I was reading back over my posts, and I can't believe I never finished the war story! So, for your reading pleasure, while I'm enjoying my last beer before Passover begins, here you have "The War Saga: The Final Days."
We left off with me in the center of Israel with my friend Liran and his family. Artur, the person who I can easily say is my best friend here, unfortunately had a birthday in the midst of this mess, so I planned to travel from Modi'in to north of Tel Aviv in order to celebrate. Another close friend, Noam, was also coming, and he and I planned to meet at one of the train stops. I saw him running down the escalator towards me, and I started jumping up and down like a maniac, because being separated from those who are your security and your life during such a tragic time is just painful. On the way to meet Artur, my Facebook exploded because one of the main news agencies in Israel had interviewed me earlier in the day, and the reporter had just published this story (you will have to Google Translate it). It basically dealt with how sad and poor I was, being a new immigrant to the South and having to learn words such as "safe room," "red alert," and "siren" from the beginning. It was, for sure, a sweet story, so please check it out.
When we met Artur, it was like 14901784931 teenage girls screaming and squealing at each other. It was such a relief to wrap my arms around my closest friends and to know that they were safe and that we were together, even in the middle of this mess. We went to a fancy shmancy Italian restaurant for dinner and made a schuna (neighborhood...or we made a scene, for my English speaking readers), laughing and singing and drinking and doing everything we could to forget what was going on. The manager gave us a 20% discount on the meal because we were poor "Southern refugees," and when a group of customers complained about our noise, the waiter said, "Don't mind them - they're from Be'er Sheva," which seemed to fix the entire problem. What. A. Night. It was much needed, for sure.
Fast forward to the following evening. After an extra-intense day of rocket fire on Be'er Sheva, Artur and I debated whether we should actually go through with our plan of returning or not for his birthday party. His family said no, our friends said no, but in the end, we said yes basically because we wanted to be home and to feel some sort of normalcy. He picked me and the puggers up from the train station, and we began our journey down south, eating chocolate and listening to good music and laughing. Suddenly, we saw what looked like fireworks in the sky, and there was a very pregnant pause before I said, "Those were rockets." He quickly tried to tell me that they weren't and that everything was okay, but we both knew better. I got on the net to see if someone had reported where the rockets hit because we were in the middle of the desert at this point with no real clue of where they were. He calmly said, "I don't want to scare you, but while you were looking at the phone, there were three more rockets..." I then asked him if we could still be friends if I vomited in his car.
The music went silent, the windows went down, and we both stopped laughing and talking, now carefully listening for sirens from a nearby city so we could get out of the car and take cover, if necessary. The stark contrast from the start of our trip was deafening. We soon also got stuck in a traffic jam, which even had cool-calm-and-collected Artur nervous because, frankly, being stuck at a standstill on a highway in a war zone is not safe. We got to the cause of the traffic jam, which was on my side of the car, and I gasped at what I saw - the remains of a rocket in the middle of the road. Again, Artur chimed in with "it was a car accident" but with the military and police vehicles all around the scene, we both knew it wasn't a car accident. The last 30 minutes to Be'er Sheva were intense, and I felt like crying and getting sick all at once. The feeling of relief once we arrived in the city and were again sheltered by the Iron Dome was indescribable. Artur dropped me at my house, and I swear, I held my breath until I knew he was home, but thankfully, no sirens sounded.
I made pizza that night for Artur's birthday party, but I've never been more detached from a situation or from people in my life. I watched the TV, and I checked my phone, and I don't really remember what happened at the party. Artur sweetly took me and our other amazing friend, Meirav, back to her house, where I planned to stay until the end of this mess. She didn't have a safe room, but to me, being around human beings was much more important than having reinforced walls. She and her boyfriend went to work the next morning, leaving me with Pepper and her dogs during a few different rounds of sirens. I still remember the feeling of jumping straight up from her couch, grabbing Pepper, and calling her dogs into her "safe space" while the sirens blared. When she did return home, we tried to sit and have coffee together which was rudely interrupted many times with sirens. As was the cooking of dinner. We sat in her hallway with our dogs saying the "Shema" prayer just out of fear for our lives. This continued for a couple of days, and we watched in horror as a bus in Tel Aviv was blown up by a terrorist, and all I could think of was, "How does someone survive during an intifada (the time when terror attacks are prevalent and personal)?" Magically, a ceasefire was announced for 9PM on a Thursday, a week and a day after this whole mess started. Meirav and I impatiently waited for 9PM to come, and I kid you not, at 8:59PM exactly, the last long round of sirens went off as Hamas tried to get in one last, massive attack. I saw on the TV as it was written in Hebrew, "Ceasefire in affect" as it read underneath, "Alarms sound in Be'er Sheva." I could go into the mentality and politics of this whole thing, but I'll save it for another post. Suffice it to say that none of us really slept soundly that night because no one trusted a ceasefire would actually hold.
