While the outpouring of love and genuine concern from family and friends around the globe has buoyed our spirits since the outbreak of this newest chapter of Israel’s war with Iran, the question “How are you?” is rather loaded. To put it simply, the last week has been eerie, scary and emotionally draining. We are physically safe, but we are not alright.
On Friday night, February 27, my wife, Shari, and I discussed the intricacies of the very complicated week ahead, including scheduled tours of the ADI Negev-Nahalat Eran rehabilitation village (where I work) for hundreds of supporters from Jewish National Fund-USA, Purim preparations and celebrations, our nephew’s wedding, and Shari’s Saturday night departure for her next work trip to New York. But everything changed with a single siren.
On Shabbat morning, February 28, we were awakened by the haunting sound of Deja vu, a wailing harbinger of yet another war with Iran. Shaken but resolute, I made my way to synagogue in the hope of fulfilling the special mitzvah of hearing Parshat Zachor (Deuteronomy 25:17-19) on the Shabbat before Purim, a Torah reading that fittingly commands Jews to remember and erase the memory of the nation of Amalek. The Shabbat services moved along at an accelerated pace, but everything unraveled when we reached the Prayer for the Welfare of the State of Israel.
As the chazan, who is a reserve soldier, began reciting the prayer, a loud voice erupted from his phone and shattered the congregational silence. He stopped cold, turned away to communicate with his IDF commander, grabbed his gun and left. The gabbai finished the prayer and then a pre-siren warning blared on every phone in the synagogue – there were at least six other reserve soldiers awaiting orders. Within 30 seconds, everyone was gone.
The next 48 hours were exceedingly difficult. Shari and I were in and out of the safe room throughout the day on Shabbat, and I grappled with residual feelings from my serious bout with depression back in June, during the first war with Iran. On Sunday, March 1, I pulled myself together and went to the neighborhood grocery store to get the last few items we needed to sustain us for the week and to celebrate Purim.
As I bagged my groceries, a pre-siren warning pushed me into high gear, and I was home within minutes. A few seconds later, sirens sounded, and Shari and I retreated to the safe room. While we were expecting the usual comforting sounds of missile interceptions, we jumped at the loudest boom we had ever heard, and the entire neighborhood shook. A half-ton Iranian warhead hit a synagogue a kilometer from where we were sitting. In an instant, nine of our neighbors were dead and 40 more were wounded. Once again, our little corner of the world was on the map for the worst possible reason.
We tried our best to get into the Purim spirit, but we merely donned the mask of carefree people – jubilation was our costume for the day. Life is heavy and tense, and important decisions are made according to one’s proximity to a bomb shelter. There were no tours of ADI Negev this week, Shari will not be flying to New York, and we missed our nephew’s wedding. We are sad, conflicted and struggling to stay above the rising tide of hopelessness.
No matter how comfortable the safe room or hospitable the shelter, it pales in comparison to the warmth of normalcy, and it doesn’t hold a candle to the natural beauty of Israel’s hillsides, forests and beaches during this glorious season of rebirth. May we be allowed to enjoy the splendor and serenity of spring and summer for the first time in what feels like forever. May we soon be released from our shattered lives and sheltered spaces into the genuine safety of lasting peace.
Elie Klein is a veteran nonprofit marketing professional and the North American Director of Advancement for ADI, Israel’s network of specialized rehabilitative care for those touched by and living with disability, and an international advocate for disability inclusion, equity and access.