I consider myself a student of history—in fact, borderline
obsessed with the subject. Since childhood, the History Channel occupied a
large chunk of my TV watching time (which was limited) and always fascinated
me. Whether it was the commentary on the events or footage from miraculously
terrifying circumstances, I drank in hundreds of hours of documentaries. World
War II always topped the list of my interests, and I recall many shows with
footage of the Blitzkrieg, when the Nazi German army was bombarding innocent
British civilians to instill terror. The air raid sirens rang loud and clear throughout
and hundreds of British bystanders rushed amongst the rubble of their
neighborhoods to shelters, cradling their babies and children in tow. But this was
merely a segment of a documentary, a moment in history.
What those innocents experienced
more than 70 years ago is happening this very day in a small country called
Israel, and I am living in through it. I cannot tell you what it feels like to
hear a siren outside your window before rushing to a bomb shelter. I cannot
tell you how horrifying it is to see children cowering with fear, tears
crawling from their eyes as they wail for their mothers’. I cannot tell you
what it is like to hear an explosion and wonder if it found a target or was intercepted
by the Iron Dome missile defense system. Nor can I tell you the anxiety that grips
your heart while the phone keeps ringing and ringing, all the while wondering
if your friends and loved ones are safe. This is what it means to be an
Israeli.
Cities are being evacuated, save the brave few who believe steadfastness
is their best form of resistance. School has been cancelled in all areas within
40 kilometers of Gaza—indefinitely. Most Israeli families have fled to the
country’s northern and central regions, cramming into hotels and hostels, hosted
by families who were most likely displaced in the recent war with Lebanon in
2006. Never in my life did I expect to be living in that state of fear I saw so
many times on so many screens. Experiencing it like this, it is no longer just
an image on the television screen.
There have even been missile attacks in Jerusalem and Tel
Aviv as well, cities which were previously believed to be far outside of Hamas’
missile range. Friends in those cities told me of the terror they felt when
that siren went off, the panic that gripped them when unable to find a shelter.
Unlike most southern cities which are accustomed to rockets sporadically
raining down, some having only seconds to find shelter, these residents suffered
immense stress and terror that has shaken the country, but not its resolve.
Four days ago our madrich (Hebrew for leader) pulled us out
of our ulpan class (intensive Hebrew immersion) to return to the safety of our
apartments. A few hours later I received a call from my leader with
instructions to pass along a message; all 26 of us were to pack a bag with at
least three days worth of clothing. While packing we heard three sirens,
forcing us to abandon the task at hand and run for shelter—we feared for our
leaders’ safety as they came to gather us. Within three hours Be’er Sheva dwindled
in the bus’s rear-view-mirror as we headed north for the safety of Netanya.
Located less than thirty minutes north of Tel Aviv, the beach
city of Netanya starkly contrasts my beloved Be’er Sheva. The sounds of waves instead
of sirens, business as usual instead of jumpiness and all without constantly checking
for the closest shelters; in essence a paradise. But despite the calmness that
exists in many areas outside southern Israel, it remains difficult to forget we
are at war. Constant news updates of rockets hitting the cities friends and
family reside in, and the increasing number of reserve soldiers called up as a
possible ground invasion of the Gaza Strip looms. Even those in the far north
are dealing with a separate stress—that of Syria’s civil war which seems to be
spilling over the border. The tendrils of war have spread throughout Israel
like the tentacles of a sinister octopus.
Some in our group even wished to remain in Be’er Sheva or at
least return quickly, but the sirens have become increasingly prevalent. In the
past few days there has naught been a peaceful night without abrupt wakeups and
chest-thumping explosions echoing through the city streets. Despite our best
efforts to return to normalcy, MASA has decreed that none if its program
participants are to be allowed within a 40 kilometer zone of Gaza. That means
our friends in Ashdod and other southern-based programs have been relocated to
Jerusalem, Netanya, and other cities deemed safer. A friend of mine recently
referred to us as Internally Displaced Persons (IDP), essentially refugees
fleeing the conflict.
While we have relinquished any hope of retrieving our
belongings, cleaning dirty dishes, and collecting more vital supplies, we
remain steadfast in our dedication to Israel. After much discussion we have
agreed to participate in three different volunteer programs, as many of us have
become restless and feel useless while thousands need support. On the morrow
some will depart for Jerusalem to engage in some public relations work with the
Israeli State Department, updating friends and peers of the current situation
so often misrepresented in the news via social media. Others will remain near Netanya,
to help out a camp for children with cerebral palsy; our volunteers have
already allowed the camp to keep its doors open and provide many needy children
with love and care in the next few days. Personally, I will be in the north
with three peers working at a camp for children displaced from their southern
homes, bringing them some joy in these trying times.
From the balcony of my Netanya hotel, the world seems a peaceful
place as the sun sets over the Mediterranean. The moon rises on this crisp,
clear night, but mere kilometers away air raid sirens continue to berate
Israeli ears. Israelis continue to run for shelter and pray for safety. They continue
to live their lives. History is alive, and continues to repeat itself as hatred
and death fly through otherwise perfect skies. It would be easy for me to put
the strife of Israel behind me, and even easier for those living across the
world, but this cannot happen. I will never forget the first time I heard that
siren, the first time I felt that fear and was transported back in time to the
Blitz—a time most people thought was merely a moment in history.
