I remember how at camp, when we were kids, they would tell us: "That's it, no pool from tomorrow." Suddenly, in the middle of summer, between watermelon and watermelon popsicles, the three weeks landed on us, then the nine days, and then the week that followed.
And all this Jewish and internal mindset seemed so unrelated to the hot July-August that awaited us outside. Suddenly now, in the middle of summer, but national? How exactly do you connect the sorrow over the destruction of the home, the longing for redemption, to the longing for chocolate and a bun?
Not this year. This week was especially easy to start the nine days. I'm crying about these.
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And yet here is one moment of relief in these days: last Thursday a president changed, and perhaps, I hope, consciousness also changed. Until now I don't know whether I went to the inauguration ceremony in the Knesset to see Rubi appointed or Peres retire. But what does it matter, from now on it is final and official: Shimon Peres – out, Rubi Rivlin – in. And it seems to me that we should not underestimate this, these are really not just personnel changes.
Behind the archaic and boring ceremony in the Knesset with the blowing of the trumpets and the proclamation of "Yahweh" was hidden a historic moment: From today on, the number one citizen of the State of Israel does not dream of a new Middle East but of the good old Land of Israel. The President's Office will no longer conduct an independent foreign policy, parallel to the Israeli government and the will of the voters. The man who sits there will try to reflect the people of Israel and not change them.
But it's not over until it's over: At that same awards ceremony, Peres began his farewell speech towards seven, and simply didn't finish. You know, peace, hope, reconciliation, these are things that take time.
Next to me in the gallery sat Malachi Levinger, head of the Kiryat Arba council, and he, like me, was still there before the Mincha prayer. The clock continued to tick and Peres continued to speak, making the most of his last seconds as president, and the two of us were just calculating, as we went, when sunset would come and how we would gather eight more Jews now, in the middle of the ceremony.
In the end, the speech ended and we somehow organized a moderator, but now I can say that truly until the last moment of his term, Peres personally harassed me.
Don't you also feel that something is changing in our people? That something is moving? That instead of talking about reality TV, people are talking about reality? That we are all sadder but also, in a certain sense, better? That we are disillusioned by all sorts of old and erroneous perceptions about the state and the land and the people one after another, and we are finally getting to the heart of it all, to the question of what it means to be Jewish?
So, David Grossman feels the same way. The writer, considered the left's most outspoken critic, published a long personal column this week in which he wrote about how he feels everyone is waking up and changing, how Israeli society is undergoing a deep process of healing and repair.
Grossman – who insists on writing about "Israel and Palestine" from the objective perspective of a UN envoy reporting on two sides of the conflict – diagnoses the following process with the utmost seriousness.
Note: "I feel that Israel is maturing. In sorrow and pain and gnashing of teeth, Israel is maturing, or rather – forced to mature... The central axis of the Israeli public is becoming more and more disillusioned... In wars, there are only losers, and there is no military solution to the plight of the people facing us. This understanding could be the beginning of a change in consciousness. It could formulate for Israelis the vitality and urgency of peace with the Palestinians... The majority of the Palestinian people have already made this decision to abandon the path of terror and choose negotiations.".
And this is just one paragraph of a long text from which a fairly clear conclusion emerges: either he lives in a movie, or I live in a movie.
And perhaps during Operation Protective Edge, the true method of persuasion and information was found. They used to talk about 'face-to-face' operations here, but no one thought that they actually needed to go for a 'face-to-shell' operation. There are several reporters and broadcasters who were sent in this campaign to a kind of reserve in Sderot and the Gaza enclave. They have been there for almost a month, occasionally reporting and broadcasting, but most of the time they simply live in these places, eat, sleep, talk to the residents and experience for the first time the security reality that has prevailed in the area for many years.
Over time, I noticed that they were going through a fascinating process. At first, the reports were along the lines of "The residents here at Kibbutz Nirim say this and that" or "Let's bring you the voices from the field. Good evening, Nissim Cohen from Sderot, what is your message to the prime minister?""
But then Nissim Cohen no longer needs to come to the broadcast booth. After all, our reporter himself is a fairly long-time resident of Sderot. Suddenly, after a few days of wearing red and running to a shelter or a shelter within 15 seconds, you hear him say on the air: "Yonit, your talk in the studio about a ceasefire sounds like a joke here in Sderot. After all, at the very hours when a ceasefire was declared, Hamas fired here. It is impossible to return to the old situation, where there is peace in Tel Aviv and Haifa, but here we live under a constant drizzle of Qassams.".
Don't get confused, this isn't Mayor Alon Davidi, this is news reporter Yoav Even. I heard with my own ears this week one of these journalists, who is in a kibbutz on the Gaza border, tell the presenter in the radio studio the following sentences: "It would be unthinkable to end the operation now. Just think if they had agreed to the first ceasefire that was proposed two weeks ago. We would never have discovered all the tunnels that lead to this kibbutz.".
