Tag: family

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.

Twenty Days of Plenitude

It’s hard to overstate how much being in Canada these past few weeks have meant to me. The country, the people, the peace, positivity, politeness, even the ugliest of late November weather. I’ve been able to cobble myself back together, (to a point).

I’m drinking montepulciano with a side of chocolate torte as a Newark airport wine bar plays very good jazz. Having just said goodbye to my family again. Teary eyed.

I stormed back into Canada and frolicked in an early season snowstorm like a child. I smiled at everyone and they almost all smiled back. I saw joy and reflexive kindness and easy interactions everywhere.

I walked my Ottawa neighbourhoods and met old friends. Korean bbq with an owner from Jeonju, where I lived in 2004. Korean chatter with an Ottawan from Morocco, who I last saw in Jeonju in 2004. Christian from Sri Lanka in 2001, over coconut sambal and a conversation with the Mauritian server about Sierre Leone. And Anita who saw us in Rome three times and played the piano at Tiburtina train station for Aleksander. Freshly pulled northern Chinese noodles with Tom from Rome. An Etobian from Pretoria. A Mississaugan from Lima. Christiana from Abu Dhabi then Ankara.

I felt Home. Gleefully so.

Then I went to my family, and nothing else on the planet mattered, finally.

I dove headlong, spritually, metaphysically, into my family’s arms and didn’t let go for any single moment. I absorbed our love. I kissed Elia, hugged Aleksander, embraced Dalia. Saw my mom, brother, cousin, in-laws, high school friends. It was a poem, a movie, the fullest type of living. I visited my dad’s tombstone for the first time since it went up. Strolled with my family along Toronto’s lakefront, my old University campus and through the city’s museum for the first time in decades. Dalia and I went to the Cathedral where we were married, prayed with the priest who presided, got a bubble tea and spiderman balloon at the shopping plaza we used to visit after pre-wedding classes. We passed through almost fifty years of layers of personal history in the place, creating anew every step. It felt like a magical therapeutic immersive video game from the future. Queen’s Quay, Spadina, Bloor, The Junction, Scarlett, Islington, Burnhamthorpe, Mill Rd, Pebble Valley Lane. Seasons of life, and lives from all the seasons. Sprinkles of grey in my friends’ beards, twinkles of gold in my childrens’ eyes. Snow, dinosaurs, aquariums, hot chocolate, matching pj’s. I wrapped up Aleksander in a big warm towel after his swimming lesson, heard Elia fill the hall with giggles in the home we moved to in 1993, during the March Break of grade 9. Reminisced with Ryan about our long ago week in Banff, hugged my neighbours and agreed we should never have left Rome, laughed then cried with Eddie about how life can be so funny and so hard, sometimes at the same time. Dalia and I aimed to watch a movie but never actually managed. We ate pizza and kebabs and roast duck and homemade dinners. We talked about Sudan and Montreal and Vienna. And occasionally the future. Looked forward, hopefully, cautiously, with lingering uncertainty. Always rooted firmly in the present, in our unity, in the calm unassuming greatness of Canada and modern Canadianism.

My old friend Dave, over a pint and some wings, said that he hasn’t had time to follow the situation in the Middle East closely as a working father of three young children. I was up and down with envy at his statement. Maybe at another time I would have judged non-engagement with a global situation more harshly but this is exactly why I wanted to come to Canada myself, to have the possibility to momentarily not care. Not read daily reports, see emerging images, breathe in the tension of a state at war. Canada is not perfect and we heard our fair share of complaints, from education to healthcare to traffic to housing. But I didn’t shy away from reminding people: at least there are no missiles flying overhead. Which, without fail, struck them as entirely other-worldly and mostly alarmist – exactly as it should be.

Stay normal Canada. Please always just be normal.

Soft Canadian Landing

I look at Canadian skies and see November sun, orange, purple clouds, birds gliding. They breathe peace. The idea of a missile passing overhead absolutely unimaginable. No helicopters other than for traffic, hospitals or Niagara Falls views.

I travel through Canadian airports and see the whole world, at work and on the move. Diverse, decent, dedicated. Not a machine gun in sight, no intimidating stares into the soul, outward or in.

I walk Canadian streets and people say hello, and excuse me, and thank you, and, of course, sorry. A lightness of being in the freshness of air. Crunchy fallen leaves underfoot and smiles on young and old alike. No default defensiveness, agression crackling at the surface, obvious reason for concern.

I like being here. I like being of this place. I like it more and more every step.

Three Magical Years of a Beautiful Little Life

Aleksander turns three today.

It’s unfortunately a little bittersweet as today also marks the longest time I’ve been away from him. Mommy, Aleksander and baby brother Elia left Israel, where I now sit writing, exactly two weeks ago and their return date remains uncertain.

As though I needed any reminder of how much I miss and love him, the absence of his little steps, kicks, smiles, snuggles, kisses, hugs, laughs, looks and general amazingness really crystallizes my absolute devotion to him, and joy and gratefulness of being his dad in all the moments, big and small.

I’m not sure when exactly it happened but we have a fully fledged toddler on our hands. Kind, decisive, occasionally difficult, exploring, enthusiastic, aware, alight, loving, warm, thoughtful, energetic, clever, fun, funny, polite, dynamic, eager, precise.

It still remains an absolute pleasure and privilege to witness Aleksander’s growth and development up close. Seeing baby steps turn into toddler phrases over a million little increments, all along his path to becoming who he’ll be.

