Bruce Brown

May there one day be peace

Operation Protective Edge, on Aug. 3, 2014. (photo from flickr.com/photos/idfonline)

Part 3 of a three-part series, in which the author shares his diaries from the homefront, providing a glimpse of daily life under missile threat during Operation Protective Edge in 2014. For Part 1, click here; for Part 2, click here.

July 23

Day 16. Iron Dome success rate at 90%. Missiles still get through. Today, an errant rocket hit a house. No casualties. This prompted yet again another lecture from Dad to his kids. Don’t be over-confident and continue taking the Code Red alerts seriously.

Six hundred and sixteen dead in Gaza. Mostly civilians. Locked in a war zone. A human catastrophe. Simply put, as American Civil War general William Sherman put it, “War is hell.”

Hamas fighters seen emerging from their hideout in an ambulance. Balancing war aims with the desire to avoid collateral damage, the Israel Defence Forces decided against bombing the ambulance.

More missile action in Rehovot. Spoke with our son while huddled in our protective room. He was out with friends at a nearby café. They talked with us from under a table.

July 28

Huge uncertainty. Again that word. Shuffling from ceasefire to ceasefire. Meantime, my Code Red app doesn’t stop beeping.

What is sure? The death and devastation in Gaza is tragic. The continued threat to Israel from Hamas’s missiles and terror tunnels is unacceptable. Two ends of a very sharp sword that Hamas must sheathe to bring quiet.

Israel cannot rest until the Hamas threat is eradicated. Or at least severely beaten. In the past 12 months, more than 200 missiles have been fired at our southern communities. Another 200 rockets were fired at the same communities in the 10 days leading to our military offensive. Since the start of Operation Protective Edge, a staggering 2,500 rockets fired at Israel. Yikes!

Exceptionally telling was a picture in our morning paper. Israeli soldiers carrying a wounded bomb-sniffing dog in a stretcher to a waiting helicopter. Contrast to Hamas terrorists firing from behind women and children.

Returning from Tel Aviv with my wife and daughter, a Code Red sounded. A known routine. Pull over. Exit car. Crouch down on roadside. Cover heads with hands (!). My wife huddled over our daughter and I huddled over my wife. Double protection for my daughter. Unbeknownst to my daughter, while the Iron Dome chased and intercepted its target overhead, I managed a quick and loving grope of my wife. Nothing like some comic relief. Another Love Is moment.

July 31

Driving home from work as a missile barrage hit the south. Three people lightly injured by falling missile fragments. Text messages from my loving family:

Wife: “Where’s Dad?”

Son: “Think he’s at work. Tough luck for him – ha ha!”

My son inherited my dark and cynical sense of humour.

A country at war: 65,000 reservists now called up; 18,000 pending call-ups. Flags strung up along our main roads. War jingles on the radio. Billboards supporting our troops. Famous Israeli singers touring the front (which is one city over!). Patriotic teenagers waving flags and dancing at major intersections.

Nonstop beeping of the Code Red app. Heard everywhere. Movie theatres. Restaurants. Grocery stores.

Soldiers’ funerals attended by hundreds.

Solidarity with impacted businesses in the south, holding market days in major cities. Large public service campaign to buy “blue and white.”

Aug. 2

Sixty-three of our bravest boys killed. Three civilians killed. One soldier, Hadar Goldin, captured. Dead or alive?

U.S. President Barack Obama asked Hamas – one of the most barbaric terrorist movements in the world, who flagrantly have violated six humanitarian ceasefires, who hide behind innocent women and children, who plant arsenals and war rooms in hospitals, schools and mosques – to please set the soldier free. Pretty please. With sugar on top. Don’t think the president gets it.

Aug. 5

Three times I told my son to get up for work. Each time, he mumbled OK. Each time, he fell back asleep. Then, running to our safe room at 7:15 a.m. with Code Red apps blaring, he finally got out of bed.

Leaving home this morning, I told my daughter that today should be relatively quiet. Entering another ceasefire. “Ya, like Hamas will respect that,” my 12-year-old quipped.

A tough day yesterday. More than 85 rockets rained on Israel. Terror attacks in Jerusalem. Terror alerts in Tel Aviv. Entering a 72-hour truce, which will hopefully usher in … something.

