There are so many memories that flood my mind. So many small nuggets of life that I want to share so that you can know who I am. Maybe, you could then understand who we are. We as a country, as a people, and the context of a life that everyone hates and no one seems to care to even understand.
I was so disgusted by the conversation that I wanted to scream. To cry. To rant. I wanted to throw something at a complete stranger. I pride myself on being somewhat balanced, but, this was too much. She was talking to her friend, whoever she is, and I overheard. In all honesty, there was nothing, and everything, wrong with what she said. They were in the mall, trying to think of ways to always keep the hostages in their hearts. Never to forget them. Trying to find inspiration to connect to mass rape and killing, while trying on the latest at Zara and H&M. I was in the mall, trying to run away from the hostages. They are in my heart, my prayers, I talk to them, think about them. The pain is wearing me down. I've started to tear up at irrelevant triggers. I can't read one more interview of a bereaved mother. I can not look at another wall covered in pictures. I just can't anymore. Can it be that someone is living in a reality that doesn't include nightly vigils for the hostages? Does such a warped reality exist?
When we moved to our apartment, deep in the Judean Hills, I would look at the Arab village next door and talk to Gilad Schalit. I would dream of him, pray for him. He was part of the reality of the scenery. Maybe, even, he was actually in the scattered houses on the hillside, just like Nachson Waxman was so close. But, he wasn't.
I know where I was the day, the moment that he was freed. In Ramat Raziel buying new fish for my aquarium. I can see everything on the spot when it was announced that he was free. It is a moment frozen in time. I breathed for the first time in 5 years.
So, you can imagine what it means to me that there are hundreds of Gilad Schalits in Gaza right now. My heart is shattered into a kaleidoscope of colors, of pain. Every soldier burns a hole in my heart until I don't know whose heart stopped mine or theirs.
Another memory, another angle. I was at an Ishay Ribo concert with my girls. I have three girls. My mom and my mother-in-law tagged along. Someone raised an Israeli flag as the Israeli singer sang. Why was that hard for me to see?
Am I upset to see a Zionist flag? An Israeli flag? It took me time to understand. The realization was big. I want it to be my flag too. I so much want it to be my flag and the rest of the country does not want me. We are the rejected and misunderstood of a nation of the rejected and misunderstood.
We have many Israeli flags in our home. Many. Mostly, they are on the maps that I put up on the walls. As the kids walk by they study it. I want it imprinted on their minds. I want to know every corner, every nook, every street. I want them to know it, to love it. For a small amount of time after Oct.7, I thought that maybe things would change. I thought that maybe I could hold the flag and feel pride and feel connected. But, I guess that bitch at the mall was right. The inspiration fades. But, I don't think that the inspiration ever included us.
We are a family of ten. My husband and myself and our eight children. We love G-d and do everything in our power to get close to him. There is no greater pleasure on earth. We are bound to Him as we are to each other. I guess I gave it away now, hu? We are the rejected and misunderstood of a nation of the rejected and misunderstood. We are very happily Haredi.
