Don’t tell me about war

The angel of death has taken permanent residence in Israel. Wandering from village to town under a sky so stunning it takes our breath away. He must be stomping over the baby grasses, dandelion leaves and mallow, crushing sparkling drops of early morning dew.

Last Shabbat I woke up crying from a dream, opened my eyes and the tears did not stop. It was a beautiful winter day and I took a walk to an oak tree filled with tweeting birds. I sat breathing deeply, something none of us have done enough of this year, when a siren began to wail. The air was pristine and the birds continued flitting around in the branches above. There was no place for me to go, no shelter besides G!d.

I sat with my back straight and focused on filling my body with oxygen. My lower back tingling from the force of the booms. When there was quiet again, I purposefully waited extra time and continued my meditation because I am determined to believe in G!d

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as deeply as the monsters who try to kill us do.

This is the muscle we exercise over here, our faith; we have no other choice.

And for those of you who do have the luxury of other choices, please learn to stop speaking.

If you can’t, I will need to stop listening.

I refuse to listen to opinions about Israel from people who have never lived through a missile attack or attended the funeral of a child bludgeoned by an axe in their community.

I don’t want to hear your political ideologies if you don’t know how it feels to have murderers and rapists released to a village a mere 10-minute walk away from your front door.

I refuse to be told what war is by those who read about it in the news. I will not listen to statistics or pop history lessons by those who update themselves about Israel over their morning espresso in a land far, far away.

Do not tell me which side is right or wrong if you have never had to hold your children close with curtains drawn and doors locked after a neighbor was brutally murdered meters away.

I don’t care about your ideas of the best ways to bring peace to the Middle East if you have never had to attend the funeral of a neighborhood boy who was slaughtered to death outside of the local community center, or the funeral of a young girl murdered at NOVA, or the father of three who was stalked and killed while praying.

I will not let you tell me who should be elected or who should not; or that you can relate to our experience because you are a Jew. Instead of preaching, ask yourself a few questions. Have you ever found yourself in a ditch on the side of the road with shrapnel falling overhead? Have you ever had to debate if you should leave your home to find your kids during a terrorist infiltration?

Have you ever visited the home of a terror victim?

I can’t hear about the war from you. I can’t hear the words “hostages” or “deals” roll off your tongue as smoothly as “stocks” and “bonds.”

Here, we have been woken by sirens at all hours of the morning and night, we have crouched down, shaky hands covering our heads and prayed that this not be our end. We have shed enough tears to quench raging fires. We hike trails, and grocery shop, and pick up our mail in the same places that Jewish blood has drained out of mutilated bodies. This is our life, day-to-day life in the land of Israel.

So please be grateful that you do not know what this war means, or at least stop trying to explain it to us. These days our nightmares are easier to handle than our reality. PJC

Debby Titlebaum Neuman, a native of Squirrel Hill, is a mother, author, spiritual guide, doula and holistic therapist who wanders the land of her forefathers foraging wild edibles and strumming her ukulele.