Tag: trauma

The Children of Israel

Posted on by Keith Dvorchik

Over the past two years the media has focused repeatedly on the children in Gaza. The suffering they faced. Some real, some made up. Stories they were real and that were made up.

They denied much of what happened to the children of Israel on October 7th. They completely ignored what happened to the children of Israel from October 8th until today. Spending this past week in Israel, I have had the opportunity to interact with many children here. Children in pre-school, elementary school and high school. Parents of young children who have struggled the past two years about what to say to their children, how to protect them from the horrors, and parents who are IDF reservists, struggling with the fact that they have been gone from their children’s lives for more than half of the past two years. It’s not something that can be ignored.

I visited a preschool in Carmiel, in the Northern District of Israel, often included in the area of Israel called the Misgav. It’s a town of 55,000 that is beautiful and as we drove through, you could see how wonderful a place it is. The preschool (Gan) I visited had 35 students, agest 3 and 4, and as we walked in, they were running around, happy, laughing, and inquisitive. They were excited to see new people and happily smiled at us, walked around us, and when we sat to talk, pulled up their own chairs to sit with us or sat on playground equipment to be a part of the group. They were wonderful, happy, normal children. It was amazing to see.

At one point, we moved inside to a smaller room to sit and talk without the children around us. We learned that the room we sat in was the safe room for the Gan. When the rocket alerts went off, this was where all 35 children and the staff of 3-5 teachers would all have to get into within 30 seconds. I ran a JCC with an early childhood center that had hundreds of children. Monthly, we practiced our fire drill in which we had to get all the children out of the building. We timed it an regularly had them all out of the building in under 5 minutes. Each class had no more than 16 children with 2 teachers. The alarm was loud and many of the children would hold their ears, cry, or be upset. In Israel, at this Gan, they had to get 35 children into a small room within 30 seconds. Who knew how long they would have to keep the children in this small room. Packing 38-40 people in this small room for any amount of time would be a challenge. Yet the teachers did it. The children did it. They managed. I think of how difficult that must have been on the children and on the teachers and am astounded that the children aren’t afraid of the room and don’t want to avoid it. That the room doesn’t hold terrible images for the teachers. The trauma is real and yet they are dealing with it.

We visited an afterschool program in Kiryat Shmona that has a special program for the children who live there. It’s hard to imagine, but with the 2 years of Covid and the 2 years of the war, these children have had 4 years of learning interrupted. A child in 1st grade at the start of Covid is now in 5th grade and has barely been in school. How do you overcome the deficits that occurred both developmentally and educationally? What has to happen so that these children have a chance at a normal life and learning the basic tools that they missed, both educationally and socially? My youngest son spent his entire senior year doing online learning due to Covid (before you freak out, the schools were open and there were many reasons why we began and then stayed with online learning for him). It wasn’t easy for him to overcome the social deficits as a result of the last semester of him junior year and his full senior year being done online. We created a plan and it worked. That was just over 1 year for a 17/18 year old. Not 4 years for a 6-9 year old child. These children in Kiryat Shmona and other evacuated communities may need years of remedial work to deal with the academic deficits, let alone the social and developmental ones. Who’s talking about the damage done to them?

I spoke with a 37 year old father who has spent more than a full year since October 7, 2023, in the IDF reserves. He talked about his struggles when he returns home. He has two children – two children who have not only missed having their dad in the life for more than half of the past two years but who also know that he has put his life on the line every day he wasn’t at home. A father who has trauma to deal with so isn’t the same father that left them on October 7th to defend the people of Israel and the Jewish people. A father who struggles to be there for them all the time. Who talks about these children? Who is taking care of their needs? Where is the attention on the children of those brave soldiers who have kept going back to serve to defend not just their country but the Jewish people? Why is there no outrage at the damage to them?

We talked about a school that one of my friend’s children attend. In one classroom there is a teacher who has spent a great deal of time in reserves. There are two children dealing with the loss of family members on October 7th. Why is there no outrage about these children, living in the center of the country, who know the cost of war and the cost of freedom better than most people in the United States? Why is there no outrage at the impact on these children of losing their teacher for so long?

We have a generation of children of Israel that face enormous challenges. Who have faced enormous stress. Who have lost loved ones, parents, and friends due to the Hamas attack on October 7th and the ensuring war to keep Israel safe. Where is the outrage about what they have to deal with? Where are the world’s children’s organizations who are so critical of Israel, forgiving of Hamas and their responsibility?

This past week in Israel has shown me a new price that is being paid by Israel and the Jewish people. The price is being paid by our children. I don’t think we’ll know the exact cost we have to pay for quite some time. It’s a high price for sure, one that the world doesn’t care about. Jewish children — Jewish people — are expendable to the world. They don’t count nor do they matter. It’s unforgivable.

