Women Wage Peace: Diaries of Hope and Resilience
This article is co-published with Women Wage Peace, the largest grassroots peace movement in Israel.
4 October, Jerusalem —
I am standing on the hill at the base of the Tolerance Monument in Jerusalem—hundreds, perhaps thousands, of white umbrellas below me. As far as the eye can see, there are Israelis and Palestinians. White, white, white umbrellas protect us from the heat of the sun and men’s bloodshed. Here, there is hope. Here, we are women.
Women Wage Peace, and her Palestinian sister movement, Women of the Sun. All of us together, in this garden of tolerance.
A woman representing Ireland speaks; I let my tears flow unconstrained. Somehow, after the Troubles, they made peace.
So can we, I think, so can we.
As the afternoon wanes into evening, we travel to the Dead Sea. Here, the event is even more beautiful, the backdrop of the sea against all the white clothing with turquoise scarves, belts, and necklaces. This time, music brings us to tears—so many speeches, songs, and videos of hope. My heart is breaking with the possibility.
7 October, Nimrod, Golan Heights —
Working for peace can be exhausting — the heaviness of conflict flowing through all our attempts to bring light. It’s time for a holiday.
On Saturday morning, I get up early to run, explore the area, and rid myself of my restlessness. Something has happened — sirens further south? My husband tells me to be careful. A familiar feeling of horror jumps down my throat and strangles me. Please make it stop soon, I pray.
We go to Nimrod Castle because we know something is going on; we don’t have reception in the hills. We climb the beautiful ruins, admire the views, and walk around the walls without knowing.
Yet.
I’m not sure this is true. Do I remember what it was like not to know? Do I remember what it was like when I still trusted in humanity at the heart of it all?
Sitting in the café at the entrance to Nimrod, we open our phones to the horror and head straight home. Once home, we devour the news as though starved of it. Video after video, headline after headline, scream after terrified scream.
I cannot stop watching.
For two weeks, I cannot stop.
The images of a screaming woman, of Noa, screaming for her life, screaming to her boyfriend for her life, taken hostage. Hamas taking her away while she is screaming on a motorbike. An eternal loop: Noa, beautiful and screaming. A mother’s daughter—Noa, where are you?
School is canceled. We fill up our shelter with food. There are two sirens. During the first, a friend panics: we have to lock the shelter, he says. He is convinced terrorists will force their way in and massacre us.
I’m a teacher; I’m supposed to look after my students. One morning, we have a Zoom meeting, and the psychologist and counselor talk to us about navigating the motions of meeting with students. Everything is with a broken heart.
I cannot accept the reality that the world can be this unbelievably terrible. I read Holocaust Studies at university. My father’s family was slaughtered in the camps. And yet – somehow, that was all still a story. I spend time in nature, trying to make sense of a world so breathtaking and unbearable all at once.
Even though I never write poetry, I write this poem:
I lost a friend when I was fourteen,
careless, careless,
to cancer
and last year too – pneumonia.
Both were strong. Loving. Worlds in their souls.
When I saw a butterfly, I would feel them
fluttering by me
watching me
helping me smile
at the world’s beauty.
This week the sky was the fingers of God stroking pink clouds
spreading comfort for the approaching darkness.
Yet
the thought it was our freshly dead’s blood
staining the sky lodged in my head
and I couldn’t get free.
This morning, butterflies filled my eyes
and again, I thought only of the dead.
Are all their surprised souls reaching out to mine?
And then I saw these beautiful purple flowers
somehow sprouting from rock
carelessly, carelessly,
not acknowledging for even one breath
how it’s the end of
the world.
I listen to those trying to help, and nothing helps. Then, a friend sends me a Zoom invitation with spiritual teacher Stephen Jenkinson. He says trying to keep your heart open is your heart being open.
Do I still have a heart? I put his words on my wall and tell myself I am alive. My heart is open. I can still love. I put labels on my morning alarms about living because the dead cannot. About gratitude. About bringing warm energy into the lives of others. The labels are full of good intentions. But I cry so much. I feel like I am always crying. And it is so hard to be around people. It is almost impossible for me to be in synagogue. I try a few times; the fury I feel at God chokes me.
It isn’t long into the raw, waking nightmare when we travel to hostage square. We walk around trying to digest the sculptures, monuments, messages, photographs, and all the tormenting artwork that has emerged almost overnight.
The father of one of the hostages speaks. He tells us he will not be bent over when his son comes home. He will be upright. He will be upright.
And I collapse in sobs, wrenching sobs, holding my seven-year-old close to my open, broken heart.
If he can be upright, so can I.
And now, upright, I continue my work for peace.