“how old are you?”  the lady was asked, and she heard “how many wars have you been in?” and she began counting.  It’s not something that one gets used to – it’s one that seems to affect your life more and more.  This time I’m waiting for the next war.  And hoping I’ll be strong enough to get through it.  Each one leaves me less able to cope.  Each one leaves me less secure that the problems are solvable.  

Even though it seems we may have a chance to change the government, and to change the possibility of communication with our neighbors and within our society, even though it seems that all may be well, I am less able to actually participate in this change.

Most of my friends feel a similar helplessness. That even their vote doesn’t matter. My sister-in-law couldn’t get over the photographs of the children who were killed in Gaza this time around. “Why do they show us these pictures? Don’t we feel bad enough that we can’t do anything about it?” “Don’t we know that 1 in 4 of those children dreamt of being a Shahid?” someone else said, not to the point. “Didn’t we warn every family in every building we were going to bomb – didn’t we call them and give them an hour to get out? How could so many children have been killed?” We make accounts, try to figure out what happened, and wish we weren’t so hopeless. “What we have to worry about, ” someone else jumps in, “is keeping ourselves safe when their rockets target civilians, getting into shelters as soon as possible. That’s our only contribution possible in this war.”

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