Breath Work

I was already working on my deep breathing when the plane touched down at Ben Gurion. We had flown a short two hours from Rhodos to Israel, but had entered a different reality. 

Because of the war, the plane had to approach from the south, passing above the dramatic dunes and craggy cliffs of the desert. 

The usual excitement I have about ‘coming home’ to Israel was replaced with fear. We were 13 months into the war and Israel had entered Lebanon to push Hezbollah north of the Litani River. 

This terrorist army had been firing rockets at northern civilian populations since October 8, but now the volume of missiles and drones increased throughout the whole country. Meanwhile, terrorists from within Israeli were attacking civilians and soldiers on Israeli streets daily. 

I looked around. The airport looked normal, albeit not very busy, as was the train station, where people pulling suitcases raced to and from the terminal. 

We sat down comfortably as our train sped north. The compartment was filled with business people, soldiers, and regular commuters. Everyone looked relaxed and I was trying my best to feel the same way too. 

We changed trains in Haifa. Waiting on the platform for our next train, Amir asked, “What do we do if there is a siren?” I looked at him blankly and shrugged my shoulders. I was more focused on a potential terror attack, debating whether I should stand near or far from an armed soldier. 

My phone app buzzed with rocket and drone attacks across the country and I wondered if it was better to know where the rockets were headed or ignore the impending doom and breathe. 

We made it to the next train and then to a bus heading east from Karmiel. We chose a seat near the driver and the bus headed onto a crowded highway; once again, a sign of normalcy. In front of us sat a Druze man, beside us was a Hareidi man with his son, and the bus driver was Arab – a typical multicultural Israeli scene. 

They soon started talking about the war. The Druze guy, who was heading to Kiryat Shmona, said he does not run to a shelter when he hears a siren. This bombarded northern city has been pummeled by rockets day and night for over a year. The religious Jew replied to the Druze that he has an obligation to protect himself. 

“If it is my time to die, I will,” the Druze answered. And in the very next sentence, he said he lost a young nephew in the horrific rocket attack on children playing soccer in the village of Majd al Shams. We were all quiet.

The religious guy’s phone rang.  “There’s been rocket attacks in Tzfat just now,” he told us. “And there is damage.” Not that far from us, I thought, glancing up at the mountains and then at deep blue cloudless sky above. 

I was not going to look at my Tzofar app to find out where the rockets were headed and where sirens were blaring. Instead, I started to breathe deeply; in for five, hold, then out for five. 

Our stop was coming up and as I stood, I saw grey plumes of smoke billowing nearby. Was it a hit near the Kinneret? An army base? We took our suitcases and walked towards our tiny village. Eerily quiet and smelling of smoke we realized that rockets had just hit right here. 

We arrived at our house. As soon as I opened the front door, I dropped my suitcase and ran out the back to our fragile and fledgling food forest. I heard a crackling sound and looked up at a towering palm, quickly understanding that this was not a sound of fronds swaying. I ran to the back where huge flames licked close to our fence.

The wind was blowing towards our garden and the flames hitched a ride on the breeze, jumping closer. I grabbed a garden hose and Amir did the same, trying to wet the trees near the fence and dampen the compost pile that was literally dried kindling after months of intense heat.

I saw seaplanes fly over and thought they would come to the rescue, but they flew past, on their way to put out other fires in the area. Where was help? The wind blew and the flames jumped closer and I stood there helplessly with a tiny garden hose in my hand. 

Finally, one small truck came and with a hose and attached it to a fire hydrant. Within a minute, those menacing, devouring flames were thick smoke. I was relieved but it was a close call. So much for a homecoming. But at least we had a home to come back to; there had been a direct hit on house very close to ours and the place was demolished. Thankfully, the owners were not there. 

After a long journey of wandering through Italy, Croatia, and Greece trying to get a flight to Israel, I was finally back in the place I call home. Home is supposed to bring comfort and shelter, but this feeling burned up in the fire. I had been home less than a minute and already felt unsafe. 

Soaked, smelling of smoke, and shocked, I stood in my garden, slowly sinking into a heap. My suitcase stayed by the door, still packed with laundry and memories of peaceful, relaxed Greece. Yet here I was feeling dazed and frozen in a state of panic, my sympathetic nervous system heightened.

My fear expanded, my breath contracted. With anxiety over sirens, missiles, explosions, drones, and fires, I could foresee my universe shrinking. 

I no longer wanted want to drive too far alone for fear of hearing a siren and having to stop on a busy road and dive into a ditch. 

