I heard a siren in the distance. No, it was not the siren I was expecting at eleven - just like the one we heard the previous night at eight. No, it was not the siren that makes me stand solemnly, close my eyes and think about all the lost soldiers. It was not the siren that brings to mind pictures of the young boys I have known, and those I have only heard about, read about, thought about. It was not the siren that makes me think about all the lost men, women and children, even babies, who were forced to become soldiers without being asked.
It was another siren that I have heard too many times in recent years. It was a siren that threw questions at me, painful questions, like darts being thrown at a dartboard. Is it a pigua (terrorist attack)? Is it Hevron, is it on the road, is it Yerushalayim? Or is it ?only? a car accident? The thought quickly comes into my head that maybe someone without a car is on their way via ambulance to the hospital to give birth? the scenario we are praying for, joy instead of sorrow. I?ll wait and soon I will hear the news; if something happened, it would be on the news. Then the siren fades away and I am back to my morning work.
A few phone calls to make, but I don?t want to be on the phone when the eleven o?clock siren goes off. I am alone, working at home, sitting next to the computer. I will stand up when I hear the shrill, vibrating, up-and-down noise and stand among all the others I don?t see. Last night when the siren went off, three mortar shells were thrown on Gush Katif. Who is surprised really? And then a man was shot and killed in the Shomron. We are getting tired, very tired.
What is that siren I hear? I live at the beginning of Efrat, Rimon, the first neighborhood. My backyard faces Derech Hevron (Hevron Way). Ambulances whiz by often. Usually we rush out to the back to see which direction they are headed. Our neighbors? dogs bark at them. There is not much we can do, so we usually go back to whatever we were doing before and try to listen to the birds in our backyard instead - song instead of siren. In the early summer mornings, I like to sit on the porch with my coffee and watch the birds, listening to their music. They seem to be oblivious to the sirens and everything else. We are not so lucky, for we cannot ignore them or what we hear on the news every day.
What is that siren? Is it a child or a doctor who saves lives, now giving his own? Is it a rabbi, a security guard, a Russian olah (immigrant), a teacher, a fifteen-year-old girl out walking with her friends, a grandmother with her granddaughter? Is it a young soldier, the son of a man I remember from Bnei Akiva?
What is that siren?
Is it a wake-up call, a morning alarm, telling us ?Wake up! Wake up!?
Six months ago, I lost my beloved father, zichrono l?vracha. He was 84 years old and lived a long and productive life, a good life. He was extremely ill the last eight months of his life, and spent those months in a nursing home in Kfar Saba. I?ll never forget the day there was a pigua in Kfar Saba. I kept thinking, here Daddy is struggling between life and death, and so close by, a pigua? I could hardly believe it, it was just too much to fathom. That was one of the days that I felt ?how can I take this anymore??
How can anyone take this anymore? Death is not meant to come to children, to young mothers pushing strollers down the street, to young boys barely out of their teens, to people who are healthy and active and full of life. I cannot help but think about the juxtaposition of life and death in the nursing home, where sadness is interwoven with love and dedication; and life and death on a street in the same city, where terror and hatred suddenly strike.
A few weeks before my father passed away, Ari Weiss, zichrono l?vracha, a soldier from Ra?anana, was killed. He was the son of a good friend of my brother?s, and one of the days during the shiva, the time for mincha was changed because so many of my brother?s friends were going to the azkara (memorial) for the shloshim of Ari. Perhaps such a situation is not that unusual these days, considering how many funerals we go to, how many azkarot. Some people die at the end of a long life, others have barely begun their life at all and already must give it up. The meaning of death in war and terror compared to the meaning of death in old age is a question that looms over our heads.
During the period of time that my dear father was so sick, my niece gave birth to twin boys prematurely. They were tiny, but they grew and every gram they gained was a celebration. Today, they are one year old, playing, beautiful, smiling children. They are proof that life is renewed over and over again, no matter what else is happening around us. They are proof that there is a future to look forward to. And although we do not know what G-d has in mind for the next months or even the next day, we are rooted to the ground with our children, our families, our lives.
In Israel, we go from funerals to weddings, from funerals to britot to bar and bat mitzvot. We have celebrations that give us strength, and our lives keep moving. Despite all the sorrow we have experienced, despite the loss. Suddenly, another Yom Ha?atzmaut (Independence Day) is upon us. We celebrate Yom Ha?atzmaut with fireworks and music, flags and picnics. We must never forget that we also celebrate Yom Ha?atzmaut with Hallel. Fifty-five years is an achievement, a miracle that could not have happened without the help of G-d.
I have heard people talk about the transition from Yom Hazikaron (Memorial Day) to Yom Ha?atzmaut, how hard it is to go from a day of mourning to a day of celebration. Yet, this is what life is about. We mourn death and we celebrate birth. We mourn the millions who died in the Shoah. We mourn our soldiers and terror victims. Then we celebrate the birth of Israel. We celebrate family, closeness, continuity. Despite the loss and the pain, we keep having reasons to celebrate.
