Celebrating in Darkness

The vice tightens. This long war feels endless while the hatred of Israel and Jews around the world deepens. I stopped watching the news as my cup has overflowed with tragedy and sorrow. I just can’t take any more devastation and brokenness. 

At first, I felt it was my obligation to know. But how much sadness can I hold inside? It has been six days since I have read a news update, yet I still know the situation is grim. I understand that Israel has become a pawn in the upcoming Democratic elections and is a pawn of Iran who nefariously glides its pieces around this fiery board in a game of death. 

Living in the north, I also know this war is getting hotter, closer, testier. Despite grim and forboding news, I insist on being outside. I plant kale, lettuce, and garlic out in the sunshine while above, groups of cranes fly over en route to Ethiopia. During this quiet and focused time, I feel like I have no worries in the world.

On Wednesdays, we are up with the sun harvesting, then off to market in a car packed with cartons of fresh organic veggies bursting with antioxidants and flavor: the perfume and taste of Eden. This is my oxygen, my energy, and my hope.

This month, we also greeted hope in a new and surprising way - the night before Chanukah, with smiles, happy tears, and song, we danced our son to the chuppah. It was beautiful to see a young couple building a new Jewish home in Israel and was just what we all so desperately needed. He and his bride were engaged and married within 27 days. Although some couples are postponing weddings due to the war, many more are rushing to tie the knot. 

They pulled off a beautiful wedding with over 250 people in no time at all. It was truly uplifting to celebrate in a time of darkness and everyone who came was euphoric. 

Some friends declined the invite, saying they were not in the right place to celebrate, but as the wedding drew nearer, I understood that in spite of our difficulties, we must celebrate life, every ounce of it. I will not take any celebration for granted and when there is so little of it around, I will embrace it. 

A rabbi came under the chuppah to sing a prayer for the safety of the hostages and soldiers. Those words emerged from a place deep in his heart and penetrated every person attending. There was not a dry eye in the place. 

Homemade gingerbread reads 'United we will win.'

Three weeks post wedding, I am honestly finding it hard to keep going day in, day out. Our nation cries and mourns its precious losses daily with funerals and shiva calls, newborn orphans, and young widows.

They talk about this going on until Pesach and they talk about another war front opening in the summer.

I do not know what will be and have zero vision for a peaceful end. I look at this unknowing as a test that forces me to reach inside deeper and deeper in a search for strength, love, and compassion. 

War Day 54 and Life Still Surreal

November is normally my favorite month in Israel. It is a time of cooling, of nourishing showers accompanied by rainbows crowning sparkling skies. And finally, tiny green newborn growth pokes up beside its parched yellow elders. 

In contrast, November was my cruelest month in Canada with its retinue of dead fallen leaves, killer frost, and dreary skies. 

To fully appreciate this new growth and transformation, I am usually outside in the garden most days. November is the month to plant bulbs, spread spring wild flower seeds, and plant winter veggies. I plant and I weed, I weed and I plant. And I harvest!

I still hear the screeching jets overhead and often panic when I hear a drone close by at night. Is this ours? Why is it so close to our houses? My imagination swirls until sleep finally comes. 

The war continues. There is now an extension to the ceasefire to facilitate further hostage exchanges. Calling this a ‘prisoner exchange’ somehow equalizes the two sides. How can one equate three Palestinian prisoners, many of whom are attempted murderers to one Israeli civilian who was sleeping in the supposed safety of their own bed?

Such is the insanity of this world. And the more it shows its true colors, especially internationally with the anti-semitic gloves torn off, the more gratitude I have to be living here in Israel. This is the only home Jews have, and although we were politically comatose with a paralyzed army on October 7, we are now wide awake. 

With images of those kidnapped children and brutally murdered civilians in their hearts and minds, our soldiers have been so strong and motivated. We just need our weak government to let them fully destroy the evil.

My sweet son-in-law, who is an awesome husband, father, and physiotherapist, is still in the army, far away from his loving and comfortable home. He sleeps in a tent that is flooded in the rain and freezes during cold nights. He eats army food, sleeps little, and misses his Shabbats at home so, so much. My daughter tries her best to hold it together at home and at work, and the children see their Abba each night as he stands outside in uniform in the dark speaking on a video call. Yet duty calls.

