By Leah Garber
Numbers matter. They mirror reality in the most direct, cruel way. They put things in perspective and never lie.
Babies that were conceived on October 7 have been born, and by now have already smiled their first smile. Seeds that were planted that day have sprouted, blossomed, and filled the earth with beauty.
Trees that waited naked for winter have grown back their leaves, first flaunting green foliage that now has turned yellow and dried under the hot summer sun.
Adventurers and those simply seeking an escape from the harsh reality have circled the world, only to return to the same painful existence.
Books written about the bravery of the fallen and the heroism of warriors have been published and are sold out in stores.
Oceans of tears have been shed, flooding the streets, drowning us in sorrow.
The sun has tried to rise and shine 300 times, but time after time it succumbed to the blackness and gloom of the longest night in Israel’s history—300 days that have no end, time without a horizon, a hopeless reality.
Six-hundred-eighty-six soldiers who left home to join the ranks of those defending our homeland have died, never to return home to hold their loved ones again. They lie in soil saturated in blood and sadness, watered by tears of the ones left behind.
More than 4,000 soldiers continue private battles that follow severe injury. They’re adapting to life without a limb, with one eye, and with a broken heart. Above all, 115 of us remain in Gaza, held hostage for 300 never-ending days. Numbers matter; they echo realty.
Last week 12 children went out to play soccer on Saturday afternoon and did not return home. Instead, each was wrapped with a Druze flag and laid in a cold, dark coffin. They were beautiful innocent boys and girls of Majdal Shams, a Druze village on the Golan Heights. They were killed by a Hezbollah rocket attack. Four of the children were members of a single family. This attack was the deadliest one by Hezbollah since the terror group began striking northern Israel on October 8. To date, the skirmishes have resulted in the deaths of 24 Israeli civilians and 18 IDF soldiers and reservists. Thanks to the mass evacuation of thousands of families from their homes in northern Israel, the number of victims is not greater.
Look at these smiling faces, and try to picture the futures of Iseel, Vinees, and Alma. Imagine them as young mothers, 20 years from now, cheering for their kids on the soccer field. Listen to the cheers of Hazem, Ameer, Fajer, Yazan, Nathem, Jivara, Johnny, Naji and Milar. Sadly, such sights and sounds belong to an imaginary world where there is no evil, a world that was robbed of 12 children who did not harm anyone.
These 12 children, members of the Druze religion, an Arabic-speaking esoteric ethnoreligious group in Israel, were victims of Hezbollah terrorists’ hatred and destruction that is aimed not only at Jews but also at members of the Druze community.
In the last 300 days, we have collected stories of heroism, tragedies, warriors’ brotherhood, endless dedication, sacrifice, and civil society at its best alongside continuous division, protests, and demonstrations. We have endured 300 nights of sleep haunted by nightmares and 300 mornings when we realize that our nightmares are the reality to which we have awakened.
Happy photos, full of family life, have become commemorative ones with smiles forever frozen.
On October 7, Tamar Kedem Siman Tov, who ran to be mayor of the Eshkol regional council; her husband, Yonatan; her mother-in-law, Carol; and the couple’s children, 5½ -year-old twin daughters, Shahar and Arbel; and their 2-year-old son, Omer, were murdered on Kibbutz Nir Oz. In one moment, an entire family was wiped off the face of the earth.
Since the beginning of the war, the Idan family has lived through the three most difficult realities in Israeli society today: mourning the loss of their eldest daughter, Maayan, who was killed on October 7, they have been displaced from their home, and continue to wait for Tzachi, the father, to return from captivity.
When the attack began, Tzachi, Gali, and their three children hid in their safe room at home on Kibbutz Nahal Oz. Eighteen-year-old Maayan was shot through the shelter’s door and died of her wounds. Everything that happened from that moment on, while Tzachi, Gali, and the two younger children sat in their home was recorded in real time and uploaded to Facebook Live by the terrorists. Another daughter, Sharon, wasn’t at home at the time.
The painful stories pile up and with it, recognition of the depth of the loss, the scope of the terrible breach. And there is no end in sight.
On the 100th day of the war, I could not believe that the number of days was a three-digit number. On the bicentenary day, I cried for the need to change the prefix once again, refusing to believe that I would now begin each post with a number that starts with a “2,” and today, on the 300th day, I am speechless. The pain overwhelms me and is oppressive and impossible to bear. Despair digs into the heart, deepening its grip, constantly present in every breath.
And while the concern for the hostages grows daily and the number of dead increases, we are once again sitting on edge, in terrible tension for the next few days. Foreign airlines have canceled flights to and from Israel, leaving behind air heavy with anxiety.
Threats from Iran, Hezbollah, and other proxy countries are increasing by the hour. Are we on the verge of an all-out regional war, or will the words and threats foretelling battle slowly subside?
It’s hard to make plans, and certainly not summer vacation plans. Uncertainty, instability, and, above all, blackness of mood prevent it.
Three-hundred days that are like excess and unwanted weight, days of fighting and additional pain. The cup of sorrow, which has long been full and now has overflowed, refuses to rest.
There are no words for the grief and pain for our dead, the hostages who suffer in captivity, the wounded who struggle daily, entire cities destroyed, and thousands of families evacuated—all contained in our one, small, beloved and great country that has been fighting for its existence for 300 days and will continue to fight because we have one home and no other land.
One day the sun will shine again to light up the black night and we will hear the birds sing. I only hope it happens before another 100 days elapse.
Even with all the pain, somehow we will find strength and together, united, we will overcome.
Leah Garber is a senior vice president of JCC Association of North America and director of its Center for Israel Engagement in Jerusalem.
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