Preparing for the inevitable “day after.” Fists clenched. Hearts palpitating. Brow sweating.

Aug. 6

Halfway into the truce. So far, quiet met with quiet. Yesterday, I woke to the sounds of missiles and my Code Rep buzzing. Today, I woke to the sounds of silence – well, actually, to the sounds of my kids arguing and my dog barking. Beautiful noise.

There’s an atmosphere of victory. Our soldiers – our children – are heroes. Hamas was dealt a severe and long-term blow. Is more isolated in the Arab world. Some strategic shifts in alliances per the dictum “My enemy’s enemy is my friend.”

Will not forget those who fell in our defence, as well as the few civilian casualties. Saddened by the death and destruction in Gaza. Pray that one day soon Gazans will rise above Hamas, save themselves.

Hope our enemies are deterred from other misadventures. Pray that peace will be upon us. Am Yisrael chai.

Aug. 11

A bit premature with my last entry. Suffering from wishful thinking. Looks like victory has not yet arrived. While Hamas took a severe beating and is largely isolated, they continue their disregard for a real truce.

Both sides met in Egypt to negotiate a settlement while the ceasefire took effect, but huge gaps. Not surprisingly, talks broke down. Hamas resumed their missile barrage. Israel reactivated our air defences and continues to pound Gaza.

International condemnation of Israel totally disproportionate. Fierce anti-Israel and antisemitic rallies throughout the world, especially in Europe. Jews surrounded in synagogues (France). Jew-free areas (United Kingdom). A rabbi killed on his way to synagogue (United States). Jewish kids bullied in schools (Australia).

Still feel safer in Israel than in Europe. Even now. Think the mass immigration of Arabs to European lands and poor absorption processes taking effect.

Going to Italy next week for a family vacation. Need to minimize our “Israeliness.” English will be our language of choice. A bit scary.

Amid a second three-day truce, am doubtful the truce will last.

Aug. 13

The truce ends at midnight. Lots of anxiety. What comes next?

Didn’t Netanyahu once say he would never negotiate with terrorists? The world looks different at the top, when the decision is yours.

Am working late tonight. If the truce ends early, I hope it lasts at least till I get home.

Aug. 17

Waiting on the outcome of an extended ceasefire. Expires midnight Monday.

The solid backing and relative discipline Netanyahu enjoyed from the government is starting to crack. Lots of conflicting postwar opinions, positions and plans. Two Jews, three opinions.

Heading to Italy for our long-awaited family respite.

Aug. 26

Back from Italy. Fiftieth day of Operation Protective Edge.

While away, we tried, as best we could, to unwind from the tensions of our little shtetl. You can never really escape the reality of your country being hit by missiles. Especially with the Code Red app going off when eating pizza in a town square, when visiting the Coliseum, when at the Vatican, when touring the medieval hamlets of Tuscany. Could have just turned off the app but, for a sense of identity, some twisted need to remain connected, didn’t.

After 50 days, Gaza is burning. Death and devastation are immense. But Hamas – like that Duracell rabbit – just keeps going.

In a Sisyphus-like manner, another ceasefire is in the making.

Israel is awash in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. Escapism of any kind, however temporary.

Aug. 29

Waited a few days before writing this entry. Wanted to be sure this ceasefire held. It has. But gaps remain wide. Hamas remains a wild card.

Discussions in Israel are intense. Significant introspection. If Netanyahu thought the Gaza battlefield was tough, here comes the national post-mortem. This soul-searching (self-flagellation?) is indicative of the Israeli psyche, our democracy. This constant search inwards may be the secret to our success as a people, as a country.

A contrast to the other side. Celebrating their “victory.” Dancing in the streets. Shooting in the air. Proclamations of battles won that never happened. A lack of critical introspection that will, unfortunately, keep our enemies from making any real progress in developing a strong, forward-looking society.

Former National Security Council head Ya’acov Amidror: “One of the main differences between Israeli and Palestinian societies is that, if Israel has a glass of water three-quarters full, it will complain about and search for the missing quarter. If the Palestinian glass is only one-quarter full, it will celebrate the one quarter and even imagine a second quarter.”

