One morning, on our way to school, my eldest son played me Israel’s Eurovision song (he’s a fan of the event, I go along with it). He knew Yuval Raphael’s story inside out, and we found ourselves wondering: Who is she really singing about?
Then I started to think: What kind of insane world are we living in, where my kids see this reality as a natural part of life? Not as a one-time traumatic event in the past but as something legitimate.
We’ve learned to live with pain and violence to the point that our emotions have dulled.
So dulled, in fact, that we’ve gotten used to Knesset members speaking shamefully to the families of the hostages.
What used to be taboo has become the norm.
And then comes the question, “How are you?” or “How are things?” And the answer is usually “fine” or “okay,” without any apologetic tone, without the phrase we all used to tack on not long ago: “considering the situation.”
Why? Because, as a society, we’ve come to accept this new normal, this relative reality.
The Israeli survival mechanism
We’ve adopted new standards – for anger, for grief.
Some would say that’s what it takes to survive. That it’s part of our uniquely Israeli survival mechanism: to run for cover during a missile alert and two hours later grab a burger on Dizengoff.
But we are not okay.
And maybe it’s time to stop ignoring the cloud of sadness hanging over us. The dangerous fog of “This is just how things are.” Because what kind of future awaits us if we adjust to this?
And no – I don’t think there’s another place waiting for us. That’s exactly what makes this so difficult.
There’s a price to be paid for suppressing the national emotional state – one that’s violent, angry, and deeply afraid of a thousand different things, but mostly: in pain.
Just as people can suffer physical collapse from repressed emotions and chronic pain, we too are breaking down amongst ourselves.
Just a few days ago, at the gym, I expressed my opinion about drafting ultra-Orthodox citizens. A woman of around 80, threatened to hit me. I had just finished showering and was standing there, exposed – shocked. I asked her: “Do you really want to hit me? Will that help you feel better about the situation?” She dug in, insisting that people who disagree with her should just stay silent.
The incident didn’t escalate, but it broke my heart.
If even the mighty cedars are falling – what will the moss say?
Things are bad and need to change
A people that grows used to anger, violence, living under the weight of hatred and sorrow – dies from sorrow.
Maybe not physically, but it’s enough to read the headlines to know: Something is happening here. Yes, something is always happening in Israel, but not like this.
In my 42 years, I’ve never felt such a heavy weight and sense of betrayal from the country I so deeply love – until I brought children into it. And now? No one knows what’s coming.
Just like with illness, grief, or personal pain, the first step to healing is recognition.
The national narrative of “It’ll be fine, bro,” no longer holds.
Neither does the defeatist “everything’s crap.”
The only narrative that can begin to heal us now is this: Things are bad. Change is needed.
And work is needed. Work that begins with each of us – including the one writing these words. Work in which we examine how we treat the parts of ourselves that are in others – in other words, how we treat one another.
And maybe we’ll become a little more patient, a little more compassionate – because everyone is hurting.
And maybe from there, collective healing can begin.
The author works in the media sector and is a writer and blogger.