I woke up to find out that sometime during the night a rocket was fired at my soon to be home sweet home town of Netivot. If you live in America, you probably haven’t heard about it–so I’ll link it here.
I made some sort of a howling noise upon reading…and cried the tiniest bit when I saw pictures of the destruction. A family lives in that house. Those are people. Civilians. Those are not soldiers. A war is not going on right now.
I’m supposed to move there in two months. There are people there that I’ve been preparing to help. That I want to help. That probably need some help.
It’s scary. And Otzma won’t send me there if it’s not safe. But people live there. Where or not it’s safe. They aren’t tourists like I am. They probably couldn’t move away if they wanted too. I can. I can go home to the safety of the United States–where if a terrorist group from either Mexico or Canada fired a grad missile at the United States…There would be no more Mexico or Canada.
This weekend my host family took me to the Golan Heights. We stopped at one of the thousands of memorials…this one from the 1967 war. My host mother, Rotem, pointed at the Kibbutz that she grew up on and told me about it. She was 6 years old at the time. She has been separated from her parents and put with her age group to stay in a shelter during the bombings. She wanted her mommy. She couldn’t help but to tear up while telling me the story.
How terrible is it to say that I’m lucky because I wasn’t exposed to bombings and wars during my childhood. I don’t think it makes me lucky. I’m not sure what it makes me.
Feeling safe is relative. I remember being in Mr. Eng’s class during 9/11. Did I feel safe? Yes. Did I feel like I shouldn’t feel safe? Yes. And now today. 11 years later. Living in Israel. A country where it’s “common” for them to be bombed. Do I feel safe? Yes. Do I feel like I shouldn’t feel safe? No.