We can never forget the price of this war and defending Israel. It is a very high cost. The only thing worse would have been doing nothing. It’s not easy, especially when you see this price. It’s worth the high cost and we hope to never pay it again. It’s worth the many people who were impacted because of the many people who will be kept safe as a result.

When you look at the faces of these beautiful children and these beautiful babies, how can you not stand up and speak out on their behalf? How can you not do everything possible to protect them? We know Hamas does everything they can do damage and harm the children in Gaza as well as the children in Israel. We have to fight back even harder to protect ours.

The living dead

Posted on by Keith Dvorchik

I use a lot of sources to keep up to date on the news. Unlike the days of Walter Cronkite on CBS news, there is no single trusted source in today’s media. One of the people that I read is Danny Gordis. His “Israel from the Inside” substack posts are filled with a great deal of facts, stories, opinions, and thoughtful pieces. Today’s post was extremely powerful and hit me deeply, bringing tears to my eyes. Having been to Israel 3 times last year (May, July, and September), and working with many different organizations in Israel with daily contact with Israeli’s, it hit home. It’s what I have seen, heard and felt. While on a zoom with one of my partners last week, she let us know that she may have to leave in a few minutes because she got the “10 minute alert” that the Houthi’s had fired a ballistic missile at Israel. Sure enough, a few minutes later she said, “I have to go” and off she went to her safe room. The rest of us stayed and talked until she returned a few minutes later.

I urge you to read this story from Danny Gordis’s “Israel from the Inside”. It is an English translation of a Facebook Post (in Hebrew)from yesterday. And if you subscribe (paid or free), you won’t regret it.

I died on the 120th day of the war, but I didn’t tell anyone

I was killed on the 120th day of the war, but I didn’t tell anyone. The battles were raging and I didn’t want to hurt the guys’ morale. At the end of the month, I got leave.

My wife Talia picked me up from the train and hugged me tight, as if she were drowning in a frozen sea and I was a wooden door. So of course I didn’t tell her I was dead; everything had already fallen on her shoulders these past months. The moment I entered the apartment, Romi, my four-year-old daughter, came running from the neighbors, jumped on me and refused to let go—so I didn’t tell her either that Daddy was dead. Why break her heart?

After Romi fell asleep, Talia waited for me in bed with white wine. “I missed you,” she wrapped her warm thighs around my cold body. We made love. Not because I wanted to (the dead don’t need sex), but just to make her happy. It didn’t work; she stayed distant (or was it me?), and when she asked what I’d been through—I stayed silent (no reason to bring horrors into bed).

A few days later I went back to the battlefield, and two weeks after that I saved five soldiers from death.
“You’ve got balls of steel!” the battalion commander slapped my back. I wanted to say I was dead, so I hadn’t really risked anything, but since my actions had revived the unit’s spirit, which still hadn’t recovered from the death of Gilad the platoon commander, I replied, “Thank you, sir.”

At some point I was sent home, back to “normal life,” but between me and it stood a transparent, impassable border, behind which I watched them like a fish in an aquarium. And the world that once excited me—turned faded; work at the computer store no longer interested me, nor did poker games with friends, and at home, with Talia and Romi, I felt like an invading germ.

Until… One Saturday, Romi fell in the living room. “Daddyyyy!” she cried and I froze, hypnotized by the sight of blood trickling down her forehead, the clear tears dripping from her eyes, the yellowish urine that escaped her, and I thought about how many shades of fluid are in the human body, and remembered Sergei and the bullet he took to the head. That night, after we got back from the ER, Talia said I had to get help, that she couldn’t reach me, that she was out of strength. But all I heard was blah-blah from someone who doesn’t understand how the world works and how bloody and stinking and monstrous it is.
Better she doesn’t know. Let her put on an avocado mask and go to sleep.

But she kept nagging, so I went to the living room and stared at the sidewalk, seven floors down, and wanted to jump, because I felt like a foreign body that life had rejected. The window wouldn’t open. Turns out the frame was bent by a rocket that fell nearby. So I gave up and went to bed.

The next day, Assi, who’d been with me in high school and in the unit, came into the store. Since it was already noon, we went to the hummus place, gossiping about Victor who learned to jump with his new leg, about Barry who got a better hand than the one he lost, and about Udi who finally proposed.
At some point, there was silence and I asked if Talia had asked him to come talk to me. Assi nodded, because there’s no bullshit between us.

“So why is she worried?” he asked.
“It’s hard for her to accept that I’m dead,” I answered honestly, because I no longer had the strength to hide it.
Assi wasn’t fazed and speared a pickle from the plate. “Remember when you died?”
“The day Sergei was shot.”
“Mmm… half a year.” He bit into the pickle. “And what’s the hardest part about being dead?”
“That I don’t feel anything.”
“Really?” He looked at me, picked up a fork and stabbed my hand.
“Ow!” I jumped, “Are you nuts?!”
“Turns out there are some things you do feel,” he grinned, like a kid who just egged the principal.
I glared at him. Really? Seriously?! That’s your reaction to my death?! Seven years of psychology studies for this?! I got so angry I threw an olive at his eye.
“You son of a—” he flung pita at me.
So I threw a shish kebab at him.
A wave of stupid laughter took over and we kept pelting each other with fries and falafel until the owner lost it and kicked us out.

