Wed, Oct 11, 2023
A day of complicated family logistics:
A relative has left for the army. He has been caring for his daughter. Her mother has to take over caring for her, but is quite ill with a stubborn virus. The daughter's grandfather is going north to be with them. Her grandmother is stuck at home in the House of a Hundred Grandmothers. The grandmother's caregiver can't leave her side.
The grandmother needs a piece of medical equipment. The grandfather was supposed to get it from the vendor today (after having to cancel an appointment last week because he had COVID). I'm left as the only member of the family who can get the device.
I leave work at lunchtime and take a bus to the House. Normally, I would walk there from work. If there's a rocket alert, though, I would be better off on a bus. The people on it would probably have a better idea than I would of where to go and what to do at an unpredictable point along the route.
As I am about to head out from work, I get an SMS, forwarded from a city government account. Several large military funerals, for some of the thousand people who have died so far in this first week of the war, will be held today at the cemetery next door to the office. The message warns us that there will be ceremonial gunfire salutes during the funerals. I forward the message to the office's WhatsApp group, so people won't be afraid when they hear the guns. Although we're quite a distance from any fighting, everyone's on edge.
Once at the House, I stop by the front desk to let the worker there know about it, in case they can hear the gunfire from there. I have to hope that I got the message across. We have to switch languages back and forth. I can't recall the Hebrew word for "gunfire." When I tell my family, they ask me why I didn't just show the text message to the worker. Right.
My family also spreads the word among the foreign caregivers there. Some are scared. They had come here to care for people who needed them. They hadn't planned to be in the middle of a war.
While I'm with my family, one of the senior staff shows up. She gives their caregiver a document in English. It's from the government, assuring the caregiver that the appropriate ministry is aware of her situation and concerns. It tells who to contact if they want more information. I recognize from the syntax that it must have been translated from another version that wasn't in English. I also recognize that it must have originally been a web page or email. On a printout, telling people "for more information, click this link," without showing the web address, isn't nearly as useful.
The grandfather hands me his senior citizen ID. Normally, we would use his general ID card, but we don't want him to be without it when heading out of town, especially during a war. I take another bus to the shop.
The computer shop mostly serves as a pickup point for online orders. They only have a few items like mice and cables hanging on the wall. The customer area is smaller than my bathroom. I have to go to a kiosk and confirm that I have an appointment to pick up an order, then wait my turn. Once they call my number, I show them the ID and the confirmation. They find the order in the back room and hand it to me, reaching around the plexiglas barrier that separates the customers from the rest of the shop.
On the way, I see two sites collecting donations of items for the soldiers. One, which I had heard about in a video message from the Mayor, is in the courtyard of City Hall. A large, beautifully made poster, as tall as I am, announces the other location, run by Chabad.
From the design of the poster, I guess that the unknown people who, just last week, had been organizing the massive weekly protests against the ruling government coalition, are now handling at least some of the logistics and design for the civilian side of the war effort. I get an email telling me that several of the protesting organizations, which had been squabbling as the Left always does, have banded together and formed a web portal for aid information, "One Nation, Together." The site is quite well organized and designed.
We hear a government announcement that seems both surprising and inevitable: members of the ruling coalition and the opposition have joined together for an emergency cabinet. The group includes former military leaders from both sides. From what I understand, it leaves out the extremists who, until now, had been making matters worse.
I get back to the House with the package. The caregiver makes lunch for me. They order me to stay for supper. OK.
We sit and flip through various news channels, both local and foreign. My family explains to me how the various flashing text bits and banners on the local channel's screens work. There's a pretty complex system showing the current locations of rocket and infiltration alerts, the lead headline, smaller headlines that change more often, labels showing who is speaking, website addresses and phone numbers to contact, and, at the bottom left, a sign language interpreter. Much of the text onscreen is in the highly compressed jargon used for news. As with print headlines, I understand almost none of it.
We get messages from other parts of the family and from friends. The grandfather sends a text when he gets to the mother's house. She's doing as well as she can while worried and ill. The daughter is playing happily. He is taking charge. The caregiver worries that when he comes home, his clothes will be covered with hair and dander again from the mother's three cats. I'm only mildly allergic to cats, but have just barely been able to breathe when visiting them.
I head out after supper. In the park outside, a man on a bench calls me over. He tells me that he lives down the hall from my family, whom he respects as leaders in the community. He sees me there often with them, but we've never met. I'm surprised that he recognizes me, especially since it's dark and I'm wearing a medical mask. But with my roundness, my suspenders, and my beige baseball cap, I do have a distinct, consistent look.
He tells me that he often brings things over to my family. "With three people in that small apartment, they could use help."
I ask his name. When he tells me, I recognize it. I blurt out, "Oh, the man who brings them bread!"
"Yes, but I bring more than bread -- sometimes vegetables, sometimes fruit. I'm not a religious man, but I believe in God, and I believe that when God gives us more than we need, we must pass it on to others who can use it."
He holds up his phone, which is playing music that I don't know. "Your family doesn't get outside much. It's a shame. I like to sit out here, enjoy the air, and listen to love songs."
We wish each other good health and a return to peace. Smiling, I head up the hill, through another park, and home.