What was? What will be? I defer to our pundits and leaders. To hopefully bring, if not peace, at least quiet to this wonderful, ever-challenged, always robust, constantly developing and very happy country.

May peace be upon us. As-salumu alayna. Shalom.

Bruce Brown, a Canadian-Israeli, made aliyah 25 years ago. He works in high-tech and is happily married, with two kids. He is the winner of a 2019 American Jewish Press Association Simon Rockower Award for excellence in Jewish writing.

The missiles continue

Weapons seized from terrorists who infiltrated Israel through an underground tunnel to carry out a massacre in an Israeli community. This photo was taken on July 19, 2014. (photo from flickr.com/photos/idfonline)

Part 2 of a three-part series, in which the author shares his diaries from the homefront, providing a glimpse of daily life under missile threat during Operation Protective Edge in 2014. For Part 1, click here; for Part 3, click here.

July 13, 2014

Day six. Woke up at 4 a.m. Browsed the headlines on my smartphone. Some talk about talk about considering talk about a truce. Fell back asleep. Rudely awoken at 6:11 – I angrily checked the time – by a siren. Incoming. So much for all the talk. My wife and I groggily made our way to our daughter’s room, our protective room.

Son Dor is enjoying Eilat. Returning by bus this evening. Maybe it makes more sense to take the afternoon bus. Think the skies are quieter in the daytime.

Sides still too far apart for a truce.

When Prime Minister Netanyahu talks about a long-term truce, what does he mean? With my son going into the army in two years, I don’t want another ceasefire like we had in 2008 and 2012, which allowed Hamas to rearm and wage new wars so soon after. Not acceptable. Our cabinet reconvenes today to further consider a ground offensive. What a job our prime minister has!

So much damage in Gaza. How can Hamas not cry uncle? Despite its macho threats, its salvos of rockets – more than 100 fired over the weekend – the impact to Israel is minimal. Largely due to a poor-quality arsenal. The constant pressures of our offensive. Our amazing Iron Dome. And the well-prepared and trained homefront (that’s us!).

July 15

Ceasefire to take effect at 9 a.m. Final terms to be agreed. Somewhat ass-backward. Shouldn’t terms be agreed first? What do I know? Hope it brings quiet. Peace.

Gazans needs new leadership. The classic choice of guns or butter, they need to decide if they want to continue being human shields in a war they cannot win.

My son returned from Eilat. Without incident. With a great tan and funny stories. But frustrated. Tossing the morning newspaper aside, he growled, “We’re crushing them. We need to continue until they are clearly defeated! This truce is bullshit. We’ll only face more missiles next year. You don’t stop when on the verge of victory. It allows your enemy to retrench and rebuild.” The rashness of youth has a point.

I left for work with a delicate sense of calm. Maybe I can worry less today. Alas, an hour into the ceasefire, missiles were again fired at Israel. Errant missiles? Or continued, self-defeating defiance by Hamas? Previous operations also had a number of false truces. Then there was quiet. To paraphrase from Sting, I only hope the Gazans love their children, too.

But another beat prevails. More and more missiles fired by Hamas since the ceasefire went into effect. The kids, alone at home, went scurrying to our safe room for a third time in the last hour.

From her Tel Aviv office, my wife sounds somewhat flustered. A mother’s distress. Loud booms heard overhead from the Fab in Kiryat Gat. My daughter called from the protective room. Safe. Frustrated. Not understanding what Hamas doesn’t understand about a ceasefire.

In the meantime, Israel is holding its fire. Hoping for the best. Preparing for the worst.

Anyway, I need to complete a report for work.

July 17

The war continues. The truce that wasn’t never took hold, despite Israel’s willingness. We’ve agreed to a five-hour unilateral, humanitarian ceasefire, to give Gazans a respite. Effective 10 a.m. today. We continue building our military reserve – 50,000 soldiers patiently await their orders.

We thwarted an infiltration. Thirteen terrorists heading towards a border community through an underground tunnel were stopped.

We continue rendering the Hamas war machine ineffective, while Hamas continues to subject Gaza to suffer Israel’s might. Uncertain where this leads.

