By Daphna Horowitz
Raanana, Israel
17 October, 2023
Here’s what I did yesterday instead…
I started off the day with a shiva visit. Shiva is the seven days we sit in mourning when we lose a loved one who is part of our immediate family circle – Mom, Dad, brother, sister, husband, wife, or child. It is customary for people to come and comfort the mourners during this time. There are so many shiva homes in Israel at the moment.
I came home, gathered my thoughts, was relieved to see a message from my son, saying he’s ok even though he said not to expect to hear from him for a few days. Such joy to receive a few words.
A siren sounded; off we go into the safe room. We hear the booms as rockets are neutralised. We come out and continue as if “normal.” (Please note: Not all the rockets get foiled, some land with devastating consequences.)
We then went to a funeral for a dear friend’s younger brother, Itamar, 21 years old. A paramedic on the front lines, he continued treating wounded soldiers, even when injured himself. He lost his life while performing life-saving procedures on others. It took a week to locate his body. His family is broken…
As we walk away, I glance at seven more fresh graves of soldiers recently laid to rest. I understand how these soldiers are just children themselves. They haven’t yet started their life. In Israel, our soldiers are not career army people, they are called to serve their country as a compulsory service, and then recalled in a time of war. They are our sons and daughters, brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, and friends.
After that, we visited a second shiva house. This time it’s my cousin’s daughter, Roni, 24 years old. She was killed at the music festival, while trying to seek safety and cover. Amazing to see the strength of parents who are sitting in mourning, sharing memories of their child, now gone.
As we were leaving the building, a siren sounded. We went back into the building to stand in the stairwell – apparently that’s the safest place if you’re not near a bomb shelter. We were beckoned by the neighbours to go down to the bomb shelter in the basement. It filled up with the residents of the building, children to elderly. We smiled tentatively at each other, exchanged a few words, and waited out the attack.
When it was over, we got in the car and drove home.
I sent a message to our rabbi and dear friend who has a son who’s injured and recovering nicely, and one who is missing in action. No information about where he is at this time. I can’t begin to imagine what they’re going through.
It’s a lot. A lot to bear witness to. A lot to be part of. A lot of tears.
And then some rays of hope as I scroll through the many, many WhatsApp groups that are all about taking action to do good, spread love, make things better, and contribute.
I scroll through my messages and I see a photo on my phone. There’s a boy in Amsterdam, Elie, who volunteered to take my race number, wear it on his chest and run with the Israeli flag on his shoulders. I’m moved to tears. I’m so touched. I get his details and speak to his dad and it turns out we know each other from South Africa. We share memories and stories and hopes for the future.
Elie tells me it’s his first race ever! He doesn’t even own a pair of running shoes. He tells me that many people tapped him on his shoulder as he ran to show support. Many ran alongside him to speak with him and offer words of encouragement and many stopped to give him a hug.
Can we ever get used to this? I hope not.
I know I’m writing this from the relative safety of where I live. My story is minute compared to the story of others, who are suffering greatly. But we are in this together. We’re all feeling the grief. We’re heartbroken.
I don’t think there is one person who isn’t immediately affected. There are many shiva houses to visit and many funerals to attend; many people to take care of and at the same time, in some inexplicable way, life goes on, as much as it can. Am Yisrael Chai
