Cease Fire on the Horizon

Tel-Aviv Sunset

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Every morning on my way to work I pass through Tachanat Arlozerov, one of Tel-Aviv’s central bus stations. There I am greeted by the usual flurry of commuters and soldiers returning to their bases after the weekend’s short respite. This morning something was different. The station was filled by an overwhelming expanse of olive green. Not the usual fresh faced 18 year olds, but older soldiers, with facial hair, dressed in their Madai Bet (the uniform of reservists), big bags on their shoulders.

I exchanged glances with a few, wishing they could read the thoughts percolating in my head.  The pride and respect I have for them can only be described as pure reverence. There they stood patiently awaiting the bus, ineluctably, after having received their Tsav Shmona, the letter summoning them to leave their families, their work. How without thinking twice, they dropped everything, their nation was in need. I imagined my older brother in the crowd, and my heart stung. We are at war.  A couple seconds later, the scene around me turned to panic. Lost in thought, with bulky headphones covering my ears, I realized the air-raid sirens were ringing. Traffic on the adjacent Namir Boulevard, one of Tel-Aviv’s busiest streets, came to a halt, pedestrians ran for cover, lying on the ground, under trees, behind bus stops.

The first time I heard the air-raid siren Thursday night I assumed it was a test. But just for a moment. As my heart rate accelerated, I ran to the balcony to see what people in the street were doing. It was the first time in 20 years that these sirens have sounded in Tel-Aviv. Two minutes later came the boom. I could hardly believe what had just happened, the inevitable day Israel had been expecting for a while now. I immediately turned on the TV, no casualties. The rocket fell 15 kilometers south of the city center. I finally understood that anxious panic the residents of the south have been enduring, unrelentingly for the past 3 years.

However, after that first siren, life returned to normal. Cars that had pulled over continued on their way, as did those enjoying their Thursday night in the city. I can’t say I’ve gotten used to the sirens, but Israeli’s seem to have. Their camaraderie and resilience is reassuring, and honestly keeps me from going mad. Many Tel-Avivians now joke that the rocket attacks have enabled them to meet their next-door neighbors, a silver lining to the terrors of seeking shelter in the stairwell. Life continues.

I moved to Israel 5 years ago, after having spent many summers in Kibbutzim around the country. July 2006, at the onset of the Second Lebanon War, I was in Netanya, attending an ulpan. I remember the flight of Northern residents seeking refuge in the center. The anticipation of waiting for the 6 o’clock news, to hear the names of those killed in battle.  The pictures of destroyed houses in Kiryat Shmoneh, the faces of the fallen soldiers flashing on the TV screen. I was an outsider looking in, to a culture, a society that was not my own.  Now, those boys being sent to war are my friends; the cities under attack are places I know well; and the vernacular of rockets and missiles is all too common.

The days that lie ahead will surely not be easy, for me, for my parents, and for those on both sides of the conflict. However, even in the darkest hour, my belief that peace remains a viable solution is unremitting. I see it in the immutable strength of the residents of Sderot, Ashdod, Beer Sheva, for whom air-raid sirens have been the perennial reality; in the cafes and beaches of Tel-Aviv which remain full; in the soldiers who unequivocally follow the orders of their superiors and in the countless phone calls and emails I have received in the past week from friends and family abroad. Knowing that people back home are rallying and praying for Israel’s safety brings me immense hope, so to all of you feel your efforts are insignificant, please, be aware of how much Israel relies on you.