The summer of 2014. That’s when I became a social activist. I had always prayed for peace in synagogue, and once in awhile I attended a political rally. But as a mother of four, living in Meitar, a small suburb twenty minutes south of Beer-Sheva, juggling a job and raising a family, while trying to find time for Pilates, my life was consumed by everyday concerns.
When Operation Protective Edge broke out my friends and I suddenly became terrified. My kids weren’t so young anymore – my daughter was in the army and my son, Guy, was about to be drafted. My two younger kids were terrified by the constant rocket attacks close to home. Our next door neighbor said we should collect things for the soldiers. All the neighborhood women started bringing over anything they could think of that would help the soldiers at the front – underwear, grey socks, chocolate bars, shampoo. We lined up the cardboard boxes along the driveway and before sealing each one, dropped in a colorful children’s drawing, expressing their hope that our brave soldiers return safely. It made me feel like I was helping, in some small way.
My daughter Yuval was put on “funeral duty” at her army base – she had to go to soldier’s funerals and lay the official wreaths at the ceremony, then stand at attention. She had explicit instructions about that: “We’re not allowed to wear sunglasses, Mom”, she explained to me, “and we’re not allowed to cry.”
When the terrible news came that two soldiers from our tiny town had been killed in combat, I found myself standing in the tiny cemetery – twice in one week – next to the same women who had just collected underwear with me, staring in shock at the fresh graves. One of the boys killed, Noam, attended elementary school with my eldest daughter. I remember him as a little boy in first grade, the one with a mischievous look in his eyes. And curly brown hair.
I think that was the breaking point for me….