“What if…” Assi wondered as we walked back to the store, “it’s not that you don’t feel, but that… you’re afraid to feel?”
“Afraid to feel what?” I asked, and immediately thought of Ortal, Sergei’s wife, who after years of fertility treatments finally got pregnant, and how he came back from leave beaming and showed us the ultrasound of the boy. “Check out this mega-penis! Just like his dad!!!”

48 hours later, he took a sniper’s bullet. A bullet that wasn’t even meant for him. I was supposed to go to the window, but I was breaking a record on a dusty Game Boy I’d found, so I asked him to go instead and… I started to cry, because he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t.

“Now I know you’re alive,” Assi said, “Know why?”
“Why?”
“Because dead men don’t cry.”

He put a comforting hand on me and suddenly there was wild gunfire, fighter jets tearing through the sky, which stank of smoke, of decay, someone cried “Yama! Yama!!” Or maybe it was “Mama! Mama!!” And my hands searched for a weapon, but I was in civilian clothes, in the middle of Bialik Boulevard—

“I’m losing my mind,” I told Assi.
“You’re not, bro! You’re feeling, don’t run from it, don’t run!” And he hugged me tight and didn’t let me fall.

That evening I went to Talia, who was folding clothes, and said I wanted, like before, to read Romi a bedtime story. “Not sure that’s a good idea,” she refused to look at me. So I pinched her butt, like we used to do to annoy each other when we were dating. It surprised her, even confused her.

“Assi came to visit me at the store,” I said.
“And…” she glanced at me.
“He stabbed me with a fork.”
“Too bad it wasn’t a pitchfork,” she looked at me for a few seconds and must have seen something that changed her mind, because she picked up a book from the couch and handed it to me.

I read Romi a story about a turtle who wanted to be a butterfly, and the night lamp painted colorful animals on the walls. She fell asleep before the end, where the turtle, drawn in black and white the whole book, suddenly glowed with colors. And even though it was a predictable and silly ending, I teared up, and stroked her tiny, sweet fingers, moving with the rhythm of her dreams, and I couldn’t understand how in the same world horror and love could live side by side.

And I thought of Sergei, of his wife, of the baby in her belly, of corpses and kisses, screams and butterflies, and everything inside me stormed and raged and cried… and I didn’t run from it… I didn’t run. I didn’t run.

I know far too many people like this brave man. Far too many Israeli friends that have been through hell and back since October 7th. Rami Davidian, the farmer who saved 750 people from the Nova Festival on October 7th – the look in his eyes as he told us how he untied dead women from the trees he was looking at, their bodies abused, to give them dignity, is something I will never forget.

I have heard stories from my friend Yaron about October 7th, the first four months of the war in Gaza, and the most recent hostage release during the last ceasefire, that I will never forget. There are more that he cannot share. My friend Tal goes back into reserves in what seems like every other week. I’ve been to army bases, had barbecues with IDF soldiers and families from Kibbutz Alumim. Hearing the members of Kibbutz Alumim who fought the terrorists on October 7th is something I will never forget. As one member pointed out the 3 places he was shot that day, the places where bullets still remain in his body, I often wonder how, or if, they will ever recover.

Then I think about the work Dror Israel is doing with children and families in Israel. I think about Hapoel Jerusalem Football Club and the work they are doing with Trauma Soccer and their neighborhood leagues which get Jewish and Arab children in Jerusalem to play and learn together. I think about Hersh Goldberg-Polin (z’l), one of the leaders of their fan club and how much a future of peace and healing mattered to him. I think about Israel Volunteer Corp-Sword of Iron, mobilizing a community of over 44,000 people who want to volunteer in Israel to help rebuild both the physical and emotional state of the country. I think about what I do and what else I could do, to make a difference.

The Jewish people and the citizens of Israel have a long road ahead of us – first to win this war against evil and get the hostages back, and secondly to recover from what we have seen and what we face on a daily basis. It won’t be easy but we can do it together.

My question to you is what will you do? Will you be like Talia and Assi and do the difficult thing to help? Will you stand by while the author of that piece and so many others suffer in silence? Will you shake your head in sadness at the murder of ​Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim as they left a Jewish communal event or at the firebombing in Boulder during a peaceful march to have the hostages in Gaza returned or will you take action and do your part.

History is waiting to be written – the question is what will your role be. I hope that the writer of the piece in Danny Gordis’ “Israel from the Inside” inspires you to take action. I know it inspired me to do more.