Israel Hayom..
13 July '14..
I miss my kids. It's been four days since they were "exiled" to grandma and grandpa up north, our standard procedure every time things start heating up there. Every night on my way to bed, exhausted and perturbed, I make a quick round of their rooms, trying to breathe in their smell and heading into another night of beepers, Whatsapp messages and sirens.
Ask me if I'm scared, and the answer is no. That's not because I'm some big hero and not because I think I'm protected. It seems to be because this has just become a kind of habit.
But this time it's a little different. This time I have a job that doesn't allow me to pack up half the house (mainly things we really don't need -- sneakers? Come on) and take them away for a week or two of escapism. This time, they are traveling on their own and I miss them. I miss them a lot.
My oldest was born during the Second Intifada, the one that began 14 years ago. The Color Red siren (or as it was first called, Red Dawn -- remember?) was either her lullaby or the crow of the rooster for her. Her brother might have been born seven years later, but he also saved us a lot of trouble and got used to the situation very quickly. As the years went by they managed to make peace with "the situation" (how awful that sounds), as we call it. Every time a siren went off they didn't even lift their eyes from the game they were busy with (don't worry, our house is concrete-fortified, this isn't parental neglect) and the only one who took care to go into the safe room every time was Kessler, the family dog.
But when it comes down to it, this isn't a way to live. I love Netiv Haasara: I love the people, the air, the view, and yes -- maybe even the innocence and the sense of mission we sometimes feel here. But it isn't supposed to be like this and we all know it and go on. A popular joke among my friends is that opening a savings account to pay for our children's therapy is the most responsible thing we can do. Every round like this brings up the same questions: where to this time? Will we head for a forced vacation in Eilat, or just to grandma and grandpa's house? True, we are stalwart (a word people like to use) and we complain very little (not out loud, anyway), but that's only so that maybe, just maybe, we can have another year or a year and a half of quiet. And afterwards, if there is a Color Red siren from time to time -- which might not even be mentioned in the media -- we'll keep our heads down, take a deep breath, and go back to our lives. But really, this is no way to live. It isn't supposed to be like this.
In a little while I'll go to another security briefing in the municipality situation room, and for a few hours I'll do my job to the best of my ability. And then all of a sudden my phone will ring and the word "Dad" will appear on the screen, and I will whisper, "I can't talk, I'm in the middle of something," and instead of a deep adult voice I'll hear a little voice asking "Mom?" and that's it -- all of the edge and all of the protection will come crashing down, my throat will catch and my eyes will fill with tears. I miss you, my children.
Link: http://www.israelhayom.com/site/newsletter_opinion.php?id=9119
Oshra Segel lives in Netiv Haasara on the Gaza border, and serves as spokeswoman for the Ashkelon Municipality.
Updates throughout the day at http://calevbenyefuneh.
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