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.