Eight weeks. While the rest of the country had mostly gone on with their lives, trying to keep a semblance of normalcy even while our troops were fighting for their lives in the south and the north, we in Ashdod were still very much in war mode.

Israel was still at war, absolutely.

But missile attacks here had dwindled to approximately once a week. The occasional up-and-down wail that caught you unawares, with your guard down, making your heart slam as you ran for shelter.

For that once a week, our children were still being kept home. Day after day, week after week, month after month.

Capsule learning wasn’t working well for anyone — not babies whose parents couldn’t work properly on a sporadic basis, nor teens who needed to learn incredible amounts by themselves for nationwide exams… and the special-needs population? One day yes, one day no, half-day with no end in sight? It constituted torture.

We went up to the fifth floor — me with Daughter in her wheelchair, and other mothers who were accompanying their more physically capable but very special-needs sons who were in no less desperation for school.

You’re crazy, said the Voice of Reason. Go home!

Not a chance, said Voice of Resolve. I’m doing this.

I walked out of the elevator, past the security guard impassively eyeing us from behind his desk, found a bench, and sat down.

I had come prepared. Food, drink, something to keep Daughter occupied. I was going to argue with whoever it was — even the mayor if he would listen — that two and a half days of school a week was untenable. Impossible. Dangerous.

And I was prepared to sit here, in the Iriyat Ashdod building, until someone would listen to my (hopefully) well-thought-out arguments, and DO SOMETHING.

The mayor’s secretary stepped out.

“The mayor isn’t here, but I’ll pass on your complaints.”

Two or three mothers gathered around to talk to her. The others were chasing their kids up and down the corridors, hoping the noise and light flicking would help their case.

The mothers spoke, the secretary took details (on tiny little memo notes — my inner eye roll was still working after all these years).

I saved my argument for last. Stood there while the others spoke, added comments where I thought they might be helpful, grasped the wheelchair handles, and wished to be home.

I was too far out of my comfort zone.

But home… home was a place where things had spiraled out of control with a special-needs person roaming around — out of schedule, out of boundaries, out of ideas. Can’t go sit in the park, 45 seconds to shelter with a wheelchair isn’t possible. Can’t take her to visit friends with safe rooms; all their kids are on conference classes or in their two hours of school. Can’t keep her happy with videos; how many billions of times can someone watch Uncle Moishy? Can’t feed her a thousand times a day (as much as she’d love that); she’ll throw up.

Can’t, can’t. Can’t cook or clean or do laundry because I’m chasing after her all the time. Can’t function because she’s stopped sleeping at night due to lack of daytime stimulation. Can’t face the neighbors because of the hammering at the door at 3 a.m. or 3 p.m., anytime… because she Wants. To. Go. Out. Now.

I needed to do this.

They were done. I took a deep breath and said I wanted to talk; I had a different request.

Out came another memo note.

I was just getting to my (hopefully) well-thought-out arguments… when the elevator opened, and out walked the mayor.

True story.

In case you’re imagining an Anshei Kartoffel brouhaha with bullzodas and bar mitzvahs and Mayor Figalleli la-Gardenhose… well. It was a lot less dramatic.

But the man in the suit jacket saw a woman with a teen in a wheelchair. A group of mothers. Boys running around and jabbing at the security guard’s keyboard.

He couldn’t just ignore all that, so the man in the suit jacket walked over to the woman holding the wheelchair and asked what was going on.

And the good little British girl forgot to quake in her boots (this is the mayor), grabbed the moment, looked at the man who was only a puppet in Hashem’s hands but at that moment had the power to make or break her life and the lives of those dearest to her, and spoke up. In Hebrew.

She spoke for ten minutes. She was passionate and eloquent and yes, her hopefully thought-out points were actually well-thought-out enough so that the man listened. And listened some more.

And once she was done, the mayor nodded.

“I give my permission,” he said.

Eye roll aside, people, you can do anything. Because no, I’ve never lifted a car.

But I have fought City Hall. And won.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 876)