Today is Day 54 and life still feels surreal. My emotions sway as the events change; hope, despair, hope, anger, hope, ineptitude. Fear, fear, fear. It is emotionally exhausting. In the midst of this chaos, my son Shaya became engaged to Tzofia, to the surprise of us all. 

They are so happy together; it is a breath of fresh air to see a young couple getting married and starting a new Jewish home in Israel. They are not waiting and want the wedding right away. The hall is booked and invitations are out. We do not know what the situation in the north will be, but will go ahead and pray for the best. 

Women are also giving birth as life must go on. Many are naming their babies Be’eri and Oz after the kibbutzim where people were massacred. This is bitter sweet. And now, hostages and their families are being reunited. We read their stories, cry with joy, and try to feel that dark pain. But the living nightmares expereinced both by families and their kidnapped loved ones is truly unfathomable.

As this surreal and often scary life goes on, we have no way of knowing what will happen next. I truly believe our destiny is in Hashem’s hands. 

We must do our very best on a micro scale; think positively, see and appreciate tiny and huge miracles, pray - and most importantly, celebrate happy life events when they happen.

Planting For Hope

Here in Israel, life hangs on a thread. Everything that is deemed normal or routine has come to a standstill. Each morning, feeling grateful after a night’s sleep in a bed and not in a bomb shelter, I awaken to a reality of unknown, untouchable fear. When I am asleep (unless I am woken up by fighter jets ripping right above my roof) I am blissfully unaware. Yet, as soon as I wake up and touch my feet to the floor, that existential dread returns.

Everyone person and living thing here is affected. There is brutality, death, mourning, and PTSD. I recently read that 27 percent of Israeli children are traumatized by these events. 

When the first siren went off here (which turned out to be a false alarm), my grandchildren were happily playing with toys in the bath tub. With only 30 seconds to spare, my daughters scooped them out and rushed them down to a safe space. To this day, every time my four-year-old grandson walks towards the bathroom, he asks to be picked up. And each time he sits in the tub, he talks about the siren and obsesses with death.

Planting coriander seeds

Life, however, must go on and we try to make a routine out of the unknown. Stores and malls are open yet understaffed as so many people have been drafted into the army. Schools have recently been opened. Universities, which were to open for the new school year right after Simchat Torah, are closed; most of the students and many professors have been drafted into the military.

As for toddlers, the ganim were closed as there was no way a teacher could get small children into a safe room in the designated time – often 30 seconds. As time went on, they came up with ways to do half days just so the toddlers could get out of the house, see friends and simply be kids. Now the ganim are back full time, except they must instruct the children about how and where to run to safety when the siren goes off. When my grandson last came over, his favorite topic was the ‘mamad,’ the safe room.

Seeking routine, we started up our weekly organic vegetable market in Tzfat. People are lured in by the sweet smell of basil, happy to see the freshly picked produce and share their personal war stories. 

Each Israeli feels the stress in their own way. My daughter’s husband has been drafted and she has been on her own with her two little boys for five weeks now. At first she could not got work as there was no school for the small children. Her husband, a physiotherapist, is in the army. His first task is serving the country while his regular job is empty; many hospitals operate on a skeletal staff. Across the spectrum, there are gaps in the system with no workers. Being in tourism, our own business has been shut down for well over a month.

The effects of war reach beyond artillery, wounded, and hospitals. They also touch the sky and the ground. It is now the peak season for the migration of birds. Some 500 million birds fly through Israel in the fall and spring, resting in the Hula Valley lake before continuing on. 

Right now, the cranes are flying over, arriving from Russia en route to Ethiopia.  The crane migration is a magnificent sight to behold and to hear. Traveling in family groups, many fly right over our house. We hear fluttering of great wings and the echoing honk, when they are above, buffeting on the wind. They fly over day and night – and so do the fighter jets. There is now a hotline set up to report these migrations in case there is interference with the jets.

