Ten Days of Interlude

I returned to Tel Aviv, alone, having shed several layers of emotional skin but still leaving my heart and soul with my family back in Toronto. They, and Canada more generally, let one month of acutely accumulated stress, fear, indecision, discomfort, doubt and guilt, fall right off. In fact, a certain weight and tension just wasn’t there as soon as I crossed the outbound border. And thankfully, partially due to exhaustion, but mostly thanks to my tank being replenished, I opened the door to our apartment renewed and in good spirits.

I went out for a cheeseburger (Tel Aviv’s unofficial second street food after shawarma) and noticed that the vibe in the neighbourhood resembled more what it felt like when we first arrived rather than when I had just left. Largely due to the temporary ceasefire that had happened in my absence and also the increasing squeeze on Gaza that, relatedly, left Tel Aviv less affected by rocket fire.

I decided, with salt on my fries, that if things felt ‘fine,’ I would pretend that they are fine. That I could be fine here. That it’s a regular, normal place.

I went back to work, fought off my jet lag and tried to keep the connection with my family, so live and profound days ago, aglow. I found that I could read. I could hear and feel music and not just listen. I was buoyed by the loving reality of my family, shared moments, experiences, the knowledge that this will hopefully be our final separation for some time, if not ever.

I walked to the beach boardwalk on my first Saturday back and noticed how many more people there were than before, how relaxed and at ease everyone seemed. I looked out at an incredibly beautiful dimming sun set over the windy waves. And wondered what it looked like from Gaza. I squinted down the coast in an effort to actually see the place, beyond the bends. My stomach knotted. I decided not to return to the beach because it didn’t seem fair.

Later that week it rained quite heavily and I imagined how it felt in the tents of Khan Younis and Rafah. Day by day, I started to lose the recently shared connection with Dalia and the boys, because of the time difference, and work, and distance, and simply being apart. I again got choked up thinking about missing moments, walking into Aleksander’s empty room, watching videos of Elia starting to crawl. I would look for them in my dreams, try to find ways to pull tomorrow closer, pretend that I was fine and everything was fine.

The reality of what’s happening in Gaza weighs down my spirit like a leaden vest. Even when I try not to look, it sneaks into my heart. Tears and pain and anguish beyond all comprehension.

I want to invite all the spirits of the Gazan children into my home, to share a moment while I search for my kids and they search for their parents. Show them love and that the world can be a good place. Take them to a bustling beach with a beautiful dimming sunset and tell them that everything is fine, that they live in a regular, normal place, that they can take a walk, go to sleep, share a laugh.

Relaxed and at ease.