And that's where we are today. Not trusting that this ceasefire will hold and knowing that at any moment, our lives can come to a halt again by a rocket attack. I still find myself waking up, listening for sirens, or I find myself searching out where I'll run to if I'm outside and a siren sounds. It's something that will never leave you. Which, I guess, is a good thing, because we have to be prepared for anything here. So, now you have the full story of living through a war. May the following posts be humorous and light-hearted, although no about more dates. Until next time, my dear friends.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Lost in Translation
I'm in the mood to write today (it's a good way to avoid Passover cleaning...which has to finished TODAY...ugh), and I wanted to share with you some of the language/identity issues that I've been having because, well, they're humorous.
- I was with my best friend's parents eating dinner before his concert in Tel Aviv this week. They're Russian and don't speak English so well, so we were speaking in Hebrew, and I was trying to explain Arkansas weather to his mom. I wanted to tell her that we have more ice than snow when suddenly, I forgot the word for snow in Hebrew. But, I remembered it in Russian. Who does that?
- I was writing a text message to a friend after my written exam for my Hebrew classes, and I wrote that I thought I would receive a good grade. However, I spelled "grade" wrong, just one letter off, and I wrote that I thought I would receive a "good fuck." Ohhhhhh.
- Everyone constantly makes fun of my accent in Hebrew because I sound so American. However, people constantly mistake me for being Russian. One odd time, I was mistaken for a Moroccan. I'm also pretty consistently known as the "blondini" even though I'm not exactly blonde. Identity crisis!
- I don't remember English anymore, and I make really stupid mistakes when I'm writing and speaking. I recently wrote, "We our invited to a party," and "There is food there?" I've also been making the horrid mistake of confusing their/they're/there, your/you're, and its/it's. G-d, help me.
- I accidentally said "in the ass" last night at dinner. Since that word is really close to the word for "underneath." Crazy friggin' language.
"I'm Never Going on a Date Again."
That's what I said after this last horror of a date, and I still maintain this position. So, I met this guy on a train and started up a conversation with him during the hour-long trip. All signs pointed to him being normal, respectable, and intelligent, somewhat of a surprise since most guys interested in me here don't meet any of those qualifications. He was an engineer, spoke great English, and was cute. We exchanged phone numbers but didn't speak for a few weeks because I was in the middle of exam time for my intensive Hebrew school.
I finally reached out to him late Saturday evening, saying that I hoped we could meet sometime this week. My first red flag was that, in spite of the hour, he was insistent on coming over to my house. I should've listened to my gut because I was not feeling this pushiness, but I chalked it up to my own hesitations of dating. Ironic that a date just reaffirmed why I don't want to date...
Fast forward a couple of days, and he invited me to a concert at the university. It sounded fun, so I agreed, not thinking of it as a serious "date." However, he showed up in dress pants and a button down shirt, me in jeans and a nice-ish shirt. Oops. We met in the neighborhood where we both live and rode our bikes to the school. Conversation was initially great, and he seemed normal. While waiting in line to enter the concert, I saw my ex's cousin, an adorably sweet human being, and we began to talk for a few minutes. Once I returned to Engineer Dude, he became very clingy, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me close to him. My skin started to crawl as I distanced myself from his reach. Add to it that it really was a little odd seeing ex-family and being on a date. Poor dude didn't have a chance.
So, we take our seats and begin talking and chatting about life. The divorce comes up, and he suddenly fixates on it. "Wow, I don't think it's weird at all that you're divorced." Conversation changes, then, "You know, it's kind of hot that you're divorced." Conversation changes again and, "You know, I don't have a problem with you being divorced." Dude! Stop! What a way to make an awkward situation even more awkward. He also mentioned something along the lines of, "I'm the Jewish engineer that your mother always wanted you to marry" and added something about getting married in the next year. What? Huh? This just kept getting more and more uncomfortable.
