Buckle Up
In 1961, Wisconsin became the first state in the USA to require seatbelts in cars. By the time I started driving, nobody was wearing them and they were really thought of as a nuisance. Today, they have become mandatory in many countries around the world, Israel included. I often forget to put mine on as it is far more important to find the right music and be making the right phone call when one pulls out of their parking space. Apart from the annoying tones that go off if one should forget to belt up, my wife has this annoying question she asks me any time we are on the highway and my belt is not on. “Is your insurance paid up?” she will ask hinting that by not wearing a seat belt I am, in effect, causing a much greater problem than I realize. In fact, she is correct or at least…..she was correct.
In Israel, most people have stopped wearing seat belts. We buckle them behind us so as to eliminate those annoying sounds coming from our automobiles. The police have stopped giving out tickets to irresponsible drivers such as myself. Other priorities have gotten in the way. For example, if the air raid siren goes off while one is driving down the road, sitting in your car with a seatbelt on will not do you much good. At the same time, if you are working in village security – as I do two or three times each week, you need to be able to get out of your car as quickly as possible should an emergency arise. Wisconsin would not be pleased and neither is my wife but this is just life post October 7th.
Yesterday I had to deliver supplies to a family in that is staying in Ramat Gan, a city next to Tel Aviv. Yuval Zilber is from Ramat Gan. He was a young man killed yesterday in the Northern Gaza Strip by Hamas. Every time I name a city in Israel, the name of an individual that has passed comes to mind. In some communities like Kfar Aza and Be’eri, you could name more than one hundred individuals that have passed. Driving into Ramat Gan in the middle of the day is a bit of a dare at the present time. The Ayalon Highway runs through the middle of the city and when packed with cars – as it is every day – there is nowhere to go when the missiles start flying. Hamas likes to fire at packed cities like Tel Aviv and Ramat Gan as their sole purpose is to inflict the maximum number of casualties they can. Upon reaching my destination, I walked up a couple flights of stairs in a building that must have been built sometime between 1920 and 1940. The exterior was rundown and because of the age of the building, no bomb shelters exist in the apartments. The family I went to visit was as welcoming and beautiful as you would expect. Two little boys playing with cars, a little girl with curly hair, the parents and of course – the mother ‘n law. A fine Israeli tradition. Three generations living together. Smiles all around. Coffee, water, something stronger? Fresh pineapple is served, the man of the house insists I sit in his chair. I told him I could not as our tradition holds one does not sit in the chair of the “master of the house.” “Nonsense,” he tells me in Hebrew. “You must.” He gives me the only comfortable chair in the room, and I look around. Immediately I understand this is a close family that is trying their best under the most difficult of circumstances to bring normalcy into their home. We sit for three minutes enjoying the pineapple and watching the children and then we hear it. The air raid siren. In my home, when the siren goes off, we run to my son’s bedroom which doubles as the bomb shelter. Yet, here there is none. “Go” he says quietly yet in a firm voice. I know what he is telling me. I grab my gun and my dog (yes, everywhere I go I bring my Chihuahua), he scoops up two of his kids, the mother grabs another. There is no time to lock the door, put on shoes, bring a prayerbook. We rush into the hall and join a stream of people filling the stairs. I have no idea where I am going, but I follow the crowd helping an elderly woman down the steps. Down and down we go into the depths of the building where milk crates await us on a cement floor. There is a single bulb screwed into the ceiling.
Everyone is speaking Hebrew, a language I do not understand. Some are crying, some are shaking, none are laughing. One woman is nursing a baby, an elderly woman comes into the room just before the vaulted door is slammed shut. There is another dog which is most displeasing to my Chihuahua, but I explain these are not normal times and even he must be willing to share. Some children continue to play while others are crying hysterically. I wonder about what their parents have told them and their different reactions. I am the only one in the room with a gun which makes me feel a sense of responsibility but also a bit concerned although the gun won’t help much at a time like this. Then we hear it. A massive BOOM. It’s hard to describe. I could not ascertain whether the missile hit or if the Iron Dome knocked it out of the sky, but if it was the Iron Dome this one must have been positioned real close. Again, different reactions. No screams because everyone in the room has been through this more times than they can count over the last three weeks. Yet, I see and feel different emotions. One woman biting her nails, another crying into her husband’s chest, the elderly woman sobbing quietly. Cell phones don’t work down here so we’re not sure what is going on. I decide I will be the face of bravery and I say in a loud voice, “Ha kol b’seder.” It means, “Everything is OK.” I just hope nobody will ask me any questions as I do not speak the language.
I know my wife will be trying to reach me when she hears about the missile attack in the city, but I can’t do anything about that now. In addition, if she asks about my seatbelt, I know I’m going to be in serious trouble. Add to that the fact that I failed to do the dishes last night, and this is probably not going to be the romantic evening I had in mind. Then I think to myself how very fortunate I am. The air raid siren goes off in my home, I walk quietly to the next room. Yet, I don’t feel fortunate to be here in this room. I feel sad, so very sad for these families that just want to live in peace. There must be twenty-four or twenty-seven people in this tiny, cement room and every time the siren goes off they have to walk these stairs. Some are dressed, some are undressed. Some are happy, some are sad. Some are black, some are white. Some are young, some are old. All have had enough. A nation cannot live like this. Eighteen years of this. Yes, this is the worst it’s been but if Israel agrees to a truce once again where will it leave us? 12 months or 18 months from now we will be right back here. Again and again and again. Living it is different from viewing it on a television screen, and I can assure you I have not seen the worst. I have only seen a small iota of the damage inflicted by Hamas. Yes, it is enough. This time Israel must finish the job. They must protect their citizens. They must ensure we buckle up.
Today’s Pictures:
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David
David at People for Israel
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david@peopleforisrael.com
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