Received a pretty frantic call from my wife and son. On their way to Tel Aviv, they witnessed an Iron Dome sound and light show – we shot down four missiles. They could almost feel the heat of the sky-high blasts. Scattering out of the car, they held each other as they ran for cover in a nearby shelter. Talking to me, their voices a mixture of exhilaration, excitement, fight. Then they continued their drive to work.

The true hero of this war is the Iron Dome. Probably one of the greatest military defence breakthroughs of the last hundred years. Can’t imagine the situation without it.

July 18

Fearful. Hopeful. Last night, at 10:38 p.m. (precisely), Israel embarked on a long-anticipated ground operation. For peace. I am fearful for our sons, brothers, fathers, some sisters, too. Trusting our nation will soon hammer Hamas’s swords back into plowshares (Isaiah 2:4).

We fell asleep around midnight, huddled in our den watching nonstop news. Reporting was spotty. Events happening very quickly. Full disclosure not a privilege. Lots of uncertainty – that word again – adding to fears and hopes.

Also concerned about our neighbours in Gaza, caught in the crosshairs of Hamas insanity. I like to think the majority of Gazans are innocent pawns, fiercely used by Hamas to terrorize Israel with crude and indiscriminate missile attacks. Israel makes a clear distinction: this war is with Hamas, not Gaza.

Hamas waited not a second after the humanitarian ceasefire ended to resume its barrage of missiles. They also fired a few during the ceasefire.

July 20

Updated my smartphone. Another brilliant Israeli application. Designed under extreme pressures. Called Code Red. Brilliant. Beeps with every missile attack, even advising the location. Seems everyone downloaded this app – the office can be quite noisy at times.

Went to Tel Aviv with the kids for lunch yesterday. Needed a break from our pressure-cooker existence. We hung out along Rothschild Boulevard. Lots of cool cafés and shops. With 50,000 reservists down south fighting for our security, quite a contrast.

There was a missile attack as I was leaving Rehovot this morning. I was outside the mall – running a quick errand – so sought cover in a doorway with five others. My daughter home alone. Called her. Asked if she wanted to come with me to work. “No, Dad, I’m fine. Be careful.” How quickly they mature.

My son is still going out evenings with his friends. I’d prefer he stay home, but teenagers will be teenagers, even in wartime.

July 21

Yesterday was a tragic day for Israel. Thirteen of our best, killed defending our country. Now 18 soldiers killed since the start of hostilities. A collective weeping. Each soldier someone’s child, sibling or parent. Taken from routine to defend life and country from this insanity from Gaza.

Again, Israel found Hamas terrorists attempting to infiltrate the country from their tunnels of hell. Intending to carry out a terrorist rampage in one of our border communities. Targets not soldiers, but innocent, unsuspecting families. Grandparents. Children.

Israel goes to great lengths to protect civilians in Gaza. When Israel targets terrorists hiding and firing from a civilian building, it first warns the local population by dropping leaflets, blaring the message on loud speakers, even making phone calls and sending text messages. Or, does a “knock on the door” – shoots small, precise, non-explosive ordinance at a roof to urge inhabitants to vacate before attacking. Israel aborts an attack if noncombatants are in harm’s way.

Hamas has different values. Not rational. Not humane. They urge and sometimes force Gazans into targeted areas. Hamas counters Israel’s pre-attack announcements by threatening retaliation, even execution, to those who heed the warnings. Hamas strategically locates command-and-control operations within hospitals, schools, mosques. This is their defensive shield. As our prime minister said, “They don’t give a whit about the Palestinian people.”

Our war is not against the people of Gaza, but against the terror organization ruling and subjugating Gaza – Hamas.

A mother was quoted today: “Knowing my son is entering this strip of land governed by such demons is frightening enough. Aware that he is doing so with a weapon in one hand and a law book in the other – representing the Israeli approach to asymmetrical warfare – is beyond my capacity as a mother to bear. Israeli parents, famous for over-protectiveness at the playground, must make their peace with such parental cognitive dissonance. It is a feat I wish on my enemies. Only then will there be hope of genuine coexistence.”

