December 10, 2023

Joseph Zitt's [as if in dreams] 2023-12-09

Hi. I'm Joseph Zitt. I moved from the US to Israel in 2017. This is my newsletter about more-or-less daily life in my city in the shadow of war. You can select these links to subscribe or unsubscribe. There are more links at the bottom. Here we go...

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The dining hall at the House of a Hundred Grandmothers wraps, like three sides of a rectangle, around an enclosed, wooded courtyard. There used to be some small ceramic yard gnomes among the trees and shrubs. I don't think they returned after the recent renovations.

The fourth side, outside the entrance to the dining hall, has couches, chairs, and small tables. I often see residents and caregivers hanging out there, before or after meals, or when I walk past it to visit my family on Shabbat afternoons. Last night, I saw one new resident get up, with some difficulty, from one of the chairs. Other residents helped to steady him, hand him his cane, and shift a table out of his way.

When I come by this evening, most of the group are already inside the dining hall. A large menorah has been set up on the rolling table usually used for Kiddush, at the far corner of the hall, near the House's medical wing.

They're lighting the candles later than they did last night. Then, it had to be done before the residents lit their Shabbat candles. Tonight, it has to wait until after Shabbat is done. I visit with my family in their apartment and participate in the Havdalah ceremony that ends Shabbat. Some of us then come down to the dining hall to light the Hanukkah candles. (I'm going to stick with this spelling of Hanukkah. It's the one that doesn't make my spellchecker whine.)

My relative who usually says Kiddish for them on Shabbat also lights the candles tonight. The menorah is set up as we do in the office. This one's much larger and fancier. Rather than candles, it uses small cups of olive oil, with cloth wicks.

As we do in the office, my relative lights a single conventional Hanukkah candle from a match, then lights the olive oil from it: first the shamash, then, tonight, three of the cups of oil. He chants the usual blessings, then we all sing two well-known hymns.

I recognize many of the residents at this point. Some are new. I snap a photo of the candle lighting with my phone and send it to the whole family via WhatsApp. One of them who hadn't come downstairs identifies a woman with a distinctive hat as a refugee. She had been in a city that was under heavy rocket fire, and is now staying at the House.

Another resident stands right in front of the menorah, holding his phone steady. I think he's filming or, possibly, livestreaming the lighting. I don't think I've ever seen him standing up before. Much of the time, when I see him at Shabbat supper, he sits at a table near where we say Kiddush, alone with his newspaper.

There isn't much news online today. What I do see is relatively grim.

Reuters gives details of the eulogies at the general's son's funeral yesterday.¹ The whole thing was carried live on TV. Another member of the War Cabinet, who had also been the Chief of Staff of the Army, and who also has a son fighting across the border, spoke of how "arrows on the map can become arrows in the hearts of beloved families". The general himself said, speaking over his son's coffin, "I am certain that we will press the offensive, the effort to bolster the country which you so loved - in order that it will mainly be strong, cultivated and righteous." 

Less than a day later, the general's nephew also died in battle.² The two cousins had the same middle name, both named "Meir" after their grandfather.

In addition to the soldiers who have died in the war, now nearing one hundred, over two thousand have been disabled.³ The majority have severe injuries of their hands and feet. Many have injuries to internal organs or to their hands and eyes. About seven percent are termed "mentally injured," but, as one head of rehabilitation says (according to Google Translate), that percentage is "a number that we know will skyrocket, because the assumption is that every person injured in the body is also injured in the mind, and also because mental injuries are always discovered months or more after the war."

There is another huge rally after Shabbat in the next city south, in support of the hostages.⁴ A photo, shot from above, shows a giant banner: "No victory until the last hostage [is returned]."

I head home after the candle lighting. As I pass through the park, I hear families in two of the houses along its edge lighting their candles and singing the familiar hymns, out of sync but in close to the same key.

Dogs, off-leash, run up to me. I welcome them. Once they decide that I'm not a threat and gather all the information that they can from sniffing my sandals, they zoom away.

Once home, I put away my new Hanukkah present: my family has given me a tote bag with the logo of the House and the words: "Home. Community. Love."

I look around at what I have to do. I still need to make supper. I haven't yet cleaned up from having made my usual shakshuka for brunch. I haven't yet put my laundry together. I still have to write this. It'll be a busy evening.

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Here’s an archive of past newsletters.

You can find me via email, Bluesky, Mastodon, Facebook, and, just out of inertia, X/Twitter. There's more about me and my books, music, and films at josephzitt.com.

The newsletter’s official mailing address is 304 S. Jones Blvd #3567, Las Vegas NV 89107. (I’m in Israel, but if physical mail comes to me there, it’ll get scanned and emailed. I don’t expect that to happen much. If you want to send me physical mail, ask me for a real address.)

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L'hitraot.