Sori Block-Gordon
Sunday
My niece, whom I had been visiting for the holiday and whose Jerusalem home I could not leave, had to tell her children that they were not going on their much anticipated holiday to Cyprus because their daddy had to go to the army to fight the bad people.
Tears, tantrums ensued.
The 4-year-old was pacified with her mum making her pancakes.
The 7-year-old wasn't happy till she got a lollipop, and the 9-year-old was totally silent, worry and pain etched on his face.
I could see the kids needed some distractions.
There were no sirens, but we mostly played in the front yard. Venturing beyond was still too scary.
Monday
My niece, who is a nurse at Shaarei Tzedek Hospital, was called in to help. My sister-in-law and her husband wanted to go to the funeral of their friends' son who had just tragically been murdered on Shabbat.
He was a decorated career soldier who had been given a year off for his studies, but as soon as he heard what was happening in Gaza he went to help.
May G-d avenge his blood.
I happily took charge of the kids. In situations like this, my best tactic is to do something, to be of service, to help where I can.
We put on music and I tried to get the kids to copy my dancing moves.
Not everyone wanted to join in. One kid wanted to bang on the piano. Another wanted everyone to watch her dancing moves, and a third wanted me to whizz her around. It was chaotic.
In the middle of all this, the dreaded siren went off again.
“Quick! Quick!” I yelled, “Everyone, let's go into the safe room!”
We all ran as fast as we could into the bedroom. The youngest was screaming, “Where's my Wally book? I want my book!” Her yelling was louder than the siren.
I ducked out of the room as quickly as I could, found her book under the table, ran back in and locked the door.
The 9-year-old asked if I had secured the window properly. I had not. Bang, bang. I shut it tightly.
The little girl is screaming, “ I can't find Wally on this page!” The other girl says she's hungry. The boy is begging me with his eyes to please stay in the room the full five minutes like his mother dutifully does at the hospital.
“Stay calm,” I told myself. “Breathe.”
Five long minutes later we emerged.
My 9-year-old nephew had a friend coming over. Great. He came. They played, and then his mother rang to say she urgently needed to pick him up early. His cousin had died in battle and she wanted him to come to the funeral.
Tuesday - Wednesday - Thursday
The days blur into each other. What did I do all week? Where did the days go? How come I wasn't even thinking of leaving Israel?
Good questions. I don't have the answers.
Each day I wake up, do 10 minutes of stretching, and pray to G-d to please keep everyone safe, especially the soldiers who are fighting for our country. Then I walk to my mother's house.
On the way, I call her to ask what she needs. “I don't need anything,” she invariably answers, “but you know, Sori, I'm running out of toilet paper/bread/etc ... ” And every day I bring a little treat to boost her morale.
Each time I visit her, I feel an inner peace and tranquility. I feel protected by G-d.
My sister-in-law has a home in Cesaria. My husband accompanies her to help prepare it for people from the South whose homes have burnt down.
The kids are not getting easier. I don't tell their mom anything. No point. She is at her wits end.
They don't want to play. They want to watch children's shows all day. I tell them in half an hour they have to get off their screens. They holler when I walk in. I give them an extra half hour. Eventually they listen.
They are hungry for food. They eat frozen pizza for breakfast. I don't protest. I cut up some carrot sticks. They want bamba. The nine year old and I eat carrots and play Rummikub.
On Wednesday, I want to take the kids to the park. My 9-year-old nephew won't hear of it. “It's still too dangerous,” he tells me. He invites another friend over and we all play Rummikub again.
The girls are playing hide-and-seek in the pantry. They're really quiet. I'm pleasantly surprised. I poke my head inside the pantry and they've finished the jar of chocolate spread. It's all over their clothes, faces and hands. They seemed happy, so all's well.
At one point, the electricity goes out. No lights, no air conditioning. Darkness. “No need to panic,” I tell myself. “I can handle this!”
My delicious 6-year-old niece decides the fish are hungry. Ravenous. She pours the whole jar of fish food into the bowl. I have to act quickly; I don't want the fish to die on my watch. I quickly empty all the water while holding the fish. He is not very happy. Quickly, quickly, I refill it. It takes five tries for the water to look clear again. Phew. Disaster averted.
The doorbell rings. I think it's the kids' friends so I buzz them in. In walks an unfamiliar man with a large backpack. Oh no, I think. He looks armed. I scan the room, ready to run out with the kids. At the same time I grab my phone. He yanks his phone out of his backpack. “Excuse me, who are you?” I ask. “I no speak English,” he says. Where do I start? I call my sister-in-law, fearing the worst. “There's a man here with a large backpack and an extra finger. Do you know him?” “Oh yes, he's the cleaner I use when my regular one can't come,” she says. I'm shaking badly. This is nothing compared to what other people are going through.
My 9-year-old nephew has a zoom class. Schools have been closed since the war began. My sister in law reminds me he has to join. He's not in the mood, he tells me. I tell his sisters we need to be a little quieter because he has a class. They only get louder. After class, I ask him how it went. He says he couldn't hear a thing, and anyway, he's not in the mood for learning.
We chat about the war. He is worried about his father. He can't sleep well, he tells me. I try to explain about positive thinking. Telling our brains what we want to think about. Let's think about last week when we were at the beach, I suggest. He listens. It's a hard concept for us adults to master; what can we expect from our kids?
I remind myself to speak positively around the children. Every day is a battle. Getting them off their devices. Trying to keep busy inside. They get edgy and start to fight. It's hard for the children, but also for the mothers, grandmothers and caregivers, many who are solo-parenting with their loved ones called up to serve. They deserve a medal too.
Sori is a mother of four children who lives in Australia. She is a fitness coach and wig stylist, and she is passionate about self-growth, self-love and spirituality.
