I wrote this on the week of October 13th – maybe one or two days later – and never finished the post, so never posted the post, and here I am stuck in this limbo of how do you post about anything when I still haven’t addressed That. So I will just was that now and take it from there.


For two years - 756 days, to be exact, that unavoidable, relentless countdown running in the background of everything and everywhere – I’ll meet you at six after the war was the kind of joke that I could barely bring myself to say out loud, for fear of jinxing it, for fear of not knowing if and when it would really come to pass.

It’s hard to believe that it’s kind of six o’clock after the war now. Kind of. Not exactly. The bulk of war is behind us; reconstruction has barely started, with pretty much 90% of my faith, what remains of it, lying in civic organizations, and maybe 10% if at all in the government.

The fact that the living hostages are all back home is such a weight lifted of the soul, I can barely describe it. For two years, every facet of life had had a disclaimer around it: you might be having a good day, or watching a new episode you like, or enjoying a cup of coffee, but at this very moment there are hostages suffocating in the tunnels, and their parents and siblings and children and friends are undergoing daily torture of knowing they’re there, and you are here, now try to get excited about a new exhibition you went to yesterday.

There were more disclaimers: at this very moment, there are soldiers and reservists whose lives are on hold, who are risking their lives or dying or killing, whose businesses are closing, whose wives (usually) are single moms for months on end, going back generations to a time when they’re in charge of maintaining a household (while trying to juggle a career), all so you can drink your coffee in peace. And it’s not just strangers; everyone is affected. Friends, distant relatives, close relatives, colleagues, neighbours.


(It’s difficult to find ways of speaking out against the war, while also supporting soldiers and reservists who are sacrificing so much and who need support and resilience in order to do what they need to do. My beef is with the government, who dragged this war on for so long and dragged our country into a sinkhole and sent more and more soldiers in, ruining lives and causing devastating damage on the other side, instead of cutting losses and signing a deal over a year ago to bring the hostages home and work on a long term viable diplomatic solution. It’s not with my cousin’s kid, who’s a sweet, gentle, geeky fanboy who happened to turn 18 in the wrong year, who’s spent the last two years in and out of Gaza, who’s driven rescued bodies of hostages home; him, I just wanted to have whatever resilience he needed to survive.)

For the past two years, I’ve spent almost every Saturday night at the main rally in Tel Aviv. Sometimes it was small, with only a few thousands. Sometimes it was big, with hundreds of thousands. The messaging changed, shifting from rallies to protests, demonstrations, ceremonies, sometimes calling for elections, more often calling for a deal. My reasons for going changed too, especially when at some point it became clear that these protests are not necessarily an effective tool for change, not if your government simply doesn’t give a shit. But while feeling futile, at least it felt like doing something, and at it’s core, a reason that never went a way was showing up to support the families of the hostages. Every week, different parents and siblings and cousins and children would go up on stage to speak, and see a crowd of people chanting You’re not alone. We’re with you.

(And one more reason, starting last year: let Trump see. Big signs, big crowds, appeal to his ego, thank him, suck up, suck up, suck up, cheer. The amount of applause and cheering I contributed to was sickening, but in the end, fuck it, he’s the one who did the job. I hate it all very much.)

*

...okay, that was as far as I got, writing in October, and then I must have been distracted by something or other.

I will say: the day of the final living hostages exchange was probably one of the most overwhelming senses of relief I'd felt in my life. The night before was a night of unbearable tension and excitement - will this happen, will something fuck it up - and at 11:30PM I went out to the Hostages Square to get a sense of the mood and there were hundreds of people there, hanging ribbons and cards, milling around, quietly singing. There was a sukkah, and I hadn't been in a sukkah yet that holiday, and I stepped in. There was a woman sitting there with a prayer book, religious, probably from the opposite end of the political spectrum than I am; but she beckoned me in, and we spoke for a while. She had come up from Jerusalem, because she wanted to be here where it finally happened; one of the hopefully-returning hostages used to be her barista, at the place she'd get coffee on the way to work; she was an art curator and a painter, American-Israeli, religious; one of her sons had been injured in the war; and "Right now," she told me, "they're deciding whether or not to let my terrorist go." I asked her what she meant. It was a marathon of cabinet meetings that night, deciding the exact population who'd be released in exchange for the hostages; she'd been injured in in a bus bombing in Jerusalem just over twenty years ago, and the perpetrator would or wouldn't be on the final list. I asked her how she felt about it. She was against releasing any of them, she said. But as long as they're being released, they were all the same to her; she didn't mind if it way the guy who bombed her, or someone who did something else. It was morbid, and chilling, and also comforting - at the end of the day, despite being against how this deal was done, she was here - but then, it was also par for the course; it really was the norm to have just absolutely gut-wrenching conversations all time time.

The next day, the morning of the exchange, I tried to work but it was almost impossible. During the entire morning, more and more pics and videos were released, and it was the absolute most joyful breaking news day that I can remember from the past decade, if not more. Everything was still terrible, and we shouldn't have gotten to a situation where civilians were kidnapped from their homes and left to rot for two years and the government should never, ever be forgiven for it (we'll have elections in 2026; I pray that they won't be) - but it was so good to just, for one day, bask in the joy and relief of families reuniting with their sons and husbands and fathers. At around 2PM I managed to close my laptop and head out to the Hostages Square, and for the first time I saw it full of thousands of people cheering and celebrating, every time a new video was released and shared on the big screen. Over the course of the afternoon, after crossing the border and being reunited with families, about 5 of the hostages were taken to the hospital in Tel Aviv which is right by the Square; every time, the helicopter carrying them would do a small sweep over the Square, so they could see the crowds of people cheering for them.

If only we managed to retain some of the unity and goodwill everyone felt that day, but alas, that is not how the world, or politics, or non-Hollywood narratives work. The war is over-not-over, but no one in charge actually has any kind of realistic plan for what should happen in Gaza. Politically, we're exactly as torn as we were the day before the deal. We're going to have elections later this year, and I'm truly afraid Bibi and his party and allies will be elected again. I know too many people who've decided to move abroad, and too many people who are postponing that decision to after the elections, but these elections are going to be their final straw. I don't know, I don't know. I hope for the best. But while despair isn't an action plan, hope isn't one either.

*

In the weeks after the October 13th exchange, I continued to go to Saturday night rallies, to continue the momentum and support for the families of the deceased hostages, until they returned. To be honest, I was sure that they wouldn't return all of them; that there were some who had been there for so long (10+ years), or whose location would be unknown, that they would never be returned. But on November 29th I went to my last rally, with two hostages left; and the following week there was only 1 left, there still is, and his family and the Hostage Families Forum decided to retire the weekly rallies - it's not over, but they continue to fight another way - and all of a sudden, I have Saturday nights back. There are still anti-government protests, every single week - but right now, I'm not going. To be honest, I don't think they're effective at this point, and god, it's tiring.

*

There are other things going on in this country - bad fucking things - but sigh. I hope things will end up okay. That is all for now.