War is not healthy…
War is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things…a poster from 1966. To protest the Vietnam War. I was in high school and it all seemed so very far away. Israel seemed closer. I still can’t sort the history though a Mezuzah graces my front door, and I wear the small, gold one my parents gave me whenever I travel. A talisman to keep me safe.
Several girls I knew in high school - we didn’t yet call ourselves “women” – lived for a summer on a Kibbutz in Israel. They returned with glowing reports, particularly of the young men they met: tall and tan with muscles and commitment. Sometime later my sister spent a summer in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem…I can’t now recall. But I know she studied Hebrew and thrived while I was trying to find my way through a first marriage to “a nice Jewish boy” who checked all the boxes but was not destined to be my soul mate.
Over the years since that marriage dissolved and another succeeded, I have wondered about traveling to Israel. My son considered a birthright trip. I considered a tour which would present all sides. He got a Bar Mitsvah and our family rabbi married me for a second time to the Jewishy psychologist from the Upper East Side. No matter that his roots go back to Benjamin Franklin and he had a stint as a choir boy in Manhattan. He is Jewish enough for me.
My cousin and I have talked about going to Israel, as we age into our sixties and seventies. I hear they have great food. I always wanted to believe that the horrific history of the Holocaust rendered all Jews great humanitarians. That they would most naturally be progressive and compassionate with a strong moral compass always pointing towards inclusion and peace.
I have always known that the Middle East is a complicated web of countries and religions, of secular divisions and extremist strongholds. It is a puzzle I have rarely sought to piece together. I just know I am Jewish, of the progressive, holiday sort. And the food: latkes, honey cake, gefilte fish, matzoh ball soup, lox and bagels. And the challah we share with our dog, Asher, after lighting the candles and reciting the Friday night prayers.
It was important to me that my son take my father’s Hebrew name which was Moishe. Whether my partner was Jewish or I fasted on Yom Kippur was of less importance than the inextricable fact that I am Jewish: proud, honored, humbled and grateful for this identity.
This week I have been mesmerized by the news: Hamas invading and terrorizing innocent Israelis …kidnapping, maiming and murdering. Israel fighting back with a full-scale invasion of Gaza whose residents have for years been without and at the mercy of the Israeli government and Hamas. Neither political entity showing much concern for the people living in this crowded incubator of sadness and deprivation.
There is war now. Again in the Middle East. Thousands have died, Israelis and Palestinians. The children and the other living things are suffering in unimaginable ways. A father held his son as both died in a Gaza hospital where the generators will lose all power to save lives within the week. Twins were found alive in an Israeli village, though their parents were slaughtered by the terrorists.
And a few miracles. The elderly Israeli woman who gave coffee and cookies to the invaders, distracting them until she and her husband were rescued. The retired Israeli general who left his lovely, peaceful home to save a friend’s son and so many others who were also trapped.
Our rabbi spoke about mourning. That we will sit Shiva for the Israelis who have died. And then we will make light from the darkness. Like Adam and Eve to whom God gave the ability to ward off darkness by creating their own light.
I pray that there will be enough light for Israel and the Jewish people to sit together with the residents of Gaza and all Palestinians to put the pieces together so this complicated Middle East puzzle can finally not be about war, destruction and hatred. When the puzzle is complete, I will make my pilgrimage.