Carrying On

If you don’t vote, you lose the right to complain.
―George Carlin

Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.
―Haruki Murakami, from Kafka on the Shore

In Israel, Sunday is a working day. Many people do not work on Friday, and those who do, along with schools, have a shortened workday. Friday is a day usually used for errands; shopping, laundry, fixing the toaster, washing the floor, and cooking for Shabbat. Therefore, especially for those families who are 'shomer shabbat' (i.e., keep the Sabbath and don't travel or use electricity) there are very few opportunities for get-togethers with family and friends who do not live close by. 

In fact, there are exactly three Sunday-like days:

• Purim - a Jewish holiday but travelling is permitted;
• Independance Day - a National holiday, where having a barbecue is mandatory; 
• Election Day.

Here in Israel, we are blessed (?) to have at least one Election Day a year. In a really good year, we might have as many as three Election Days. Let's hear it for democracy!

In any case, Election Day is a day off work and school, and after voting, one is free to do whatever one wants. Shops are open and do a booming business (no Israeli pun intended), and national parks, beaches, and other attractions are full of picnickers.

Election day, in our family, is a good opportunity to gather family members from the far corners of the country and have a barbecue in our yard. Therefore, after two postponements due to the war, when it seemed that the municipal elections, originally scheduled for last October, were finally going to happen, I made sure, well in advance, to have the kids pencil in the day to come to Beer Sheva and eat semi-raw meat. 

The kids all assured me that they would 'probably' come if no better offer came up. 

The last time an effort was made to all get together was during Sukkot ― five months ago. Since then, a lot, to put it mildly, has happened (see past posts). In addition, due to anticipated return call-ups to army service, we might not have another opportunity to all be together until next Sukkot ― seven months away, if then. We have all learned to grab opportunities when they arise. 

And so, we filled the house with raw meat, pitot, humus, and pickles. 

We cleaned off the porch that had barely been used all winter. (Some of the harder to reach Sukkot decorations were still up, but hey.) Blessed rain had fallen Election Day morning, and we had to dry off the chairs. 

People began to arrive. Pickles were chopped, lettuce was washed, and raw meat juiced dripped onto the floor. 

I pulled out disposable plates and cups and cutlery from a cupboard that hadn't been opened since Sukkot.

But it was only as I unfurled the plastic outdoor tablecloth onto the plastic outdoor table, a tablecloth that had not been used for five months, it was if all the memories trapped in its folds came floating up. 

The laughter of the children on that Sukkot day;
The hot holiday sunshine and blue skies the last time we were all together.
The next memory that flew up was from five days after the first:
The sun peaking over the houses, and the gut-wrenching sound of booms in the distance;
The blast of the sirens and deafening booms much closer to home.

I could hear those booms so clearly in the snap of the tablecloth as we straightened it. 
We have not had rockets in Beer Sheva in almost two months. 
I shook my head to clear the sounds in my head, wiped away the tear that had somehow, uninvited as always, rolled down my cheek. I took several deep breaths. 

I carried on. 

Meat was burned, drinks were spilled, and gales of laughter erupted from three generations of Israelis sitting on the porch on Election Day afternoon. We ate cake and deep-fried marshmallows (not recommended).  

Interspersed with the laughter, though, I could not shake the memory of the uncertainty and fear as the sirens and booms continued on that black day five months ago and the never-ending horror and grief and worry that washed over us as we slowly began to understand the magnitude of events.

Yet, here I was, on another beautiful Israeli day, with the sounds of the children's laughter filling the air, and the smells of charcoal wafting above. 

We will carry on.
Laughing, and loving, and voting. And remembering.

The future is not a promise but a hope. 
We are full of hope.