The music began, much to my relief, but this opened the door for him to put his arm around me. And stroke my shoulder. And try to hold my hand. I couldn't handle it, and I yanked my hand away from him. He then tried to tickle my knee, saying, "I want to find out how sensitive you are." GAG ME. At this point, everything he did began to bother me. He complained to the sound guy about the balance in the speakers and that it was too loud (ummm, we sat in the front row at a show - it's going to be loud). He kept pushing me to get up and dance - "You're a dancer! Dance! Dance!" And, the worst of it all, he couldn't clap on the beat. I continued to try and be nice, but this was just seen as me being interested. I said something funny, I'm not sure what, and he started giggling, wrapped me in his arms, and BIT MY SHOULDER. I literally just took my hands off of the keyboard, shuddered, and shook my head because I still don't believe it.
I made the excuse that I had to get back to my house in the next little bit because of a Skype date with my parents (this is apparently my go-to excuse when I need to get out of an awkward man situation). We left the university through a different gate, putting us in a direct line to my house, when what I really wanted was to ride back to the point where we met and leave from there. Not possible. Dude rode with me all the way to my front stoop, and as I was thanking him for a nice evening, he asked for a hug. I gave him one, and he began to try to make out with the side of my face. I pulled away, and he said in a low voice, "You know what I want." I lost my composure at this point and responded, "And you're not going to get it!" His response? "But my heart is beating so fast!" It took everything inside of me not to vomit on the sidewalk. I locked myself inside for about half an hour, and then cautiously emerged to go to the little convenience store by my house for beer. Alcohol was the only thing that would save me from the horror of that night.
There you have it. The worst date I've ever been on. I much prefer being single and alone to having to endure something like that again. Now I'm going to go shower so I can wash off this memory...yuckkkkk!
I finally reached out to him late Saturday evening, saying that I hoped we could meet sometime this week. My first red flag was that, in spite of the hour, he was insistent on coming over to my house. I should've listened to my gut because I was not feeling this pushiness, but I chalked it up to my own hesitations of dating. Ironic that a date just reaffirmed why I don't want to date...
Fast forward a couple of days, and he invited me to a concert at the university. It sounded fun, so I agreed, not thinking of it as a serious "date." However, he showed up in dress pants and a button down shirt, me in jeans and a nice-ish shirt. Oops. We met in the neighborhood where we both live and rode our bikes to the school. Conversation was initially great, and he seemed normal. While waiting in line to enter the concert, I saw my ex's cousin, an adorably sweet human being, and we began to talk for a few minutes. Once I returned to Engineer Dude, he became very clingy, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me close to him. My skin started to crawl as I distanced myself from his reach. Add to it that it really was a little odd seeing ex-family and being on a date. Poor dude didn't have a chance.
So, we take our seats and begin talking and chatting about life. The divorce comes up, and he suddenly fixates on it. "Wow, I don't think it's weird at all that you're divorced." Conversation changes, then, "You know, it's kind of hot that you're divorced." Conversation changes again and, "You know, I don't have a problem with you being divorced." Dude! Stop! What a way to make an awkward situation even more awkward. He also mentioned something along the lines of, "I'm the Jewish engineer that your mother always wanted you to marry" and added something about getting married in the next year. What? Huh? This just kept getting more and more uncomfortable.
The music began, much to my relief, but this opened the door for him to put his arm around me. And stroke my shoulder. And try to hold my hand. I couldn't handle it, and I yanked my hand away from him. He then tried to tickle my knee, saying, "I want to find out how sensitive you are." GAG ME. At this point, everything he did began to bother me. He complained to the sound guy about the balance in the speakers and that it was too loud (ummm, we sat in the front row at a show - it's going to be loud). He kept pushing me to get up and dance - "You're a dancer! Dance! Dance!" And, the worst of it all, he couldn't clap on the beat. I continued to try and be nice, but this was just seen as me being interested. I said something funny, I'm not sure what, and he started giggling, wrapped me in his arms, and BIT MY SHOULDER. I literally just took my hands off of the keyboard, shuddered, and shook my head because I still don't believe it.