I would not want to go for what should be a relaxing swim in the rejuvenating waters of the Kinneret. 

And I could not head out for a stroll in nature or even too far down the street in case I would be too far from a shelter. 

I am home and I am in survival mode. I have my loving family, my garden and trees, an affectionate tail-wagging dog, and my breath. 

I breathe in for five. Hold. Now out for five. 

And onward we go, wherever that is, I do not know.

Accidental Tourists

“Send me photos. It’s beautiful there.” 

Instead of sending my daughter pictures of Rhodes with its azure skies, Grecian ruins, and sparkling Aegean beaches where sunbathers sip cocktails on beach chairs, I sent a photo of three memorial candles. 

The caption on this photo read: We lit these candles to commemorate the lost lives and atrocities of October 7th. 

These candles were lit at a memorial for the 1,604 Greek Jewish lives lost during in the Holocaust. On July 23, 1944, the entire Jewish community of Rhodes, men, women and children, were rounded up and imprisoned by the Nazis, sent on a ship to Piraeus, and then pushed in cattle railroad cars that delivered them straight to the flames of the gas chambers in Auschwitz. 

I was in Rhodes on October  7 - and not by choice like the other Europeans holiday makers here and the thousands from cruise ships. My husband, two daughters and I became marooned Israelis when our flight from Rome to Tel Aviv was suddenly cancelled due to the ‘situation.’

Door knocker at the
synagogue in Rhodes.

Perhaps the talk of an Iranian missile attack spooked the European carriers; this did not scare the Israeli airlines who realized they could charge an exorbitant amount akin to war profiteering in order to deliver thousands of stranded Israelis home for Rosh Hashana.

One daughter was practically hyperventilating upon hearing the news; she had to get back to her husband and two young children, and Rosh Hashana was in three days. 

We took a deep breath as we paid two exorbitant airfares for our daughters to go home on the few airline tickets we could find. The ticket price was equivalent to buying a trans Atlantic fare for a ‘hop’ from Larnaka to Tel Aviv. Thanks Arkia Airlines….

The two then flew from Rome to Athens and on to Cyprus. Arriving at a hotel late at night, they headed straight back to the airport in the early morning to make sure they got on the precious flight to Tel Aviv. 

Just before my daughter boarded her flight, she found out that her husband was called back to do reserve duty on the Lebanese border. He was supposed to be the chazzan for Rosh Hashana services on his kibbutz; instead of wearing a long white kittel and holding a machzor, he was donning his khaki uniform and slinging a gun over his shoulder. He has already served over 200 days this past year, away from his wife, kids, and hospital job. 

As my daughters’ plane landed in Israel, I read of the impending strike from Iran. I grit my teeth and tightened my jaw, imagining one daughter taking a train north then driving home, while the second was driving with her husband and kids. They actually saw the ballistic missiles flying overhead and landing on roadsides while their kids napped in the backseat. 

As for us, we did not go for the exorbitant fare. Instead we decided to head to Zagreb where we have family plus a Chabad for the upcoming three-day holiday. This meant we would be far away from our immediate family at a time when most Jews look forward to celebrating with loved ones. 

We flew from Rome to Zagreb via Split. Zagreb once had a vibrant Jewish community likes Rhodes, but the Ustace and Nazis took care of that, leaving behind a tiny, mostly intermarried and unaffiliated community.

Hospitable and dedicated, the Israeli couple running the Zagreb Chabad were doing their utmost to change this. Unfortunately, as soon as we walked in with our Croatian cousin, one member of the community started screaming at her uncontrollably and threatened her. 

Before prayers began, the last words I heard were from my husband, imploring him to remember the holiness of the day. “Please, it is Rosh Hashana. Not here. Not now.”

And then my tears started. I looked over at Amir and he too was crying. I believe hatred from one Jew to another is one of the factors that sealed our fate last year, resulting in October 7 and this war. 

It has been a tragic and difficult year for Israel and the pain continues. Just before I lit candles, I saw that eight beautiful young soldiers had been killed. Here we were, Erev Rosh Hashana, and many families were mourning. 

I once learned that one’s state of mind on Rosh Hashana reflects and influences the energy of the year to come. But instead of feeling joy and gratitude, I was overcome with sadness. Tears flowed every time I tried to pray. 

I was far away from my family and my homeland. And I continued to cry. In Tzfat, where I was supposed to be praying, sirens were wailing into the air 14 times over these three days, sending adults and children scrambling to a safe space dressed in their holiday’s finest. 