As for the ground, this is also planting season for the winter crops. Some 80 percent of Israel’s vegetables are grown in farms outside of Gaza. Now it is too dangerous to tend to them and even if people were able to access the fields, there are no farm workers. Most young men have been drafted. 

There are pleas from farmers’ wives asking for help. These seedlings need water, planting, and care. If this is not attended to, food will have to be imported, farms will fail, and more people will go hungry.

I received a list from just one company asking for places to grow their seedlings and it is staggering; over 300,000 lettuce seedlings in various varieties, 230,000 cabbage, 24,000 zuchinni, and the list goes on. 

It feels like that COVID nightmare all over again. Limited school, no work, and fearful news everywhere - on the TV, radio, whats app, and on the street. Evil lurks outside in the form of a heinous enemy and not a virus. Instead of lining up for injections, people are filling in firearms applications, hoping bullets may offer protection if need be. 

It is ironic that in this part of the world, the average citizen is unable by law to protect himself, while his surrounding enemies, both inside and outside the borders, are flush with guns. 

Yet this is not about comparing the number of arms. It is about staying strong and rebuilding a connection to G-d and to others. It is about thinking positively and working on a vision for a better world of light, peace, and love. And yes, this is hard work, but the Israelis and many people around the world who understand this battle are offering their help and prayers. 

The morale here is high. Soldiers are determined to crush the terror infrastructure and the civilians are doing their best to support them. My husband has switched from buying soldiers equipment to making them barbecues. Farmers are flying in from abroad to help and some yeshiva students have switched their focus from Torah books to working the land. Everyone is united with iron strength.

A garden nursery here is selling packages of mixed wildflower seeds. It contains seven varieties of seeds, each one in memory of a settlement that was destroyed by Hamas. They are sending money from profits to help the survivors rebuild lives. 

As for me and my little farm in the north, I continue planting.  I will soon sow these special wildflower seeds all over my garden. Come spring, when these flowers poke up and unfurl their petals, I pray Israel will have returned to a time of security and peace. And when these colorful flowers bloom in gardens across the country, many will be remembering the many special lives that were lost. 

Garden Therapy

Dawn breaks. Birds sing their morning praise and crickets keep a steady song. The fall air is crisp like fresh mint, offering welcome relief from a blazing hot summer. Yet fighter jets fly non-stop overhead, a constant rumble above. 

It has been a week since the massacre of my people, an atrocity the Jewish people have not experienced since the Holocaust. However, this time, it happened to Jews in their own homeland; they were butchered while sleeping in their own beds, captured while preparing festive meals for beloved family in their own kitchens, pleading for mercy while their children were mutilated in front of them.

And so the butchers systematically went from one house to the next, killing mercilessly, pulling their captives by the hair, continuing their bloodbath for nine hours until the Israeli army finally arrived. 

Then they turned their violent efforts on our soldiers, brave young men who had no idea what had happened to their brothers and sisters. They killed many Israeli soldiers, including two heroes, sons of family friends. The bloodbath continued with rockets on the civilian population as the army jumped into action, recruiting thousands of soldiers and reservists. 

One week later, the Arabs are rioting in Judea and Samaria, while Hezbollah infiltrates the northern border with Lebanon. To the east, Palestinians on the Jordanian side are trying to climb the fence. 

This is an existential nightmare. Everyone I know has lost someone dear. They kidnapped the wife and two children of our next door neighbor’s close friend. On Friday, my son was at the shiva of his rabbi’s brother, a high-ranking officer who was killed in battle. Another neighbor’s nephew was killed while fighting for our safety. We are hoping to travel to Raa’nana today to pay a shiva call to friends who lost their beautiful son. No words. 

More horrific details are released daily, revealing inhumanity. I would not even call these terrorists subhuman as this word incorporates “human.” Animals don’t even treat their enemies this way. It is pure evil. And this is how I understand that it is a fight of good over evil. Those who side with the perpetrators are themselves voting with evil. 

It looks like this battle will encompass the world. Iran, whose dirty hands are all over this, is now saying it will intervene if Israel enters Gaza. Meanwhile, the US is placing another battle ship on the coast. Is this it? The prophesied Gog and Magog?

