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.
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