A firsthand experience in Israel
“You’re doing what?”
“I’m going to visit my sister in Israel.”
“It’s a war zone!”
It was the beginning of December and I was telling my friends that I wanted to see my sister who has lived in Israel for 50 years. Since Oct. 7, I had been begging her to let me come and be with her, and finally she relented, overcome by my nagging. In addition to my being with her at a difficult time, we both thought I could be helpful there as I am a psychiatrist with experience in treating trauma.
For some reason, I had no fear about going to Israel during a war. I’m not sure if it was denial or my familiarity with traveling there so many times. I just wanted to be there with her during this horrible time. In contrast to my friends’ appalled reactions to my Israel trip, the other passengers on the full flight to Israel did not seem particularly anxious. It was just the usual jostling to get on board, followed by an 11-hour flight.
I’m not sure what I expected, but Israel didn’t feel like a war zone when I arrived. However, the preoccupation with the hostages was evident. Pictures of each hostage with the banner “Bring them back!” lined the entrance hallway of Lod. The hostages were a main concern in every conversation I had. It was as if every Israeli felt the hostages to be part of their family.
Israelis celebrated the return of each hostage in the earlier days of the war and mourned the loss of each hostage in the later days. It felt personal; it was a preoccupation. The daily gathering in Tel Aviv of families and supporters underlined the will of the people to get the hostages back. While the hostages’ plight fell to the background in the U.S., Israelis were and are intensely committed to their return. Now.
It was the same for the soldiers killed in action. Every night, the news described each soldier lost, his/her personality, family, job, hobbies, children, wives/ husbands. Israelis resonated with the grief of each family each night. It was personal.
There were sirens. We ran to the shelter. There were rockets. The Iron Dome intercepted them. My sister lives 30 miles from the Gaza border. (Nothing in Israel is very far from anything else.) There was the sound of distant rumbles of bombs … every day … every night.
We had arranged for me to speak with a 12th grade class of English speakers in the Diplomacy track. These are the faces and voices of Israel’s future. We discussed trauma, personal and national. The students wanted to know if it was possible to heal from trauma. I told them, “Yes, it’s possible.” They wanted understanding about healing for the hostages, the women raped and tortured on Oct. 7, for the soldiers, for the country, for themselves. I wanted to give them hope.
They asked how to understand the hostility of Americans to the Israelis’ situation. They were nonplussed as to the reasons for the pro-Palestinian protests, given the horrors of the Oct. 7 massacre. And they showed maturity in the face of the conscious and unconscious rampant antisemitism. No denial, but also no cowering. Pride in their country and a desire to arrive at solutions in changing opinions.
… Distant rumbling of bombs … overhead flights of war planes …
We drove to Tel Aviv to light the Chanukah candles with my niece and nephews and their families. I brought soccer shirts for the little boys. A bit of normalcy. We did not have the kids come to my sister’s house, as their shelter is not large enough to contain the entire family. This is the kind of decision Israelis are considering every day. Is there enough room in the shelter?
My sister and I met with a mother who lost a daughter on Oct. 7. (Everywhere we went, everyone had a family member or friend who directly experienced a loss, either by murder, rape or hostage taking.) This mother was grateful that her daughter was killed when a grenade was thrown into a shelter. She was grateful that her daughter was not tortured or raped. No words.
… Again, distant rumbles of bombs … helicopters overhead now …
My sister had the neighbors over for a Chanukah dinner and talk. I was the entertainment. We discussed trauma, antisemitism, the loss of the soldiers, the hostages. What struck me was the community, the solidarity of community of these Israelis. There were no “right” and “left” wings, although it was clear that opinions varied on politics. There was strength in their being together, supporting the process of retrieving the hostages, supporting the necessity of the means to bring safety to their country.
And there was empathy for the Palestinians. There was heartfelt sorrow for the losses incurred by innocent Palestinians. The neighbors expressed sadness for the suffering of the innocents on both sides. There were no angry denunciations of Gazans, no war-mongering against all Palestinians. There was somber acceptance, through repeated experience, that Israel would have to take necessary steps to keep itself safe, despite critical world opinion.
This acceptance in the face of uninformed, often antisemitic rhetoric was ubiquitous. There was initial frustration with each episode — Red Cross not taking medication provided by families to the hostages, calls for ceasefire that benefited Hamas, U.N. condemnation of Israeli attacks but nothing about the barbaric Hamas invasion during peacetime. But that frustration was quickly followed by a stoic resignation to the usual “going it alone” as Israelis have done for 75 years.
We took the train to Tel Aviv to see my niece. Before boarding the train, we made sure there was a plan for shelter should a siren sound. There was. As we got off the train and drove to the shuk, a siren sounded. We ran to the nearest shelter, a plumbing supply store, and joined other Israelis, all texting their families. “We are safe. Don’t worry.” The Iron Dome intercepted the missiles; fragments damaged an area near the city.
It was a lovely day in Tel Aviv, green with palms and resonant with the sound of waves washing ashore. There was a deceptive sense of normality. But there were also the signs: Bring them home, NOW!, Shelter à, Am Yisroel Chai. The war was never far.
On the evening of last day of my stay, there was a distant siren. Instead of running to the shelter, my brother-in-law rushed to the front door. (He understood that we were not in danger.) We saw the plumes of missiles. We felt the gut-punch of the Iron Dome interceptions. It’s one thing to see it on TV. It’s another to see it in real time.
This is what Israelis live with every day — the not knowing when missiles will rain down.
The necessity of building the
Iron Dome. The shelter in each house and building. Compulsory national service for boys and girls. The reservists, who make up the majority of the soldiers in Gaza — these bus drivers, pizza shop owners, businessmen and women, these regular people who are preserving the safety of their country.
I learned on this trip about community and solidarity of community despite the inevitable differences on politics (two Jews, four opinions). I learned that there are future leaders who care about their country, who implicitly understand how to stand tall amid unfounded criticism. I learned about the communal and individual grief at each soldier lost and each person affected by the barbaric events of Oct. 7. I learned that empathy for Palestinians survives in spite of the horrors of war.
I will return. I miss my sister. She is brave and strong and loving. Like her Israeli friends and family.