In the 1950s, Nathan Alterman wrote about sending one shell to the newspaper editorial offices once a week. In a long and entertaining poem, as part of his "Seventh Column," he states that if only one shell landed there a week, like in the settlements that were then near the border, the newspaper headlines would look different. Why, Alterman? There is a much simpler option: send the journalists to live for a few days where the shells fall anyway.
And finally, reader Liat Shai, a Tel Aviv-based Braslav, sent me the following story, which connects all the fronts across the country and teaches a little more about the spirit of these days:
""Two weeks ago, Talia Shabry, along with her six children, left her beloved, tidy, clean and cozy home. Talia is divorced and very independent. Her home is an example of order and a good atmosphere. She left her home in Moshav Shuva after the color red overwhelmed her.
Shuva is a small moshav near Netivot that was joined about five years ago by a group of young families with a Jewish, social, and ecological vision. The founders of the Shuva nucleus are amazing, ambitious people. Upon their arrival in Shuva, the nucleus received caravans for living and slowly began a new life in the old moshav. They opened gardens, founded businesses, and established a community, but the situation became increasingly impossible. The little paradise, full of open spaces and woods, turns into hell when you have to find a police station.
At any moment there was the sound of missiles in the background and the caravan was a really unprotected space. So with great effort, the family packed some kitchen utensils, food and bedding, just for a few days. At the last minute I managed to convince Talia to also put a set of Shabbat clothes in the bag for each person. Who knows when it will run out. And so an entire vehicle, packed to the brim, set off, seven people leaving the house for an indefinite period.
Members of the Shuva group received invitations to host in several places in Israel. Talia decided to go to Moshav Nir Etzion, where several of her neighbors had already settled. It took me a while to convince her that she had done the right thing, that the children would now have some peace of mind and physical security. So it was true that she would not be working for a few days, and that the children would not be going to the camp that had been planned, and that it was hard not to be home, but that she should look at it like a vacation on the Carmel Beach. She was convinced.
The house she arrived at was empty, but good neighbors from the moshav made sure to put mattresses, a table, chairs, a small refrigerator, and a gas stove in there. She told me that as soon as they arrived, the neighbor across the street came in with a pot of corn she had prepared for the children. The next day, a pan of potatoes and sweet potatoes, hot from the oven. When she needed something, she always knocked on that neighbor's door to get a peeler or a pot. On Shabbat evening, Talia's children even drew pictures and gave them to their dear neighbor as a token of gratitude.
The children got used to the pleasant pace of Nir Etzion. Sea, pool, lunch, rest, garden. What a rare quiet. The situation in the south was getting worse, and Talia realized that she had nowhere to go back to right now. In the meantime, the ground phase of Operation Protective Edge had begun, and more and more names of dead soldiers began to appear on the news.
My heart breaks in front of bereaved parents, widows and orphans with names and faces. And during all that time, I try to send Talia at least one encouraging text message a day: 'Talia, it will be good, even though my heart is broken.' One day she updates that the community has received an invitation to move into guest rooms in Alon Shvut in Gush Etzion. She plans to move there.
The next day she rings again. Shocked. In the evening, on the way back from the pool at the moshav, she sees faces slumped, something has happened. She looks out the window and sees that the house opposite, at the neighbor's, is crowded. Many moshav members, the city officer... They have just received the hardest news of all. Oded Ben Sira. zt"l. hi"d. The son of Miri, the charming neighbor. The same neighbor who brought her pots of food all week and lent her things, who received drawings from the children, who encouraged and supported her.
Oded, the son of this wonderful neighbor, paid with his life for the people of Israel and the Land of Israel, for the paradise of Talia and her children in Moshav Shuva, for every place in the country.
In the village, preparations began for the shiva. Talia hurried to clear out the empty house so that the extended grieving family could use it. Before leaving, she decided to enter the grieving family's house for a moment to thank them for their warm welcome, to try to comfort them. She hugged Miri, the mother, a long hug and asked to leave, but David, her husband, stopped her. In those moments, even before his son's funeral, the only thing on her mind was: "Are you sure you have somewhere to go? You're not leaving because of us, are you? You were going to move to Alon Shvut regardless of what happened?".
Since the beginning of Operation Protective Edge, countless intersections and major roads across the country have been decorated with posters that strengthen the fighters and the entire Israeli people. What made me photograph this improvised poster, painted at home with gouache, was not so much the text written on it as the location where he chose to place it: the sidewalk in front of the exit from the military cemetery on Mount Herzl.
• Yedidia Meir's column is published in the newspaper 'Besheva''
