This morning, I woke up in my own bed, and I heard rumbling in the air.
Please, not again. Don’t let this happen again. Not so soon. I’m not Israeli. I’m not used to it.
“Ok, if it were a rocket, there would definitely be a siren warning us of the danger”–that painful, sharp howling that goes round in circles and pierces your gut like an icicle.
It’s raining in the desert!!! Granted, it has rained a few times before, but never has the sky opened up and let it pour out on us–maybe it’s God’s way of saying sorry.
It’s cloudy and cold here, now. When I finally made it to Sde Boker, by safe haven, a few days ago, it was sunny and warm with a mix of chilly wind. Time is definitely taking over. It will be dusk by four o’clock today. When you live in a place that’s only been populated for the past sixty years, you have to learn to deal with a lot of hiccups…hiccups in your modern, Western sense of them: things being dark at four o’clock, and oh, yeah, rockets falling from the sky. I’m being sardonic, but I’m not exaggerating.
Wednesday night November 21, at 9 pm, marked the end of seven days of constant rocket fire from Hamas not only to Be’er Sheva and southern cities, but also to Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, Israel’s two biggest, baddest, most controversial cities (Tel Aviv? Who knew a Berlin-wannabe would be so desirable…)
Exactly seven days and a few hours earlier, I was sitting right here at my desk, with my computer, preparing to write a paper for my “Israeli Society as Seen Through Israeli Film” class, reading articles on the tensions between the upper class, Ashkenazi Jews and the Palestinian Arabs who have been horrifically marginalized since the creation of modern Israel. But truthfully, the assignment was serving to enlighten me on the tensions that I have felt nonstop since I first set foot in Israel. I’m not a politically-minded person, and so what I know, what I understand, and what I remember about politics is mostly what directly affects me.
As God as my witness, I will never forget this.