I made the excuse that I had to get back to my house in the next little bit because of a Skype date with my parents (this is apparently my go-to excuse when I need to get out of an awkward man situation). We left the university through a different gate, putting us in a direct line to my house, when what I really wanted was to ride back to the point where we met and leave from there. Not possible. Dude rode with me all the way to my front stoop, and as I was thanking him for a nice evening, he asked for a hug. I gave him one, and he began to try to make out with the side of my face. I pulled away, and he said in a low voice, "You know what I want." I lost my composure at this point and responded, "And you're not going to get it!" His response? "But my heart is beating so fast!" It took everything inside of me not to vomit on the sidewalk. I locked myself inside for about half an hour, and then cautiously emerged to go to the little convenience store by my house for beer. Alcohol was the only thing that would save me from the horror of that night.
There you have it. The worst date I've ever been on. I much prefer being single and alone to having to endure something like that again. Now I'm going to go shower so I can wash off this memory...yuckkkkk!
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Dating in Israel - You're Doing It Wrong
So, it's been awhile. I can't promise that this blog will be a regular thing, although I hope it will because I'm having a killer time here and laughing about 90% of what is happening to me on a daily basis.
Let's jump right in. Dating here is a different animal than it is in other countries, and I'm going to argue that dating in Be'er Sheva is even more different than dating in the rest of Israel. First of all, the selection here is...sub par, perhaps? At least, the good guys are proving hard to find. Second, the mentality down here is a little more basic-conservative-primitive because this is the equivalent of the "country" back home. Let me also throw out there that I may be a little rusty at this whole dating game, and Israeli men are hard to handle even when you're at the top of your game.
My first story comes from the first time I ordered pizza here. It was Thanksgiving Day, which proved to be a little depressing as all of the Thanksgiving plans had fallen apart because of the mini-war that ended the night before, and I was also coming down off of some pretty intense emotions. I decided that a fitting impromptu Thanksgiving dinner would be pizza and coke, so I placed my order. My apartment is actually behind this building of four houses, so logically, the pizza delivery guy called me to ask me to come out and get my grub. I arrived, and his eyes grew wide as he began rambling on to me in Hebrew about how gorgeous my hair and eyes are. He then stumbled into asking me if I would go have a drink with him the following night, which isn't creepy or weird, but I just wasn't in the mood and didn't find him attractive in the least. So, I politely turned him down and made some excuse that my parents were waiting to Skype with me. Cut to midnight on the first night that I was actually able to sleep soundly and peacefully without the threat of rockets and air raid sirens. I had just coaxed my tired and traumatized self to sleep when my phone rang, showing a phone number that I didn't have stored. I ignored the call, since it hadn't fully woken me up (hey, it wasn't a siren, so I could ignore it!), and then the number called again. And again. And so, on the fourth time, I sleepily answered and asked who the hell was calling, and he told me, "It's Ron, the pizza guy." What. The. Fuck. It didn't stop there. This guy continued to call the next day until I had one of my close guy friends answer the phone in an intimidating voice. Thank goodness, the calls stopped after that.
I wish I could say that that was the end of the Pizza Guy Saga, but it wasn't. I cautiously ordered pizza from the same place two months later, and of course, same dude delivered me the pizza. And of course, he called me the next day to ask me out. I did give him an A+ for figuring out that calling in the middle of the night was unacceptable, but seriously? Israeli men don't give up.
Next on the list of awkward male encounters, I was in Tel Aviv, enjoying a much needed day alone on the beach. The sun was brilliant, so I bought a beer, stuck my toes in the sand, and tanned my alabaster white self on the beach. As I was walking to change location, find some water, and possibly buy another beer, this guy ran up to me screaming, "Excuse me!" My first thought was, lost tourist, since they all seem drawn to me, like I have all the answers of where they need to go, but he was not. He claimed to be a new immigrant, as well, although he had been here 15 years ("new" immigrant from France). Within the first two minutes of talking to him, he told me that he saw me and knew immediately that we had chemistry together but that he was worried that I didn't speak a language he spoke. Let me say this - he was cute albeit very forward. I was amused but not interested in carrying on further, so I said that I was on my way to meet my boyfriend. Random Dude then started grilling me about my "boyfriend," saying, "You've only been here 5 months! How do you know if he's the one? I'm cuter, aren't I? You need to look at all your options." What? Number 1, my made-up boyfriend was way better than his creepy ass stalking me on the boardwalk, and number 2, who has the nerve to ask those questions? Israeli men, that's the answer. When I tried to leave, he hugged me, tried to kiss me, and insisted that I give him my phone number. No. Why does it seem like the crazies flock to me?