These three days of Rosh Hashana without communication with my children were interminable and surreal. Come motzei chag, we raced to our laptops trying to find a flight home - us and the thousands of other stranded Israelis, including many Hasidim who, unfazed, traveled to Uman in the Ukraine, going from one war zone to another.

Despite the stories of rockets and terror attacks, we had to get home. We would click on a flight, enter our details and then lose the booking. Late at night, after three hours of searching, we finally found a flight that was leaving early the next morning. So much for sleep. 

Memorial to the Rhodian Jews.

The flight took us from rainy Zagreb to cloudy Belgrade where we waited and changed planes, then to sunny Athens, where we waited and changed planes, and then on to Rhodes.

Stressed out, exhausted, and homesick, we landed in picture-perfect Rhodes, a beautiful Greek island of romance and beauty. Except this was not a time to be a carefree tourist. 

And no, we did not capture the place with the standard classic, carefree photos - not this time. We just wanted to be home.

SOS Garden Brigade

Summer is here like an inferno with intensely scorching heat, thirsty, parched lands, and fields the hue of straw. The country is literally a stack of dry kindling, so when rockets landed in the north on June 3^rd, care of Hezbollah, the place lit up like a colossal bonfire. 

As a result of rockets and shrapnel, there were so many brush fires, the fire department and foresters could not control them all. To add more challenge, it is dangerous for sea planes to douse the fires as there is fear of them being shot down. 

We happened to be at a wedding in Netanya that night, so we had no idea what had happened. We drove our son and daughter-in-law back to Haifa when the phone rang. It was my son in New York, my personal news broadcaster, always updated to the second despite the distance.

“Where are you? Do you know there are uncontrolled fires right near where you live?” 

Hearing his voice, I had a flashback to the evening when Iran attacked. We decided to go to sleep that night and he called us at midnight to ask where we were. He told us the missiles had just crossed into Israeli airspace. I had a mini panic attack before deciding that if this was it, I was going back to sleep.

As for finding a way home, Waze and Google maps were jammed as usual, programmed to tell us we were at Beirut Rafic Hariri International Airport. We were not. We were in Haifa and totally lost, going in circles on and off highway interchanges. 

Amir researched using an online map, the news, and community WhatsApp groups to see which roads were closed due to the raging fires. My daughter who was home did not pick up the phone. Guess it was time to have a mini panic attack, but as I was behind the wheel, this one would have to wait.

As we had to make a huge bypass around the Kinneret, it took us three hours to get home. Approaching our village, I noticed the streetlights were eerily lit as if shrouded in fog. Smoke. I stepped out of the car and smelled fire. 

The fire did not jump the highway and, thankfully, our place was intact. The casualty here was a dead chicken who either suffered from smoke inhalation or heat exhaustion or both. Fires continued the next day, consuming beautiful pine and oak forests across the north. According to Israel 21C, during those days, 80 percent of the forest burnt in the Naftali Mountains and the Al-Nabi Yusha forest. Birya, the largest forest in the Galilee, lost 12 percent of its trees.

It took days and days to put out fires in very dangerous conditions. Once an area was under control, another rocket could start it all again – and the firefighting crew had no protection against the rockets. All in all, three times more acres have burned than during the Lebanon war in 2006.  

These fires are a total devastation to people, animals, and plant life. The Golan is also suffering. It is 85 percent grasslands and cattle graze freely. A brush fire there decimates a herd and destroys a farmer’s income. 

I love these forests.  Over the years, I have hiked many trails on these treed mountains and huffed and puffed while biking the uphill paths, grateful for the shade the trees offer. I treasure the fresh smell of the forest, replete with pure oxygen, gifting a dose of happiness. 

The trees are home to many birds, while foxes, coyotes, and porcupines dwell in the grass below. I have come across turtles noisily clambering across dried leaves and occasionally, I have seen deer, ibex, and wild boar peeking out from trees on the slopes. A fire can decimate all of this in a matter of minutes and it can take well over a decade for life to return. 

One of the recent fires came within 50 meters of a horseback riding ranch. A call for help went out and many answered, including Amir and I. We were told to bring rakes, hoes, gloves, and weed whackers. 

This horse ranch, a popular tourist attraction, is on the edge of one of my favorite hiking paths so I know the forest well - at least I did, since not much remains intact. As we drove there in the early morning, I could see the devastation and smell the smoke.

