Shake Off The Fear

The sirens have halted across northern Israel — for now, no panic running to a shelter or rude night awakenings from ballistic missiles heading our way. Central Israel, however, is still being woken by incoming missiles from the Houthis, with some five million Israelis forced to flee for safety every few days.

There have been devastating losses of lives and of homes for so many families, along with an irreparable sadness that will be carried for lifetimes. I feel deeply for them as we are all in this together.

Aside from these tragedies, the war is taking a toll on what I would call a microscopic, unseen way. The so-called 12-Day War (within a war) may have subsided for now, but it’s not so easy to pick up, brush off the fear, and go back to normal. In fact, I can’t remember what normal is. It’s still hard to make future plans, while prioritizing self-care went out the window many moons ago. 

Here in Israel, all may appear fine on the outside, unless one is a soldier or is family of a soldier in active duty. On a regular day, congested traffic means people are back to work. Kids are on summer vacation and cars are loaded with luggage heading north for a vacation on the Kinneret, Israel’s only lake (which now looks like a large pond). Our favorite summer fruits are in season with watermelon, mango, raspberries, and lychees sold at roadside stalls. 

Yet inside, our bodies are still holding tension, fear that is locked within. When I decided to tackle self-care, I finally went to went to the dental hygienist. She told me that everyone she sees is locking their jaws and clenching their teeth. Our necks and shoulders are also tight. 

We all jump when we hear a motorcycle backfire or an ambulance siren blare. Tempers easily flare. If our own bodies and minds are so affected by pent-up fear, the sirens and booms, how about the animal world? 

My dog Sushi is a total wreck. Last week, we went out for a few hours and came home to a destroyed wall. He must have heard an explosion and started to claw his way out of the house. In a panic, he scratched the drywall till it cracked open, then pulled out the insulation. One crack was not enough for his frenzy. He worked his way along the entire wall. He also cut his paw while looking for an exit and now requires antibiotic cream and a bandage that must be changed and wrapped twice a day.

We called the vet and she said we are not the first ones to contact her with a PTSD dog. She recommended a dog psychiatrist, the kind that explores the animal’s mental health and its relationship to the owner. We felt this was beyond the pale; we knew why our dog was acting out and simply wanted some stiff drugs to calm him. 

Our vet did not feel qualified to prescribe a strong drug without having us also explore behavioral modification. So we looked for trainers and were shocked at their prices. For now, our band-aid solution is to bring our dog with us everywhere. 

Even if we are not leaving the house but need something from the car, Sushi jumps in and refuses to get out. He follows us into the bathroom and desperately scratches at every door we close behind us. 

If we go out for an errand and can’t bring him (like to the dental hygienist), we have a long conversation with him explaining that we are leaving and that we will come back. We give him access to ‘his’ destroyed wall in case he feels compelled to finish off the job.  

We still hear occasional explosions and I have no idea if they are coming from Lebanon or Syria or if they are training exercises in the Golan. I will never know, but I do know that this causes our unhinged dog to whimper and shake uncontrollably.

Last week, we left Sushi at home to go for a swim in the Kinneret. He can’t come with us because he has a fear of water; he can’t be tied up because he cries; and he can’t be near other dogs because he gets aggressive. (Guess he may need a fancy doggie psychiatry couch in Tel Aviv after all.) 

We went through the “farewell we’ll be back soon” conversation with him and left. But we forgot lock the door. He jumped on the handle, opened the door, cleared our 1.5 meter fence, bandaged paw and all, then took off down the road, probably to look for us.  (He did eventually come home panting and thirsty.)

Such fear is also seen in our other animals. My duck happened to be broody in the midst of this war. She had been diligently sitting on nine eggs for a few weeks before June 13 brought missiles over our heads. Some 28 days later, the hatching date came and it went.

 I checked the eggs by candling them and saw that they were all viable. I could see the outline of ducklings inside but their silhouette did not quite fill the whole egg. I could not hear peeping inside but, just in case, I put them back. She sat and she sat. Nothing. 

On day 32, I distracted her from the nest and took away all nine unhatched eggs. I cleared out the straw and boarded up the area where she was nesting. I felt a terrible sadness for her loss. I don’t know how she felt about this, but she has not laid an egg since. 

The fearful sounds of the war could have affected the development of the babies; why else would a healthy duck lose nine viable eggs? I think the war also caused my chickens to start molting early. Their feathers fell out everywhere, leaving them with bare, scraggly necks. 

Just last night, we heard a dog whimpering and imagined it was some neighbor’s dog losing a fight. The cry continued, followed by the thrashing sound of a metallic fence.

“Where’s Sushi?” we asked at once, then ran out into the darkness. There was Sushi dangling by one paw from our very high gate. Amir swung open the gate, a swaying Sushi moving with the gate, then unhooked him and pulled him down.  

We pieced together the puzzle; he was trying to escape and as he jumped, he caught his bandaged paw on the fence. A crazy achievement, unless you are a circus dog, and another sign that we are all emotionally spent, including our erratic animals.

And we are not even on the front line of this war. We are simply civilians living in this simmering pot called the Middle East. I clench my teeth as I write. I must remember to release my jaw, be easy on myself, and try to be calm. 

I only wish my dog could comprehend these survival tools. That wall-wrecking circus dog who can’t shake off his fear is now hiding under Amir’s desk.