I've decided to split this post into two parts. I promise that the second part is even better than the first. Stay tuned!
Let's jump right in. Dating here is a different animal than it is in other countries, and I'm going to argue that dating in Be'er Sheva is even more different than dating in the rest of Israel. First of all, the selection here is...sub par, perhaps? At least, the good guys are proving hard to find. Second, the mentality down here is a little more basic-conservative-primitive because this is the equivalent of the "country" back home. Let me also throw out there that I may be a little rusty at this whole dating game, and Israeli men are hard to handle even when you're at the top of your game.
My first story comes from the first time I ordered pizza here. It was Thanksgiving Day, which proved to be a little depressing as all of the Thanksgiving plans had fallen apart because of the mini-war that ended the night before, and I was also coming down off of some pretty intense emotions. I decided that a fitting impromptu Thanksgiving dinner would be pizza and coke, so I placed my order. My apartment is actually behind this building of four houses, so logically, the pizza delivery guy called me to ask me to come out and get my grub. I arrived, and his eyes grew wide as he began rambling on to me in Hebrew about how gorgeous my hair and eyes are. He then stumbled into asking me if I would go have a drink with him the following night, which isn't creepy or weird, but I just wasn't in the mood and didn't find him attractive in the least. So, I politely turned him down and made some excuse that my parents were waiting to Skype with me. Cut to midnight on the first night that I was actually able to sleep soundly and peacefully without the threat of rockets and air raid sirens. I had just coaxed my tired and traumatized self to sleep when my phone rang, showing a phone number that I didn't have stored. I ignored the call, since it hadn't fully woken me up (hey, it wasn't a siren, so I could ignore it!), and then the number called again. And again. And so, on the fourth time, I sleepily answered and asked who the hell was calling, and he told me, "It's Ron, the pizza guy." What. The. Fuck. It didn't stop there. This guy continued to call the next day until I had one of my close guy friends answer the phone in an intimidating voice. Thank goodness, the calls stopped after that.
I wish I could say that that was the end of the Pizza Guy Saga, but it wasn't. I cautiously ordered pizza from the same place two months later, and of course, same dude delivered me the pizza. And of course, he called me the next day to ask me out. I did give him an A+ for figuring out that calling in the middle of the night was unacceptable, but seriously? Israeli men don't give up.
Next on the list of awkward male encounters, I was in Tel Aviv, enjoying a much needed day alone on the beach. The sun was brilliant, so I bought a beer, stuck my toes in the sand, and tanned my alabaster white self on the beach. As I was walking to change location, find some water, and possibly buy another beer, this guy ran up to me screaming, "Excuse me!" My first thought was, lost tourist, since they all seem drawn to me, like I have all the answers of where they need to go, but he was not. He claimed to be a new immigrant, as well, although he had been here 15 years ("new" immigrant from France). Within the first two minutes of talking to him, he told me that he saw me and knew immediately that we had chemistry together but that he was worried that I didn't speak a language he spoke. Let me say this - he was cute albeit very forward. I was amused but not interested in carrying on further, so I said that I was on my way to meet my boyfriend. Random Dude then started grilling me about my "boyfriend," saying, "You've only been here 5 months! How do you know if he's the one? I'm cuter, aren't I? You need to look at all your options." What? Number 1, my made-up boyfriend was way better than his creepy ass stalking me on the boardwalk, and number 2, who has the nerve to ask those questions? Israeli men, that's the answer. When I tried to leave, he hugged me, tried to kiss me, and insisted that I give him my phone number. No. Why does it seem like the crazies flock to me?
I've decided to split this post into two parts. I promise that the second part is even better than the first. Stay tuned!
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Presenting, "The Stages of Rocket Shock"
Since I had plenty of time to think of this, I have developed a well thought-out theory of "The Stages of Rocket Shock" which many of us experienced this past week. Just so you all can know what it's like to endure a rocket attack without actually enduring it. :-) You're welcome.
