War in the time of celebration

Last night was blissfully quiet. No sirens disturbing tranquil dreams. Just normal jetlagged intermittent sleep. Not like yesterday, where our jaunt ended well but had some threatening intermediary moments. Then we were in the rental car driving through dense morning fog, on an old, winding, narrow road, in what is known as the West Bank, when the preliminary warning suddenly began its soulful aria. Now, the warning is just that, a signal that an actual alarm may — or may not — soon begin its frightening blast. Without a doubt, an alarm is alarming.

When it is a genuine alarm the instructions are clear. Get to a shelter immediately. We had already decided that it would be dangerous to wander around on foot on an unfamiliar roadway in the fog. We would continue driving. Of course, we might have to contend with others, those more law-abiding than we, invisible pedestrians on that murky road. Fortunately, the final alarm did not happen, and we proceeded peacefully and safely. It was just a moment in wartime. Our excursion ended just fine.

A few days earlier, after dealing with a mostly closed Ben Gurion Airport near Tel Aviv and a series of cancelled flights, we finally were able to put together an itinerary that gave us hope of an actual arrival in Israel. We had great impetus. A new little girl, a sabra, had just arrived in our immediate family, our 11th great-grandchild. She would be named on Shabbat at a simchat bat ceremony at our grandchildren’s new home in a yishuv near Bet Shemesh. This was to be a glorious family event, and we very much intended on being there. Iranian missiles were not going to be a deterrent.

En route we easily traveled to our scheduled overnight in the lovely Tiber River town of Fiumicino, near Rome’s airport. In the wee hours of morning we taxied to FCO to catch an Arkia flight to Israel. Would it be there? Would our booking show up, as it hadn’t from our West Orange home? There it was, suspended somewhere in cyberspace, and we debated the merits of arriving in Rome and being stranded in that vibrant city, where we already had spent many lovely days, but that was not this trip’s desired destination. We could have tried to cancel our flights, but we decided to be intrepid and pray for the best. And the best it was! Arkia didn’t let us down. Actually they took us up, safely! Todah rabah!

Aboard the plane it was abundantly clear that we, at 88 and 86, were by far its eldest passengers. No matter, the atmosphere aboard was calm and peaceful. We were all Jews heading back to Israel. The two hour and 50 minute flight was almost true to its promise: only water would be served. They hadn’t told us we would each get a cookie!

The flight reminded me of flying to Israel many years ago. There were the dramatic moments. Window seat passengers gazed out of their windows when we approached the coast, as they rarely do today. We are all now so sophisticated that flying is akin to hopping on a bus. Routine and unexciting. In days gone by there were announcements that we were now crossing the coast of Israel, followed by a passionate rendition of the song Heveinu Shalom Aleichem. Every eye was moist. Those were powerful moments! I sensed that there would have been tears on this flight as well if the inspiring music had been played.

When the chief flight attendant announced that we’d soon begin our final descent into Israel, the passengers, us included, applauded, something that is no longer routinely done. Each passenger had his own story, and there were no tourists that day. Every single one of us was grateful and feeling fortunate to be aboard. How lucky we were!

Arriving at the moribund airport, minus the traveling hordes, the frenetic activity, the latecomers rushing to their flights, the duty-free shoppers, the tour groups, the uniformed international flight crews, the airport employees, we missed the frenzy, the food, and the excitement. Those typical aspects of travel were not at Ben Gurion Airport. War had silenced the plans of so many. War is a powerful life-changing enemy. Personally, I’ve certainly had enough of it!

On Shabbat we gathered at the minyan our grandchildren call their own. It was populated by people just like them, young, smart, Jewishly educated, with their many many children running across the tiny space, eating sweets, finding the right laps, and feeling belonging and love. Our new girl is in the future of this gang of babes, which includes her big brother, 19-month-old Nael. But first she had to acquire a beautiful name, which she did: Mekimi Shir is what she shall be known as among the welcoming people of Am Yisrael.

May she, and all of them, and all of us, soon rejoice in this land of milk and honey and peace!

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of 11. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com