As Amir says, we have front row seats and he is right. As some Israelis pour out of the country like war refugees, others fly in to fight. 

We hunker down. As we do not have a bomb shelter within a 30-second run (yes, we have 30 seconds to run from safety when a rocket is, G-d forbid , launched from the north), we made an improvised safe room with water, mattresses, chairs, and a kettle.

There is a box by the front door with necessities like instant coffee, a change of clothes and random things like apples, pretzels, diaper wipes and a bucket. So far (aside from one terrifying siren with reports that Hezbollah terrorists were flying above in ultralight planes and had overtaken the nearby gas station), it has been quiet in our neck of the woods. I am aware the situation in the north could change in a heartbeat and it is already happening.

The strangest things keep me calm - like an orderly kitchen, folding laundry, and sweeping the floors. Every time I unload the dishwasher, I wonder if this is it, the last time I put away my cutlery.  Such thoughts offer me an appreciation for how good and blessed my life has been.

A long, hot shower I cannot have; I am always conscious that a siren could go off when I am covered in suds, knowing I have just 30 seconds to scramble and get out. Every time a child leaves the house, I say ‘I love you’ and mean it deeply. The list goes on, turning into a quirky prayer of gratitude whispered every second of the day. 

My greatest solace and therapy is my garden. I spend hours outside planting new seedlings and weeding with veracity as if I am uprooting an enemy, clearing my tiny piece of land of invaders and danger. I planted lettuce, mizuna, beet leaves, celery, tat soi, and parsley. 

I am preparing a new bed for cactus and succulents, filling wheel barrow loads of earth from the back, dumping it, then spreading is gently and evenly with my hands, appreciating the feel of the life-affirming soil. I made a raised bed for strawberries and then gently planted ten, patting the earth around them so they are snug. 

We now have a seed table complete with overhead misters. I took out seed containers, made a soil mix, then seeded trays of winter crops, one seed at a time. It was a type of meditation focused on bringing life, sustainability, and a nourishing future. I seeded Chinese kale, coriander, broccoli, Ethiopian kale, scarlet kale, rocket, garden peas, fragrant peas, snow peas, red beets, yellow beets, colored carrots, Turkish spinach, red Swiss chard, Japanese mustard, and black radish.

And two days later, the rocket (the vegetable version, not the weapon), Chinese kale, and peas sprouted, a sweet and gentle affirmation that yes, there is a tomorrow. It is a sign that life continues despite the stress, onerous threat and intense difficulties. We must do, we must trust, and we must pray. 

I am now in the car with Amir and Shaya looking for equipment for soldiers. Rockets are flying in the north and the south, while rain is pelting across the country, our first downpour since March. The shelves of many outdoor stores are empty but we found some important items, filling our car with woollen socks, long underwear, shirts, ponchos, rain pants, tents, and battery packs. 

And so we go on, like those seedlings finding the strength to poke their head through the earth, then reach up to the skies for rain and sun, their nourishment. 

We are also doing what we can on the ground, while beseeching G-d above for a speedy end to this and a return to peace, goodness, and humanity.

Weed Whacking

Come September, the Israeli landscape is parched, crunchy, yellowed, and prickly. It is as if nature is spent and experiencing symptoms of advanced old age; plants are skeletal, withered, grey, their stems fractured bones. They are exhausted, save for seeds that many will spread to ensure a future generation. For the next big event in this circle of life will be rain. And come Sukkot, we will be praying for it.

As a farmer (with my micro plot, can I call myself that?), I am deeply aware of this cycle and also of those prickly yellow weeds. And as I am an inattentive gardener, they have easily found a foothold and invaded my garden. They are predator and I am prey.

I saw them start life as tiny seedlings popping out of the ground and shrugged my shoulders, ignoring them unaware of their innate power. Now, some of them are taller than me and others have deep tap roots that must lead to China. 