Stage 1: Fear and Terror
This is the first shocking introduction to life in a war zone. Air raid sirens, explosions, and pure adrenaline punctuate this stage. For instance, when I was outside, terror ran through my veins, and only adrenaline kept me moving, otherwise I would have been paralyzed. Which can also be a facet of this stage, if you're lucky enough for this to happen to you. (Ohhhh the cynicism just bleeds through my words.) Which leads us to...
Stage 2: Anger
Once you've caught your breath from running and the initial shock of the situation, anger sets in. I was angry at Hamas, angry at the sirens, and hell, angry at the rockets themselves. If you follow me on Facebook, this is about the time I started posting endlessly about the war. So, my anger manifested itself in the need to promote the reality of the situation in which I was stuck. I was so horrifically angry that I wanted everyone and their grandmother to know about it. I hope my screams were heard from here in Be'er Sheva.
Stage 3: Numbness
Perhaps it's the lack of sleep. Or just becoming habituated to the constant sirens and constant level of alertness that your body takes on from constantly monitoring the deteriorating situation (constantly). I got to a state where I would wake up from my shallow sleep to the sirens, look to see that the bomb shelter door was still closed, send a message to my friends that I was alive, and then turn over to go back to a faux sleep that became so familiar. Eh, this was reality, and I just started moving about these hours like a zombie. I believe I also forgot to eat and shower during this stage.
Stage 4: Panic...because you were numb.
Holy SHIT! You snap out of being numb and panic because you weren't at all phased by the huge string of rocket attacks that you're just now realizing you went through. WHAT WAS I THINKING? was the first of such huge thoughts that came to me when I "came to." I also curled up on my bed, cried, and questioned my good judgement to move to Israel during this stage (which I'm happy to report has subsided because, damn, I love it here). There was some hyperventilating, some sobbing, some constant jabbermouth, if that's even a word, because I talked high-speed and non-stop while processing this panic.
Stage 5: Cynicism, where you're stuck for eternity.
Then, you just throw your hands up in the air (like you just don't care), and you start making jokes about it the whole thing. In Hebrew, they say that you "have a scratch" to say that something has really affected you. Everyone's got their own scratch, and it brings about different things in different people. The ones I love the most are rather cynical about most everything now, and that's also where I am. Sunny, positive outlook? Eh, it's still there but buried pretty deep at this point. Also, if you can't laugh, whether it's dark humor or otherwise, these situations will, indeed, kill you.
Ahhhhhh, you've now passed all the stages of rocket shock and are READY for the next bombardment. Since we all know there will be one...damn cynicism. ;-) Until next time...we're almost done with this war story, can you believe it? Me either.
Stage 1: Fear and Terror
This is the first shocking introduction to life in a war zone. Air raid sirens, explosions, and pure adrenaline punctuate this stage. For instance, when I was outside, terror ran through my veins, and only adrenaline kept me moving, otherwise I would have been paralyzed. Which can also be a facet of this stage, if you're lucky enough for this to happen to you. (Ohhhh the cynicism just bleeds through my words.) Which leads us to...
Stage 2: Anger
Once you've caught your breath from running and the initial shock of the situation, anger sets in. I was angry at Hamas, angry at the sirens, and hell, angry at the rockets themselves. If you follow me on Facebook, this is about the time I started posting endlessly about the war. So, my anger manifested itself in the need to promote the reality of the situation in which I was stuck. I was so horrifically angry that I wanted everyone and their grandmother to know about it. I hope my screams were heard from here in Be'er Sheva.
Stage 3: Numbness
Perhaps it's the lack of sleep. Or just becoming habituated to the constant sirens and constant level of alertness that your body takes on from constantly monitoring the deteriorating situation (constantly). I got to a state where I would wake up from my shallow sleep to the sirens, look to see that the bomb shelter door was still closed, send a message to my friends that I was alive, and then turn over to go back to a faux sleep that became so familiar. Eh, this was reality, and I just started moving about these hours like a zombie. I believe I also forgot to eat and shower during this stage.
Stage 4: Panic...because you were numb.
Holy SHIT! You snap out of being numb and panic because you weren't at all phased by the huge string of rocket attacks that you're just now realizing you went through. WHAT WAS I THINKING? was the first of such huge thoughts that came to me when I "came to." I also curled up on my bed, cried, and questioned my good judgement to move to Israel during this stage (which I'm happy to report has subsided because, damn, I love it here). There was some hyperventilating, some sobbing, some constant jabbermouth, if that's even a word, because I talked high-speed and non-stop while processing this panic.
