The first night of war, I fell down exhausted.
In the small hours of the morning, I couldn’t stop myself from falling into a haunted sleep in which my body lay paralyzed for several hours until I heard the first bird before dawn. There was nothing to keep me in bed any longer, I woke and dressed early to prepare myself for a day of unfathomable atrocities.
The second night of war, sleep did not come easily.
I beckoned it to come, if only for the sake of the care I have to provide for those who depend on me, but it eluded me. Instead, sleep led me into the darkness of twisted sheets and terrors imagined and remembered. Fear had returned and curled up in my stomach where it carved out a den. From there it lurks and rarely slumbers.
The third night of war, I received a warning.
My husband was out on a local volunteer patrol and messaged me, “Prepare for the worst, they say there’s going to be an attack at the bordering crossing a few minutes from our yishuv. Take the children and hide on the roof, pretend the house is empty and they’ll leave you alone. They want hostages. It may not happen but I want you to know first and to prepare for the worst.”
In the end, nothing happened, reinforcements were sent and the border was secured, but I can’t unlive the minutes spent dressing my children in extra shirts and putting their running shoes on with their pajamas or stashing a bag of valuables on the rooftop and selecting the safest place to hid out of sight if someone came to the roof. I will never forget the tightness in my chest from the realization that I have nothing more to arm myself and protect my children with than a kitchen knife in my sock, another in my pouch, and the butcher knife in a makeshift sheath. I put my children to bed with their shoes on and waited an hour in the dark, choosing where to wait by how well I could see without being seen.
Though the tightness in my chest threatened to choke, I was surprised at how my body refused to panic, how the adrenaline kept me calm, how I felt all the emotions through a layer of ice that prevented them from affecting me. The message finally came “Everything is fine, they sent troops to reinforce our yishuv and the border.”
But in my mind, it had already happened and even the imagined can be unforgettable. There was no sleep on the third night of war.
The fourth night of war, something had changed. On the fourth day, fear had become outrage and courage. Everything became an act of resistance. A breath for Amit. A bite of food for Noa. A drink of water for Rani. A moment of rest for Shir. A prayer for them all. Dead and alive. Sleep came quickly and easily. A needed rest cradled by the knowledge of a tomorrow that must be lived for myself and for all the rest.
On the fifth night of war, I will lay in bed with the knowledge that sleep is the only thing I can control.
For all the rest, Elohim Gadol.