Just as a person goes through stages of grief,  we in the North are experiencing those same stages

AT this time of year, all of the Jewish people are in mourning, for what was and is no more, for the loss of our holy Beis Hamikdash and all that entailed.

The residents of Israel’s north are in double mourning, especially after the events of last Shabbos. We’re in mourning for what was and is no more — our normal lives, our peace of mind, the ability to sleep safely in our beds, our sense of security.

We mourn as we adjust to the new feelings and experiences we face: the primal terror at the sound of the sirens going off and the rockets exploding overhead, the frantic beating of our hearts, our reeling minds, our shaking hands as we race to the bomb shelter in the 30 seconds we have here in Tzfat.

Just as a person goes through stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance — we in the North are experiencing those same stages, sometimes all at the same time.

How do we experience the stages of grief while living in a battlefield?

Denial — a rare, quiet day passes with no warplanes roaring overhead, no interceptive missiles booming out from the Northern Command base just minutes from our home, and no air raid sirens. I tell myself, Perhaps it’s over, perhaps they’re coming close to an agreement on a ceasefire, perhaps it will all stop, and we can go back to a normal life.

The next day, we’re rudely awakened by sirens, by booms, by warplanes, and I know I was just in denial.

I run away as often as I can to what right now seems to be places that are comparatively safe — Teveria, Hadera — and go to the beach. And then I come back to Tzfat, back to this surreal, nightmarish reality. There is no escape.

Anger. Yes, I’m angry. With whom? Everyone and everything — Hamas, Hezbollah, Iran. The government and the IDF, whom the residents of the North feel have abandoned us.

Angry with the world — can’t everyone see that we’re not the guilty party here? Why do Jews have to suffer in the US, in England, in Europe, because murderous monsters invaded our sovereign land? Does no one see how upside down this whole situation is? I can’t even watch a BBC broadcast — their blatant bias makes me enraged.

I’m angry at the discord and fighting among Am Yisrael. Why can’t we realize that we have to be united to defeat our enemies?

I’m angry with myself for being so weak and scared and lacking in emunah. Why can’t I be strong and full of faith that all this is for the good? I scream to Hashem in my mind, “Enough! Enough! We can’t take it anymore! We’re only human! We can’t live like this!” And then the guilt sets in — what kind of a Jew am I to complain to Hashem?

Bargaining — I try to persuade myself that things are really okay. Look, not so many civilians have been killed in the North. The Iron Dome gets most of the rockets. But then I see the clips of a couple killed in their car. Sometimes the Iron Dome misses. And then there are the suicide drones. The IDF aren’t having as much success downing these.

I make calculations, too. Should we stay home all the time? Is that safer? Perhaps, but we’ll go insane. Where is safe to travel and where not? I’ve drawn my own borders past which I don’t feel safe traveling — north of Meron Junction, north of Chatzor, the northern side of the Kinneret toward the Golan Heights. I tell myself anywhere south of these borders is safe. But it’s not really. Nowhere is. Hezbollah has sent rockets to plenty of places south of those borders. But I have to live, so I take a chance and go out.

More calculations — when I’m outside, I check to see where the closest bomb shelter is. That shop is at the bottom of a three-story building so it should be okay. That shop is full of glass, which might shatter — dangerous. That underground parking lot is open on one side — not so good.

Shabbos, which used to be a day of peace and serenity, has become a day of fear and uncertainty. If we hear booms or war planes, we don’t know what is happening. Were there sirens somewhere? How close to us? Will there be a siren in Tzfat next?

Depression. Yes, there are days — many — when I feel I can’t bear to be here even one more day. I want to run away. But I can’t. We have nowhere to go. My husband is sick and not able to travel abroad to our family in the US or the UK. We have no family in the rest of Israel. And as my husband is out of work, both due to the war and his illness, and even though I work all the hours I possibly can to support the family, we don’t have the money to stay somewhere else for weeks or months.

I try to escape in my mind. I read. I even watch the occasional movie, Hashem forgive me — comedies — just to take my mind off the situation. And I’m certainly eating more chocolate than is good for me.

Acceptance. That’s a hard one. I waver in and out of this stage from day to day, even from hour to hour. I try to stick to my regular daily routine. And I’ve established new practices to manage the situation. When I take a shower, I make sure my clothes are right beside the shower, organized and laid out in a way that I can throw them on in the quickest possible time. When I go to bed I have my phone, glasses, and snood on the pillow beside me and my shoes lined up by the door facing the right direction, so I’m all ready to get up and run if there is a siren in the middle of the night. Thirty seconds is a very, very short time, and even shorter if you are asleep.

I keep my phone permanently charged at 100 percent. My gas tank in the car is full in case we have to flee fast. I have a bag ready with all our passports and important documents, emergency cash in case there is no electricity, and a USB drive with all our family photos, so if the house is destroyed, we will at least have those. We have water, dry food, batteries, candles, flashlights, and knives all around the house as well as in the bomb shelter.

Even as I write this, I hear planes overhead, and even though I know they’re Israeli, my stomach twists and my heart starts to pound faster. I’m in permanent fight/ flight/ freeze mode.

I repeat. We in the North are in double mourning right now. And it hurts.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 904)