Stage 5: Cynicism, where you're stuck for eternity.
Then, you just throw your hands up in the air (like you just don't care), and you start making jokes about it the whole thing. In Hebrew, they say that you "have a scratch" to say that something has really affected you. Everyone's got their own scratch, and it brings about different things in different people. The ones I love the most are rather cynical about most everything now, and that's also where I am. Sunny, positive outlook? Eh, it's still there but buried pretty deep at this point. Also, if you can't laugh, whether it's dark humor or otherwise, these situations will, indeed, kill you.
Ahhhhhh, you've now passed all the stages of rocket shock and are READY for the next bombardment. Since we all know there will be one...damn cynicism. ;-) Until next time...we're almost done with this war story, can you believe it? Me either.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Part Duex - and so it continues...
Okay, so we last left off with me and Pepper stuck in the mamad (safe room - figure I can teach y'all some Hebrew along the way), barely leaving to eat or go to the bathroom. I was petrified to leave Pepper outside, especially by herself, because if the sirens sounded, I couldn't guarantee that she wouldn't panic and run the opposite direction. Showering was also out because, who wants to get caught sopping wet and naked during a siren? So, we stayed in. And reportedly, the weather was really beautiful those days, beginning of fall kind of lovely. We missed it all, replacing it with the cold concrete walls of my bedroom/bomb shelter.
Thursday during the day was actually kind of quiet. I quickly learned to be glued to my phone, texting back and forth with friends, constantly hitting the refresh on the news website, and calling to check in with everyone I could. I had come out of the mamad and was actually moving about freely in the apartment. I had forgotten for a few hours that war was happening right over my head, and it was a blissful state of numbness, until those damn sirens cut through the air again. I gathered up the dog, the phone, the computer, shut the big metal sheet outside the window, and pulled the door closed. Of course, the handle decided to break at this precise moment, just to add insult to injury. I sat on the bed during this long string of sirens, and I just cried. And screamed. And for the first time, doubted my choice to move to Israel, which if you know me, is huge because I have such a strong connection to this place and have wanted to live here for so long. My panic upset Pepper, and I quickly pulled it together, stuffing the emotions and the fear down into my stomach, where they pretty well stayed until after the war ended.
My dear friend and personal savior throughout the conflict, Artur, called to talk and calm my crazy ass down. The sirens sounded again, and he reacted before I even could. He calmly told me to go into the mamad, close the door, sit on the bed with Pepper. And then there was another siren. And a longer siren. And booms that shook the ground. He was telling me a funny story when another alarm went off, and while I sat there counting the explosions (1, 2, 3...13, 14...), he just kept talking because that's what I needed. Someone to keep me grounded in reality on some level. Sleeping, at this point, was becoming harder to do because even if there were no sirens, my body would wake me up to listen for them anyway. Some crazy state of hypervigilance that was exhausting me physically and mentally. After another mostly sleepless night, I decided to get the hell out mainly for our mental well being. This kind of constant bombardment can shake even the strongest soul.
Leaving the house for the first time was terrifying to put it bluntly. It's difficult to find shelter when you're out on the street as it is, but add to that my fat slug of a dog and the scenario just seems impossible. I called a cab to take me to the train station, which is really walking distance from my house, but a twenty minute walk in an open field just didn't sound appetizing. Once on the train, I still didn't feel safe. You're kind of stuck in a metal box if the sirens sound, and all you can do is get on the floor of the train and cover your head as it stops on the tracks. This, thankfully, didn't happen. People's phones did keep going off with the "Red Alert" app, indicating that a siren was going off somewhere around us. Whoever made that stupid application should be slapped up side the head. I'm sure it has its uses, but for me, it just reminded me of the already present fear that had made its home right in the middle of my chest.
I arrived in the center of Israel without incident but then learned that Hamas had somehow gotten rockets to Tel Aviv. And then to Jerusalem. Where I was staying was stuck right in between, but we didn't hear sirens (although that hypervigilance of constantly monitoring for them was still there and on some level is still present today). Just so you know, the whole country felt violated once the rockets went this far because it just doesn't happen (well, not in like 20 years). It's like our security blanket had just been ripped off. My sweet friend, Liran, and his family graciously accepted us Southern refugees, and I was able to rest easier. I was still very connected to what was happening down South, so much so that I wasn't really present with Liran and his family, being a hallow shell of myself who looked tired, ate like a bear, and then retreated off to monitor the situation between fitful bits of sleep. Mental mess? Yes, I was (am).
