It has been 10 months of war in Israel with no end in sight.
The days following October 7 were the worst of our lives. There was endless grief and trauma, and it became a regular occurrence to hear sentences from friends and neighbors like “My cousin died at Nova” or “My friend from school is a hostage.” There was an average of three rocket sirens in Tel Aviv almost daily. In a city that isn’t well equipped with bomb shelters, showering felt like a safety hazard.
There was a devastating sadness everywhere. Our streets were plastered with hostage posters, half of our cities felt empty because so many reservists were called up, and there was a looming fear that Hamas terrorists were still on the loose, biding their time to attempt another attack on civilians.
It was devastating all around, and for those of us who are olim (immigrants), it was coupled with enormous pressure from our families to leave Israel get back to our home countries. I received more phone calls than I can count from friends and family, begging me to get on a plane and leave before Hezbollah and Iran became more active in the war.
I was considering it at one point, especially since friends began boarding planes to get out of Israel. I started to question if I was being irresponsible for staying. Besides, I wasn’t in the army; I was simply a civilian. How could I have helped anyway?
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