Operation Black Belt diaries

A missile from Israel’s Iron Dome is fired to intercept a missile coming from the Gaza Strip, in November 2012. (photo by Nehemiya Gershuni-Aylho/IDF)

Interesting. Sad. Frustrating. Predictable. Some five years after Operation Protective Edge, there are the same tensions and military conflagrations between Gaza and Israel. As my three-part homefront diaries from 2014 is being printed as a retrospective in the Jewish Independent (see other article on this page), Israel continues to defend itself from indiscriminate missile fire from Gaza. With this diary, I hope to capture the same sense of homefront resilience. From the mundane to the philosophical, this is how I experienced it.

Tuesday, Nov. 12, 2019: Again. A little bit tedious. This business of war. Woke up just after 6 a.m. to a siren. Incoming. Oh well. Time to get up anyway. Just a few hours earlier, Baha Abu al-Ata (try say that while standing on your head) was assassinated in a targeted killing by the Israel Defence Forces. He was a top Palestinian Islamic Jihad (PIJ) commander in Gaza.

Not much later, a text message from the school district. School canceled. My daughter happy. Twenty minutes later, several of her friends show up for breakfast. Their conversation: missiles, sirens, stress levels, locations hit. Where is the giggling? The talk of boys? Of parties? OK, there was also that. Teenagers in the homefront.

Missiles hitting as far north as Tel Aviv. Several months ago, this was a red line. An exception. Now, the norm.

My wife called her mom, who lives just outside Tel Aviv. We’re bringing her here until the missiles stop.

Wednesday, Nov. 13: Two hundred missiles slammed into Israel. Remarkably, very little damage. Did the PIJ ever hear of GPS? Shhh. Don’t tell them.

The enemy is the Palestinian Islamic Jihad. Not Hamas. Not sure the difference. Or how important it is. Both radical Islamic parties. Both fire missiles at Israel. Both want to destroy Israel. Both want to kill Israelis.

Thursday, Nov. 14: A very quiet night. And then, around 6 a.m., the missiles started again. Raining on the south. By late afternoon, another 100 missiles fired on us. Yikes.

Told to brace for several days of fighting. Most of the missiles fired today fell around the Gaza periphery. PIJ not ready for a ceasefire. Acting as if they own this game. Maybe they do. Where is our might? Our deterrence? Our “make my day” attitude? Must put an end to this constant threat. To the PIJ. To Hamas. To their ability to fire indiscriminately and nonstop at Israel. It’s not fair. “Fair.” Like that’s a concept in war.

My big question, somewhat rhetorically, but also looking for answers: how did Gaza develop so many darn missiles? Shouldn’t we have stopped this stockpiling before it got out of hand? Same mistake in Lebanon, where Hezbollah has 150,000 missiles aimed at my home. Double yikes!

Regarding the current threat – 42 missiles fired at us in last 15 minutes. Triple yikes!

And, as I was sleeping in our apartment up north, where I stay occasionally during the week because of work, a missile was shot down over Rehovot. My daughter was woken at 11:30 p.m., alone at home. She excitedly recounted the difficulty she had shutting the fortified window in our protective room. The recently replaced screen is the culprit. By the time she finally got it shut, boom! The missile was shot from the sky by our trusty Iron Dome interceptor.

I need to fix that screen for next time.

Friday, Nov. 15: The fighting has been called Operation Black Belt. A ceasefire agreement reached. Not surprisingly, the ink not yet dry, more missiles fired into Israel.

Just wondering. When ceasefires agreements signed, does the PIJ – not Hamas, I remind you – and Israel sit around a table, sign a document, exchange pens, take a few selfies? OK, silly thought. But, if they did, might be a way to reduce animosity. They could even share a drink at an “after event.” Ha.

How does Operation Black Belt impact Israel’s political woes? Still a country without a functioning government.

And Gaza has a functioning government? A rhetorical question I couldn’t refuse to ask.

More than 400 missiles fired into Israel since Tuesday. Fifty-eight Israeli civilians injured, but none seriously (I think, I hope). Not sure our number of retaliatory attacks but reportedly significant.

Our ability to pinpoint attacks is just amazing. Baha Abu al-Ata (and his wife) were taken out while sleeping in his apartment. No other deaths or damage.