All this, and we're still not to the end! Ahhhh! I promise we'll get to the fun I'm having soon. Because, really, there's way more of that than all this trauma and stress. You all have become my personal psychologists, so just hear me out until the end. :-) Yet again, to be continued...
Thursday during the day was actually kind of quiet. I quickly learned to be glued to my phone, texting back and forth with friends, constantly hitting the refresh on the news website, and calling to check in with everyone I could. I had come out of the mamad and was actually moving about freely in the apartment. I had forgotten for a few hours that war was happening right over my head, and it was a blissful state of numbness, until those damn sirens cut through the air again. I gathered up the dog, the phone, the computer, shut the big metal sheet outside the window, and pulled the door closed. Of course, the handle decided to break at this precise moment, just to add insult to injury. I sat on the bed during this long string of sirens, and I just cried. And screamed. And for the first time, doubted my choice to move to Israel, which if you know me, is huge because I have such a strong connection to this place and have wanted to live here for so long. My panic upset Pepper, and I quickly pulled it together, stuffing the emotions and the fear down into my stomach, where they pretty well stayed until after the war ended.
My dear friend and personal savior throughout the conflict, Artur, called to talk and calm my crazy ass down. The sirens sounded again, and he reacted before I even could. He calmly told me to go into the mamad, close the door, sit on the bed with Pepper. And then there was another siren. And a longer siren. And booms that shook the ground. He was telling me a funny story when another alarm went off, and while I sat there counting the explosions (1, 2, 3...13, 14...), he just kept talking because that's what I needed. Someone to keep me grounded in reality on some level. Sleeping, at this point, was becoming harder to do because even if there were no sirens, my body would wake me up to listen for them anyway. Some crazy state of hypervigilance that was exhausting me physically and mentally. After another mostly sleepless night, I decided to get the hell out mainly for our mental well being. This kind of constant bombardment can shake even the strongest soul.
Leaving the house for the first time was terrifying to put it bluntly. It's difficult to find shelter when you're out on the street as it is, but add to that my fat slug of a dog and the scenario just seems impossible. I called a cab to take me to the train station, which is really walking distance from my house, but a twenty minute walk in an open field just didn't sound appetizing. Once on the train, I still didn't feel safe. You're kind of stuck in a metal box if the sirens sound, and all you can do is get on the floor of the train and cover your head as it stops on the tracks. This, thankfully, didn't happen. People's phones did keep going off with the "Red Alert" app, indicating that a siren was going off somewhere around us. Whoever made that stupid application should be slapped up side the head. I'm sure it has its uses, but for me, it just reminded me of the already present fear that had made its home right in the middle of my chest.
I arrived in the center of Israel without incident but then learned that Hamas had somehow gotten rockets to Tel Aviv. And then to Jerusalem. Where I was staying was stuck right in between, but we didn't hear sirens (although that hypervigilance of constantly monitoring for them was still there and on some level is still present today). Just so you know, the whole country felt violated once the rockets went this far because it just doesn't happen (well, not in like 20 years). It's like our security blanket had just been ripped off. My sweet friend, Liran, and his family graciously accepted us Southern refugees, and I was able to rest easier. I was still very connected to what was happening down South, so much so that I wasn't really present with Liran and his family, being a hallow shell of myself who looked tired, ate like a bear, and then retreated off to monitor the situation between fitful bits of sleep. Mental mess? Yes, I was (am).
All this, and we're still not to the end! Ahhhh! I promise we'll get to the fun I'm having soon. Because, really, there's way more of that than all this trauma and stress. You all have become my personal psychologists, so just hear me out until the end. :-) Yet again, to be continued...
Saturday, November 24, 2012
For Your Viewing Pleasure
Here's a video that captured what I got stuck outside for, from a few different views. One outside of Be'er Sheva and a few more inside. The flashes of light and explosions you see are the Iron Dome intercepting rockets and destroying them in the air before they can land and cause damage. It has an 84% success rate and is one of the main reason more people weren't hurt or killed during this mess.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)