Many people answered the SOS call from all parts of the country. Over this past nine months of war and trauma, doctors, social workers, psychologists, physiotherapists, chefs, and yoga teachers have all answered the call for help. Now it was time for an SOS garden brigade.

We arrived to the chorus of multiple weed whackers humming in the area above the horse farm. Our task was to make a fire clearing between the forest (or what was left of it) and the farm. This meant cutting down all the brush, dead branches, and weeds and raking it into a huge pile.

During our orientation talk, a volunteer asked, “What if there is a siren?” There is no bomb shelter here in the forest. We were advised to lie down on the ground and cover our heads with our hands. 

With that sobering thought, we went to work. As we raked the brush, we were coughing from lingering smoke particles. 

When a TV crew came to interview the owner, he said he had lost 80 percent of his revenue since the start of the war. No one wants to horseback ride on these mountain paths and the horses here are having an extended vacation in their paddock.

The team was efficient and within a few hours, the area was clean, with a wide protective belt outside the ranch. I took the opportunity to pick up garbage; if there had to be a silver lining to this catastrophe, I felt I was tending the land.

Israelis have been planting trees for over seventy years, patting millions of saplings by hand into the earth all across the land. Tree planting is a symbol of putting down roots after a long exile, preserving the land, and enriching a harsh environment. 

Over the years, these saplings matured, creating hushed, humbling forests that became a quiet sanctuary, welcome shade, and a home for wildlife. The mountain sides now bear ugly black scars. 

While I was writing this, rockets from Lebanon landed in Dishon, creating brush fires that are out of control right now. I am devasted as this too is a playground of hiking, biking, a home to wildlife, and for us, wine tasting. 

This war is not over and may not have begun in the north, despite rockets falling here since October 7. I pray for peace, calm, protection of the forests, and a safe time to replant. This special prayer for planting trees, created by Rav Ben-Tsiyon Meir Hai Uziel before 1942, shows how much we value Israel and wish to tend this special Land.

אָבִינוּ שֶׁבַּשָּׁמַיִם בּוֹנֵה צִיּוֹן וִירוּשָׁלַיִם וּמְכוֹנֵן מַלְכוּת יִשְׂרָאֵל, הַשְׁקִיפָה מִמְּעוֹן קָדְשֶׁךָ מִן הַשָּׁמַיִם וּבָרֵךְ אֶת עַמְּךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל וְאֶת הָאֲדָמָה אֲשֶׁר נָתַתָּ לָנוּ כַּאֲשֶׁר נִשְׁבַּעְתָּ לַאֲבוֹתֵינוּ.	Our father in Heaven, builder of Tsiyon and Yerushalayim, and founder of the kingdom of Yisra’el, look down from your holy domain in Heaven, and bless your people Yisra’el, and the land that you presented to us that you promised to our ancestors.
רְצֵה ה׳ אַרְצֶךָ וְהַשְׁפַּע עָלֶיהָ מִטּוּב חַסְדֶּךָ תֵּן טַל לִבְרָכָה וְגִשְׁמֵי רָצוֹן הוֹרֵד בְּעִתָּם לְרַוּוֹת הָרֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וַעֲמָקֶיהָ וּלְהַשְׁקוֹת בָּהֶם כָּל צֶמַח, עֵץ, וּנְטִיעוֹתֵינוּ הַעֲמֵק שָׁרְשֵׁיהֶם וְגָדֵל פְּאֵרָם, לְמַעַן יִפְרְחוּ לְרָצוֹן בְּתוֹך שְׁאַר עֲצֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל לִבְרָכָה וּלְתִפְאָרָה.	Take pleasure in your land and bestow abundance upon it from the goodness of your lovingkindness — Give dew for a blessing and cause beneficial rains to precipitate in their season to satiate the mountains of Yisra’el and her valleys and to water upon them, every shrub, (and) tree, and our plantings. Make deep their roots and grow their crown so that they blossom according to your will among all the trees in Yisra’el for blessing and for splendor.
וַחֲזֵק יְדֵי כָּל אַחֵינוּ הָעֲמֵלִים בַּעֲבוֹדַת אַדְמַת הַקֹּדֶשׁ וּבְהַפְרָחַת שִׁמְמָתָהּ. בָּרֵךְ ה׳ חֵילָם וּפֹעַל יָדָם תִּרְצֶה.	And strengthen the hands of all our comrades who toil in the labor of the holy Earth, and make her desolate areas fruitful. Bless, YHVH, their might and may the work of their hands be favored by you.
אָמֵן.	Amen.