It is not surprising that the weeds here as so invasive, sharp, rough, and hostile; this is, of course, the Middle East. Consider the soft mosses and alpine flowers of Switzerland, or the dreaded fluffy dandelions of North America - child’s play compared to their Israeli counterparts! In fact, some invasive plants here are not shriveled up but are fully alive and doing well, happily living off pure sunshine and my compost and mulch. 

There is Syrian mesquite, or ‘yanboot,’ as they call it in Hebrew. The golden hills and mountains are now dotted in green Syrian mesquite or Prosopsis farcta. It looks pretty, but on a closer look, it has thorns everywhere, right down to the base. Once it has a foothold, one would need armor to try to pull it out, plus lots of force. 

I researched this plant and to my horror learned that it is actually an underground tree that reaches a depth of 20 meters below, meaning the ‘little’ green thorns coming up are its branches and leaves. These leaves can spread across a kilometer, with each prickly baby belonging to the same mother mesquite. Before you blink, the babies are bushes. 

This yanboot is everywhere I look in my garden. I learned in permaculture that when you weed or trim back the garden, you should chop and drop, leaving the plant to decompose on the ground. Not so with yanboot. After it has been pulled out and dies, it turns reddish brown and is still as prickly as ever, so you basically need armor to pick it up. And if you touch it while wearing a sandal or flip flop, it will really hurt. Believe me, I know; a stroll through the garden is accompanied by the word ‘ouch.’

We had to buy heavy duty gloves that look ideal for trekking up Everest and when I am wearing these, I feel like I can conquer a young yanboot or two. As for the large ones, I wear the gloves and clip them at the base, making peace with the fact that they are there for good, part of an underground tree that surely starts in China. Yes, by cutting it back, I am simply fortifying it but at least I can’t see it until it rears its prickly head again. 

My other archenemy these days is the squirting cucumber or Ecballium elaterium. This plant is alive and well in my garden despite the heat and drought. When it first popped up with its greyish-green downy leaves, I thought it was pretty and left it to grow, enjoying its yellow flowers. But then it grew invaded my zucchini, and my carrots and my tomatoes. That was the signal that it had to go. I took out my shears and cut. 

With great force, a benign little ‘cucumber’ shot out a smelly, liquid mass of seed right into my eyes. I felt like I was in a scene from a horror movie. “Arghhhh,” I screamed, wiping my face. It happened again and again, and it burned a bit as well as stank. 

Its nastiness simply made me more determined. I observed that it had green pods that exploded upon impact. If I cut it at the base and ever so gently move the cut stems aside with the clippers, it does not explode. I have had a few mishaps but have learned my lesson the hard way. I since read that it is poisonous, so beware.

My other adversary cannot attack me by exploding and it does not leave a trail to China. It looks to be a type of thistle. It is prickly from base to tip and on all its branches and even my Everest gloves cannot protect me from it. I cannot find out its name but there are fields of it standing high and proud just behind my garden. They look like zombies from the Night of the Living Dead and I imagine them leaving their shallow graves each night to stalk the fields, arms stiff as they rattle and sway. 

To remove this villain that was the size of a tree, I took out a saw and hacked and hewed at it, then carefully it chopped it into tiny pieces. Throwing the thorny parts into a garden bag was also precarious, but slowly, slowly, I chopped away, understanding that I would never let one of these reach menacing maturity again. 

And then there is the creeping, crawling green thing that looks like Bermuda grass. This squatter digs itself deep down then sends a network of thick, strong roots underground that pop up in the middle of an innocent, unsuspecting vegetable bed. It takes hold fast and furious like a dictator. Good luck to any seedling that wants to make its home in this neighborhood.

Getting rid of this grass requires sitting on the ground with a small shovel and digging away, trying to figure out which way the roots are traveling. It’s like reading a subway map except it is dirty, sweaty, mostly unfulfilling work. Yet, when you pull the entire rail system up and find the mother root, it is gratifying in an strange way. Usually, the grass wins. 

I weed and I whack and I often call it a day, understanding that I will soon have a ground cover of mesquite and creepy crawly grass. We don’t use pesticides in this garden so I will have to enter into some kind of peace process and live with them side by side – as long as we can stay on equal terms.