Jerusalem, April 14, 2020.
It's been five weeks since the lockdown began, and it has become all too clear that people who are stressed out have the upper hand, and so are those who trigger stress. The national and personal sources of income are being depleted over the hysterical chatter.
I am once again in my car. The radio is playing along with the commotion by staying on a news station. When I stop at the traffic light, I try to turn the dial to a music station, but the radio won't budge. It reports on the catastrophe, on the virus' athletic ability to jump 8 meters.
When I finally turn the radio off, the driver in the car next to me dials up the volume of this madness and outrage. There is nowhere to run. Revolutions could take place, kingdoms may rise and fall, but our media outlets will continue to report what we should be terrified from all the time and in what strength.
The light changes, and a police officer asks me to pull over. I suppress the outrage that is brewing in me and I present myself: I am a divorced mother who is on her way to pick the kids. "Have a happy Passover," he tells me as he spares me from punishment.
I take a detour and go to the Arab neighborhood of Beit Tzafafa. People are stockpiling their grocery bags with fruits and vegetables but upon hearing that there are egg cartons left in the basement, a feeding frenzy ensues, as everyone wants to lay their hands on eggs that had been imported from Ukraine.
A grumpy old woman complains that there is nothing left for her and refuses my offer to get mine. "I have had a stomach ache for the past several days," she tells me, "but trust me, it is best to die at home." The other shoppers look at her with somewhat suspicious looks and move away. In these tough times, it is hard to know who actually has the virus.
The roads are empty, but the noise continues. There is a screen flickering on every street corner. The morning shows explain how one can meditate and reconcile with his or her muscles. Am I the only one who thinks that muting the television would be easier? There are several outlier guests, experts who cast doubt on the measures being taken, who speak on herd immunity and the dangers posed by the lockdown, but their intonation is reserved, their columns are hidden well below the fold.
We go out of the car and the kids whine that they have to do Zoom meetings. They too are tired from the noise. As I enter the building I meet the neighbor, whom I usually don't interact with other than say the occasional "hi."
And then I finally realize I can do something. I take out Dylan Thomas' Under Milk Wood, my boy sits next to me and buries the cellphones with the pillow he had brought. The building becomes quiet. My children and I sit at the entrance to our apartment, and the neighbor sits on a chair in the stairwell when we start to do a deep dive into the history of the Welsh town of Llareggub.
For a brief moment, it is as if there are no scary headlines; we just let Thomas' playful and convoluted words trickle inside us. We get carried away with the tumultuous affairs of Polly and hope that Willy Nilly wakes up for her sake. An ancient silence gets spread around the room after the storytelling session is over. Having read this book, we are now immune from the noise of the commotion. Our silence will stay with us.
Galit Dahan Carlibach is the author of seven books. She is currently working on a new novel.
