“Mom, I can go back to preschool! There’s a lot of space in the bomb shelter in my school, and we’re big now, we won’t cry.”
I’m not sure. There are rumors that school might open in Be’er Sheva after this weekend, for the first time in over a month. It’ll be at a limited capacity—half days only, and maybe in capsules so that there aren’t too many kids being rushed to the bomb shelter at a time. We’re all craving some kind of normalcy, so I should be excited about it.
But will my four year old really be okay without me? She still tells me every time she goes to the bathroom, and asks if I’ll come get her when there’s a siren. When we hear loud explosions, she looks at me for reassurance, sometimes runs in for a hug. How would she manage in a classroom full of little kids huddling in the bomb shelter together?
My oldest takes the city bus to school. It’s a normal thing for 11-year-olds to do here, Israeli kids are very independent. I know that if a siren went off at any point during her 30 minute commute, all the adults on the bus will be helpful and kind—that’s how it is in Israel. We all look out for each other. But I still worry about her going through that, rushing off the bus and lying on the pavement with her hands on her head and no mom or dad at her side to hold her hand.
Maybe we got comfortable in our own bubble of chaos. All the normal life rules flew out the window on that awful day more than three weeks ago, and we zeroed in on the things that matter most.
We spend time in safe places with friends, bring the kids on spontaneous helping adventures around the south, and stay up past bedtime treasuring the good moments when they come.
Our soldiers too. We visited an unmarked base where a reservist soldier had reached out for help—his unit was about to head into Gaza, and he needed a tactical case to protect his Tefillin on the battlefield. Of course we brought him one. My son walked around with boxes of pastries which he eagerly offered to each soldier, melting their hearts. One patted him on the head, gave him a hug, and said, “you remind me of my kids at home.”
It was a base full of dads, trying to get their minds off reality and into an upbeat mood. A military Jeep overflowing with singing soldiers drove by, and we all turned to see what was happening. “Mi shma’amin lo mephached! One who believes is not afraid!” Some soldiers sat on the roof, two hung out of the front, singing on top of their lungs while also laughing away.
I wondered where they were heading, and then noticed that the Jeep was full of garbage bags—probably on the way from the kitchen to the dumpster. A senior officer stepped in front of the party Jeep, looking none too pleased.
“What are you doing?! You’re grownups with kids at home, and this is how you’re behaving?”
My son took that exact moment as his cue to walk up to the officer and offer him a pastry. The officer declined, but then quickly changed his mind. He took the pasty, smiled, and walked off. The party Jeep continued their drive to the dumpster.
Most soldiers on that base had already put on Tefillin. I don’t know if it’s something they usually did at home, but you can’t tell anymore; a majority of reservists now seem to wear tzitzit, a kipa, and a mustache. My husband found one soldier who hadn’t yet put on Tefillin that day, and the young dad took a full twenty minutes to say every word of the shema with so much heart you could feel the heavens shake before him.
My father-in-law came from England with 14 (!!) large suitcases packed with toys gifted by the Jewish community of Brighton and Hove, for Israeli children who were stuck in bomb shelters or relocated from their homes. El Al airlines, who have been incredible since the start of this war, didn’t charge a penny for his many extra suitcases.
Our first stop with the toys was Moshav Patish, a small community West of Ofakim where the constant sounds of artillery and iron dome explosions can knock you off your feet. Thank God the terrorists didn’t make it to the moshav on October 7th—soldiers spotted them right next to the community fence, and eliminated the monsters before they could get in. But residents were told to stay inside with their doors locked and shutters down for 3 days while they listened to the gun battles all around them. They only opened their doors to welcome in youths who had fled the Re’im music festival massacre by foot, and arrived at their doors seeking refuge.
We went door-to-door, at most homes the mom was alone with the kids, father on reserve duty. They were so grateful for the toys—for something to keep the kids busy with inside, and for the love and care from fellow Jews all the way in Britain.
One sweet little boy had a toy riffle swung over his shoulder. His mother said that he hasn’t taken it off for three weeks, and wears it to feel safe. I asked a few locals how much time they have when the siren goes off, and always got the same answer, “oh I don’t know, we just run to the shelter if it’s next to us, if not, we lie down with our hands on our heads and pray.”
We brought some of the toys to Ofakim, where almost 50 people were murdered by Hamas gunmen. We visited a family whose heroic son, Nadav, had fallen in battle while saving lives in Re’im. The hero’s father told us how his son hid his friend who had been injured by digging a hole under a tree, and then covering him with branches. Nadav whispered to his friend, “stay here quietly and be strong so that you can go home to your baby daughter.”
Nadav didn’t make it home to his family, but enabled so many others to. His little siblings haven’t left the house since the terrorists gunned down neighbors outside their home on Simchat Torah. They didn’t want to see the bullet holes surrounding the outdoor bomb shelter. We brought them kits of art supplies from the Brighton community, and they were so happy to rush to their bedrooms and start using it.
Those gifts brought joy to so many children living under fire, from Moshav Patish who are still in their homes keeping shelter, to Shlomit who have been evacuated and don’t have any of their toys with them. It was heartwarming To be part of that hug from one group of Jews to another, an embrace of one people who hold each other through tough times.
There are reserve soldiers stationed near us who have the painful job of gathering bodies from the fields around the Gaza border. I thought they must be done by now, but at midnight, on the eve of day 26 of the war, they came over to our house after discovering five more bodies. My husband makes the best shawarma, and so the unit ate while keeping their minds off the sights they saw by passionately discussing just about anything else.
As I write this, my neighbors are blasting Israel’s unofficial war anthem; the one the soldiers were singing while taking out the garbage; the one that we’ll sing when we’ve cleaned this land of terrorists. “Those who believe are not afraid.”
We got used to the chaos, but if school reopens, my kids will go, and we’ll get back to living our lives as Jewish people in the Jewish homeland. Our unity and belief will carry us through this.
We’ll cry for every precious soul we lose, we’ll pray fervently for the return of the captives, but we won’t ever retreat. The Jewish people are strong, and we’re heading to victory.
©2023 B. Efune