This is what resilience looks like
Missiles can’t defeat the Israeli spirit or its sushi bars
Just minutes after Havdalah last Saturday night, my phone pinged.
It was not the jarring blare of the automated warning to stay near protected spaces due to incoming missiles, nor the even more jarring siren signaling the need to get into that protected space pronto. We’d had quite a few of those throughout the day.
No, this gentle text ping was a cheery communication from the management of our local sushi bar, assuring me that missiles flying overhead were not going to interrupt their preparation and delivery of the Asian cuisine they know I often crave.
One second later, another ping arrived to inform me that our local Pizza Hut was open for takeout and delivery, come what may.
I did not order any takeout that evening, but I absolutely loved the fact that I could have. Because this seemingly trivial pair of messages was emblematic of the Israeli spirit. No matter what, we go on as best we can. We are the very epitome of resilience.
Being resilient doesn’t mean we’re impervious to fear or anxiety, that we aren’t cognizant of the danger, uncertainty, and disruption this new wave of war dumps on our already burdened shoulders.
Being resilient doesn’t mean we are unaffected by a reality in which schools are closed, mobility severely limited, appointments canceled, and plans put on hold. We are acutely aware of the huge implications of 170,000 battle-weary reserve soldiers being asked to leave families, jobs, and studies once again to defend us. We mourn the innocent lives tragically cut short by Iranian aggression.
Being resilient means that Israeli society has largely learned how to adapt to adversity, trauma, tragedy, threats, and stress. From hospital workers (a large percentage of whom are Arab) rapidly moving patients to underground wards, to fast-food workers remaining on the job to feed everybody sheltering at home, resilience means using practical and emotional tools to cope and even to grow stronger from having persevered.
Among those tools are faith, prayer, efficiency, creative problem-solving, camaraderie, positivity, and humor. And above all, a strong sense of hope, purpose, and meaning.
Certainly, the Israeli and American leaders had their reasons for the timing of the attack on Iran that we all knew was coming. (One dark joke making the rounds is that we can finally relax now that we no longer need to worry when the war will start.) But most of us see a connection between our bold takedown of the current evil Iranian regime and the holiday of Purim commemorating our victory over an ancient evil Iranian (Persian) regime.
A Jerusalem Post editorial pointed out that on Purim, “the Jews gather, fast, send messages, and build solidarity across distance. They insist on public joy after public fear, even when it feels like an act of defiance. Many Israelis accept hardship for a shared moral reason. A Middle East freed from Tehran’s terror project would mean fewer proxy wars, fewer rockets, and more room for Iranians to reclaim their country. That hope clarifies the stakes.”
Kids, however, may not be able to grasp the big picture. Running for shelter under attack is scary and bewildering, even when adults effectively calm them with singing, games, art projects, and relaxation exercises.
Plus, the timing of Operation Epic Fury-slash-Roaring Lion (each country chose a different name) caused massive disappointment among schoolchildren, who look forward all year to coming to class in costume two days before Purim vacation. That would have been Sunday.
Costume Day is the apex of an entire month of Purim-related fun in which upperclassmen — in elementary school, that’s sixth graders — make up the rules, such as starting the day at 10 instead of 8 or getting candy every time the teacher steps on a floor tile crack. Instead, they were stuck at home in bomb shelters.
Yet even that upsetting situation was handled with grace by Israeli parents and educators. On Sunday, my two sets of Israeli grandchildren dressed up anyway in the silly attire they’d ordered or concocted months ago, posing for pictures when it was safe to come out of the protected room. I assume schools will make it up to them when classes resume. Because our shared sense of hope, purpose, and meaning imbues Israel with a fiercely child-centered culture.
Guy Yifrach, the mayor of our city of Ma’aleh Adumim, posted a photo of himself hugging his young son while sitting in his office on Sunday on Facebook. The little boy radiates security and calm, enveloped in his father’s arms.
“These days are complex for all of us and especially for our children — so I took my son to air out a bit with me at work between the assessments of the situation and other discussions,” Mr. Yifrach wrote. “Their generation is the reason we fight anew every day, and it is our responsibility to build for them a better and safer reality.”
It’s easier to be resilient when you understand what you’re fighting for.
Abigail Klein Leichman, a longtime Jewish Standard correspondent, lived in Teaneck for 20 years. She and her husband made aliyah in 2007 and live in Ma’aleh Adumim.