--------------------------------------------------------
Miriam Lock is a freelance writer living in Efrat. She also does editing and translating, and runs a writing workshop in Jerusalem. She can be reached at mlock@ylock.com.
It was another siren that I have heard too many times in recent years. It was a siren that threw questions at me, painful questions, like darts being thrown at a dartboard. Is it a pigua (terrorist attack)? Is it Hevron, is it on the road, is it Yerushalayim? Or is it ?only? a car accident? The thought quickly comes into my head that maybe someone without a car is on their way via ambulance to the hospital to give birth? the scenario we are praying for, joy instead of sorrow. I?ll wait and soon I will hear the news; if something happened, it would be on the news. Then the siren fades away and I am back to my morning work.
A few phone calls to make, but I don?t want to be on the phone when the eleven o?clock siren goes off. I am alone, working at home, sitting next to the computer. I will stand up when I hear the shrill, vibrating, up-and-down noise and stand among all the others I don?t see. Last night when the siren went off, three mortar shells were thrown on Gush Katif. Who is surprised really? And then a man was shot and killed in the Shomron. We are getting tired, very tired.
What is that siren I hear? I live at the beginning of Efrat, Rimon, the first neighborhood. My backyard faces Derech Hevron (Hevron Way). Ambulances whiz by often. Usually we rush out to the back to see which direction they are headed. Our neighbors? dogs bark at them. There is not much we can do, so we usually go back to whatever we were doing before and try to listen to the birds in our backyard instead - song instead of siren. In the early summer mornings, I like to sit on the porch with my coffee and watch the birds, listening to their music. They seem to be oblivious to the sirens and everything else. We are not so lucky, for we cannot ignore them or what we hear on the news every day.
What is that siren? Is it a child or a doctor who saves lives, now giving his own? Is it a rabbi, a security guard, a Russian olah (immigrant), a teacher, a fifteen-year-old girl out walking with her friends, a grandmother with her granddaughter? Is it a young soldier, the son of a man I remember from Bnei Akiva?
What is that siren?
Is it a wake-up call, a morning alarm, telling us ?Wake up! Wake up!?
Six months ago, I lost my beloved father, zichrono l?vracha. He was 84 years old and lived a long and productive life, a good life. He was extremely ill the last eight months of his life, and spent those months in a nursing home in Kfar Saba. I?ll never forget the day there was a pigua in Kfar Saba. I kept thinking, here Daddy is struggling between life and death, and so close by, a pigua? I could hardly believe it, it was just too much to fathom. That was one of the days that I felt ?how can I take this anymore??
How can anyone take this anymore? Death is not meant to come to children, to young mothers pushing strollers down the street, to young boys barely out of their teens, to people who are healthy and active and full of life. I cannot help but think about the juxtaposition of life and death in the nursing home, where sadness is interwoven with love and dedication; and life and death on a street in the same city, where terror and hatred suddenly strike.
A few weeks before my father passed away, Ari Weiss, zichrono l?vracha, a soldier from Ra?anana, was killed. He was the son of a good friend of my brother?s, and one of the days during the shiva, the time for mincha was changed because so many of my brother?s friends were going to the azkara (memorial) for the shloshim of Ari. Perhaps such a situation is not that unusual these days, considering how many funerals we go to, how many azkarot. Some people die at the end of a long life, others have barely begun their life at all and already must give it up. The meaning of death in war and terror compared to the meaning of death in old age is a question that looms over our heads.
During the period of time that my dear father was so sick, my niece gave birth to twin boys prematurely. They were tiny, but they grew and every gram they gained was a celebration. Today, they are one year old, playing, beautiful, smiling children. They are proof that life is renewed over and over again, no matter what else is happening around us. They are proof that there is a future to look forward to. And although we do not know what G-d has in mind for the next months or even the next day, we are rooted to the ground with our children, our families, our lives.
In Israel, we go from funerals to weddings, from funerals to britot to bar and bat mitzvot. We have celebrations that give us strength, and our lives keep moving. Despite all the sorrow we have experienced, despite the loss. Suddenly, another Yom Ha?atzmaut (Independence Day) is upon us. We celebrate Yom Ha?atzmaut with fireworks and music, flags and picnics. We must never forget that we also celebrate Yom Ha?atzmaut with Hallel. Fifty-five years is an achievement, a miracle that could not have happened without the help of G-d.
I have heard people talk about the transition from Yom Hazikaron (Memorial Day) to Yom Ha?atzmaut, how hard it is to go from a day of mourning to a day of celebration. Yet, this is what life is about. We mourn death and we celebrate birth. We mourn the millions who died in the Shoah. We mourn our soldiers and terror victims. Then we celebrate the birth of Israel. We celebrate family, closeness, continuity. Despite the loss and the pain, we keep having reasons to celebrate.
--------------------------------------------------------
Miriam Lock is a freelance writer living in Efrat. She also does editing and translating, and runs a writing workshop in Jerusalem. She can be reached at mlock@ylock.com.