rushed tone she tells us she has to go. As for us? It’s a weekend and we’re supposed to take the children to a pioneers village today for some good time. Do we go? Do we stay home for solidarity? The unbearable lightness of being away.
** Dedicated to my family and friends in Tel-Aviv, Jaffa, Rishon, Ramleh, Ness-Ziona, Jerusalem, Kiryat Ono and to the innocent victims and people of Gaza. I pray for the end of this and no more casualties on the Palestinian and Israeli sides.