This year Aleksander graciously welcomed his little brother Elia into our family and onto the planet. Since the very first moment, he’s been nothing but caring and considerate as a big bro. Gentle, inclusive, excited. He has inhabited his new role naturally, not needing too many pep talks or guidelines about how to love, support, hold, help and cuddle our sweet newborn. Aleksander has always had a generous and compassionate heart and it’s deeply rewarding to see his character in action as our family has expanded.

If the first year of his life was about newness and adaptation; the second movement; this past year has been about communication. He’s gone from a handful of words to fairly coherent sentences between his second and third birthdays. It’s allowed us to get to know him even better, understand his needs and perspective, delight in his creativity and worldly wordiness. He chats and chats, jokes and explains, dances and jumps, directs and distracts. I love his sweet little voice, so sincere, so true.

I’m swooning a bit aren’t I?!

It’s hard not to. Dalia always says that, as a family, we’re meant to be together. And as challenging as parenting can be, especially now with two, there is not a single thing on Earth I can think of wanting to do more, in any given moment, than spending time with my’s Aleksander. Doing something or doing nothing, it doesn’t matter, because it’s actually doing everything.

Aleksander, my big boy, I love you beyond words and beyond anything. I love you will all my heart and forever will.

Thirty Days of Solitude

Entry 1 – Sunday, October 22, 2023

My family left Tel Aviv about a week ago, as decided by the Canadian Ambassador to Israel, who sent all diplomatic families with children under 16 out of country, under an evacuation order to be revisited in 30 days.

They left on Sunday or Monday and maybe arrived in Canada on Tuesday. Days are not my specialty at the moment.

I don’t think I’ve ever experienced as profound and sustained sense of relief as I have since they left. Seeing their smiling, peaceful faces in the boring and beautiful suburbs of Toronto is almost indescribably uplifting for me.

Grandmas, grandpa, uncles, aunties, cousins and friends have welcomed them with warm, kind, loving embraces.

On my end, being in an empty home alone feels extraordinarily quiet. Going from an active family of four with two little ones, to a family of one feels a bit like a sound and energy vacuum. But at least they’re safe.

I’ve been working so much that there hasn’t been too much time for reflection. Perhaps a good thing. When I reflect, my head usually spins and my gut wrenches.

The news is brutal. The children, the pain, is tough to watch as a father. The Tel Aviv reality is normalish, which also somehow feels upside down. Iced coffees and parks and poke bowls, mixed with posters of the missing and taken.

I feel best at home or at the office. Where I can design at least some of the context of my experience. Bomb sirens go off and I play records. I sweep the floors, water the plants and even put up all our pictures on the walls. In forced anticipation for my family’s return into this comfortable apartment. Hoping, maybe impossibly, that we might be able to pick up where we left off when / if they return. To a country that will never be the same. To a city that we were just beginning to settle into, that now feels like one of the world’s possible next targets.

I have several go bags packed. I used to laugh off the idea of go bags, now I wake up early to pack and repack them. I have a pouch, backpack, two duffel bags and two suitcases ready next to the door. I carry my passport in case, God forbid, I’m not at home and need to leave. This all seems, officially and unofficially, unlikely, but not impossible.

Dalia says Aleksander heard an ambulance on their second day back home and told her they need to ‘go to the room’ (aka bomb shelter). My colleagues tear up when discussing their kids and how they’re doing. Several co-workers have been to several funerals. Gazan children go to sleep and sometimes wake up, or not, under the rubble of their homes.

Feelings are big.

And here I happen to be, just off the epicentre of these big, global feelings.

So far, mostly in exhausted but stable solitude.

Will my family come back or will I get picked up with my bags before then? Time will tell.

And then I’ll tell you.

Entry 2 – Saturday, November 3, 2023

I’ve entered into the Heart of Solitude. 

It’s been three weeks since my family left. 

The first was spent working long days and closely in touch with them. The second was a hollowing out. Then, since missing Aleksander’s birthday last weekend, I’ve mostly been inside out. 

My home and soul are quiet. Too quiet. I seem to be living almost entirely in their absence. I tear up when I see pictures of my kids. My voice wobbles when I speak with them over the phone. I look at parents with their kids here and stare somewhat blankly. 

I got bad news this week then good. It looks like we won’t be separated beyond mid-December. Six more weeks of solitude. It’s not a great amount of time but at least it’s not indefinite. 

I’m hoping that, somehow, I may be able to see them before then. 

Meanwhile, I flip channels on the couch, do squats with water jugs in the living room, go to African mass on Saturday mornings, play music and do my job. 

It’s a very bizarre place to be outside of my solitude. November mornings here are sublime for their light and weather. People drink coffee on patios and play with their babies on blankets in the park. Gaza is about 70kms away. A 45 minute drive on a Canadian highway. 

If you go out for food at about 8pm, something like a third of people have guns. I dare not talk about current events with almost anyone because I don’t really know anyone and I definitely don’t know what anyone is thinking about current events. But I can feel the rawness and anger in the air. More often bordering on righteous rage.

So I try to keep to myself. Sheltering back in my Solitude. Dreaming and praying of when I’ll see my family again. And maybe more importantly, as time goes on, when we might be able to settle back into a normal life. You know, no bomb sirens, or life altering Hezbollah speeches. Just grocery trips and tying shoe laces.

Breakfast and snuggles and daycare and kicking the ball in the hallway. Kissing my sweet baby’s cheeks and making him smile. Holding my wife’s hand and helping her with the boys. 

Regular life in a regular place.

Entry 3 – Tuesday, November 14

The thirtieth Day of Solitude.

BUT IM FLYING HOME ON FRIDAY FOR A VISIT SO WHO EVEN CARES ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE ANYMORE??!!!?!?!

LEEETTTTTSSSSS GOOOOOOO