Groundhog Day

It was a Saturday morning. After walking the dog, we were relaxing on our favorite bench, enjoying the views of the Kinneret and the Golan. Fields of mustard bloomed all around, the Kinneret sparkled, and everything felt fresh, balmy, calm. Birds were busy nest building, planning a future. Spring was in the air.

Friends walked by and we started talking about the impending war. 

“When will it start? There’s so much American military buildup here,” I said.

“Or will it happen?” Eli countered. 

“Maybe it is already happening,” answered Liat.

Right then, a siren blared, its terrifying wail sending the birds flying, shattering those feelings of spring renewal. I knew there was a community bomb shelter a few steps away, and I confidently walked over to open the door. I turned the handle. It was locked. 

That’s when panic set in. It was Shabbat, we had no phones and without the Homefront Command app, we had no idea how much time we had to find safety. 

A couple out for a stroll started running. They had a phone and motioned us into a house that was being renovated. The guy seemed to know where the safe room was and we frantically ran after him, into one room and then though another, lost in a maze. But it turns out there was no protected room and precious seconds had gone by. 

Then the siren stopped, leaving us with a silent, eerie, uncertain window that I know too well. This is the time when missiles are inbound somewhere up in the sky and most people are huddled in a protected space — not outdoors walking their dog. This is when, in a protected space, I would breathe deeply and pray.

But we were out in the open, flailing. We had nowhere to go and decided to head home. Amir strolled back with the dog as if he had all the time in the world. I ran, or tried to jog, catching my breath and cursing that I was not in better shape. It was like living a slow-moving nightmare, being paralyzed and wanting to scream with no sound coming out. 

That was 20 days ago and this feeling has not changed. For me, life feels like Groundhog Day. 

I wake up each day feeling groggy, mostly because of interrupted ‘siren sleep.’ I have nothing in my calendar. Life is on hold and I have no set goals. Each day is about surviving moment to moment. My parameters have diminished as I do not travel too far outside. 

I am living in an altered reality where my biggest achievement is to breathe and relax a nervous system that yo-yos from ‘normal’ to acute anxiety many times every day (and every night).

Come night, I never know if I will have a true sleep. I leave my shoes by my bed and my phone by the door. Being awoken by the alert is sheer terror as I am ripped from sleep into a space of fear. I have 30 seconds to run outside to our safe space if there is a siren. If there is an alert, I wait by the front door for further instructions, wondering where the missiles are heading and praying everyone will be safe. And then I fall back in my bed.

Last night this happened three times until we decided to forget about sleep and put on a coffee. Just as daylight was breaking, we had another siren and I gingerly stepped into the shelter, cradling a steaming cappuccino.

My cell phone is my new shadow and every action is calculated. I make sure it is always charged and off it goes with me. It sits on the bathroom counter while I take a very quick shower (I make sure I know where my bathrobe is in case I have to dash out sopping wet). The phone is slipped into a pocket while I am weeding, planting, and preparing new garden beds. And it is with me in the chicken coop as I clean the straw and collect eggs.

I can’t be involved with anything that requires forward thinking. If I turn on the stove, I do it with the awareness that in case of a siren, I must turn everything off. If I can finish baking my bread uninterrupted, it’s a win. 

I make no plans. No need to; everything is cancelled. There has been no school for three weeks and most parents are working from home. As I won’t travel far on the road, I can’t even help with my young grandkids who are jumping off the walls.

All of this extra time is dedicated to the garden, my solace and place of tiny miracles. Fruit trees are blooming and sunflowers tower above me, gracefully lifting their heads to the sun. The hollyhocks seem overdressed, showing off their huge blooms on all sides. 

We plant vegetable seeds for summer in our tiny greenhouse, fertilize the fruit trees with our rich, homemade compost. We weed and groom beds for summer, harvest and dry fresh oregano, zatar, thyme, and rosemary. We ferment lemons and turnips and Amir makes his famous hot sauce.

I can be out there for hours communing with my little piece of paradise, forgetting that there is a vicious enemy to the north and another tyrannical nation to the east who want to kill Israeli civilians. I also have my own enemies right here.

We have a caterpillar infestation that gnaws its way through our buffet of artichoke leaves, mustard, and sweet peas — they especially love my cabbage. And there are white-spotted rose beetles that face plant into those innocent sunflowers, devouring them from the inside out. I make a point to squish caterpillars and pluck beetles, but am mostly immersed in the moment, combing the earth and gently placing tiny cosmos, zinnia, and celosia seeds in the warm soil, then covering them with a thin blanket of earth. 

I forage for goldenberries, strawberries, and sweet peas and eat them fresh – until there is an alert. ‘Tzeva Adom. Tzeva Adom.’ My phone blasts and blares and dings as my entire being goes into overdrive; the parasympathetic system says, ‘I got this,’ and my heart races.  I drop my seed packets and trowel, and dash to the house. 

This is my routine. Day in. Day out. I hardly speak to anyone except Amir; each Israeli is deep in their own form of survival. But I do hang out with my chickens and ducks who officially ‘free range’ across this vast garden, just like me. The chickens have found a place for their dust bath, and then spend all day doing their two-step dance, clawing back the rich wet soil with their feet and eating the exposed goodies. The ducks waddle along, plucking out insects from the tall wild grasses, constantly chattering to one another.

Groundhog Day. Despite the stress and the unknowing, the fear and the anxiety, this must be. I, like most Israelis, are willing to sacrifice for a better tomorrow, a safer future, and a stable Middle East. And despite the hardship of running to shelter with babies and dogs, day in, day out, Israel just scored eighth in the World Happiness Report. In contrast, the US scored number 23, while the UK came in at position 29, and France holds 35^th place. It is reported that this is about having a sense of purpose and living a meaningful life. 

Those under the age of 25 scored third globally for their age. This is despite having to serve in the army, experiencing trauma, and then going back to serve in reserves. Contrast this to the US; those under 25 scored number 60 globally. Researchers attribute this to life satisfaction, genuine friendships, social support, and living a life that forces young adults to grow up fast by making meaningful decisions.

Groundhog Day. I crouch like that groundhog, peeking out from my hole, twitching to evaluate the reality around me. When victory comes, and who know how long it will take, I will no longer need my shadow, the cell phone that wails and shrieks and bings. 

I pray that one day soon, we will all emerge. Thanks to a strong and intelligent army, a resilient people, and especially G-d’s open miracles, we will have peace. I hope to return to that bench with Amir and reflect on our victory and the many miracles, sitting under a silent, cloudless sky, the Kinneret twinkling in the sunshine.