It’s been too long

As ceasefire talks trudge on and we repeat the loop we wait and hope it will be different this time. How do we keep going?

Yesterday I was tired. The kind of tired that makes you numb. Flat. Emptied out. I had an exhibition of hostage posters to put up though. I had people relying on me. So I packed the boxes with all the kit and donned my Bring them home uniform and showed up. Because this is all I can do. 

The day before I watched Tsachi’s wife Gali weep on CNN as she spoke about her agony of this wait. This helplessness. The torment of absence and the madness of imagining what torture her loved one is going through. She can’t grieve her daughter who was murdered the same day her husband was kidnapped. She is stuck inside that day 10 months ago. Frozen in pain.

My malaise is a pebble compared to the mountain of her misery. This moves my feet and tugs my soul.

We put up seven giant hostage posters. The two British citizens still held by Hamas and five others with family in the UK. Only a few of those are being advocated for by the British government. My husband’s cousin Tsachi is not one of them. Their faces are so large that it’s impossible to look away. Passers-by begin to gravitate towards them. 

We don’t approach anyone. We let the faces and the stories speak. Most of those who take the time to stop come to us after. In my worn out state this is risky. I avoid talking to them and let others engage. Eventually I can no longer be silent. My voice is all I have and there seems always to be a spark inside that can provide fuel. 

The giant posters of British and those with family in the UK

I speak to a young man. He has read all the stories and has a serious look in his eyes. I fumble at first asking if he’ll wear a yellow ribbon. He’s wearing expensive looking football clothing and refuses. But he’s sympathetic and says it’s wrong they were kidnapped. “It’s been so long,” he says. “I can’t believe it.” 

It’s been so long.

I watch several other young people read, speak to us and show support. A whole family. The mother and daughter take a ribbon. A woman and her husband stop and talk for a long time. She went to Israel on tour dancing. She laughs and shows us a scar from a sunburn she got there. Immediately she takes a ribbon and puts it on. 

My husband Adam tells her the story of Tsachi and she cries. And I am surprised. Then I am shocked that I’m surprised. Partly we got so used to telling this horrible story that in order to retell it a certain amount of emotional distance has to be invoked. A protection. Mostly it’s because I am unaccustomed to strangers showing us empathy. The cruelty of Hamas and their supporters has damaged my faith in humanity. The indifference of society has shaken trust. 

Yet here was a stranger moved to tears. On the street. In a city that has felt hostile and cold. We took a risk putting up the posters here. In other places they’ve been aggressively attacked and ripped down. Today we created this temporary space and sat back. We let people come to us. We had no leaflets. We didn’t approach. It became a sacred place for a couple of hours for thought instead of reaction. For whispers instead of shouts. 

And it was powerful.

Later that day I led the service at the memorial for 7/10 and the victim we dedicated to was Or Asto. He was a soldier who defended a kibbutz where 8 members and 6 Thai workers were murdered. He was killed by Hamas trying to protect them. Or’s parents had fled Ethiopia and found a sanctuary in Israel.

As I was reading his story an older English woman in a sunny dress screeched at us. Her face twisted and contorted with hate for a dead man she did not know. I didn’t react and as she walked past she tripped slightly, so distracted by her own bile. 

The advantage of this deep exhaustion is the hate has trouble getting through too. All I could observe was the utter irony of this woman upset with the dead and nearly hurting herself. Hate is a form of self-harm. We carried on and honoured Or. A hero taken.

This was overall an average day for the war in Brighton. Compassion. Tears. Love. Hate. 

No wonder I’m tired.  

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