Saturday, Nov. 16: My morning news feed: “Intermittent Rockets Continue to be Launched by Palestinian Islamic Jihad.” Now, isn’t that lovely. Actually, it’s difficult to distinguish the morning thunderstorm – finally raining – from the sounds of missiles and anti-missiles clashing overhead. A boom is boom is a boom.

This is a ceasefire? Middle East-style, anyway. The proverbial beat goes on.

Protective Edge retrospective

Drivers take refuge from rockets in Tel Aviv, July 9, 2014. (photo from flickr.com/photos/idfonline)

Part 1 of a three-part series, in which the author shares his diaries from the homefront, providing a glimpse of daily life under missile threat during Operation Protective Edge in 2014. For Part 2, click here; for Part 3, click here.

July 8

Operation Cast Lead, 2008. Operation Pillar of Defence, 2012. Now, Operation Protective Edge, 2014.

Naïvely, I disassociate the unraveling events from the grisly murders of teenagers Gilad Sha’er, Eyal Yifrach, Naftali Fraenkel. Then the murder of teen Muhammad Abu Khdeir. Gripping the country in horror, fear and dismay. I hope a sense of normalcy will prevail.

It doesn’t. Last evening was disrupted by 15 rockets fired over Rehovot, my little shtetl. Our Iron Dome intercepted several of them. The rest missed their targets, falling into open land. Two hundred missiles fired at Israel over the past week.

The attack took us by surprise. Pizza ordered, my son just finished his shower, my daughter hanging in her room, which doubles as our reinforced shelter. The siren sounded. Together with our dog, we ran to join my daughter in her room. A bit invasive to a teen. But she forgave us.

I took a few extra seconds. I had 30, after all. Grabbed a large bottle of water, some chocolate, a few asthma inhalers. “Dad! Get your ass in here!” my son shouted as I was scouring the kitchen for more goodies.

Then. All clear. We left my daughter’s room. I mean, the protective room. The doorbell rang. Pizzas here.

Amazed the delivery boy was still doing his rounds. I admonished him for not seeking shelter. He says he waited out the attack in our stairwell (also a reinforced area). Quite impressed with his delivery skills, gave him a large tip. The pizza arrived in less than 30 minutes, as advertised. Great job.

Went to bed a few hours later. My daughter had a difficult night. Couldn’t fall asleep and came into our room a couple times. Did our best to comfort her. But what can we say? We were attacked with missiles.

We promised our daughter she wouldn’t have to stay home alone, that she could join me at work. Not sure this was a wise promise. My office is located more south. My big worry – the drive to work. Driving there, I imagine myself in an episode of Wagon Train.

Looks like we are moving into a major ground offensive. A pending call of up to 40,000 reservists. Imagine the impact this will have on our economy, on our society. Fortunately, my son’s army duty is two years away. Somewhat reassuring, but not much, as these operations tend to repeat themselves every couple of years.

July 9

Visited our safe room twice last night. Hamas fired missiles as far north as Tel Aviv. Even targeted our capital. Didn’t expect such a quick escalation. We responded. Pounded 150 targets inside Gaza. I pity the poor Gazans suffering the slings and arrows of their leaders.

Heard another siren while walking my dog this morning. Poncho and I ran to the nearest shelter, the stairwell of a neighbouring building. Waited the mandatory 10 minutes with a mother and her child. Adding to an already complicated situation the child had cynophobia – started panicking at the site of my dog. Poncho and I chivalrously moved one floor up.

Poncho also feels the stress. Waiting in the stairwell, amid the booms and sirens, he started crying, pawing me.

I think about my son and his friends, who have a trip to Eilat planned for tomorrow. They are debating whether to go. Tough call. My wife and I also are struggling with this. That dang security factor! But there is also the heroic, stoic pizza delivery guy message. Life in Israel.

July 10

Operation Cast Lead cost $50 million a day; total cost, one billion bucks. Pillar of Defence cost $2 billion. Where is this money coming from?

We’ve destroyed more targets in the last 36 hours than in all of Operation Pillar of Defence.

More than 90 missiles were fired at Israel yesterday. Thirty were struck down by the Iron Dome. Rehovot was pretty quiet, with only one evening siren. I was home alone while my wife and kids were at the mall, which they said was totally empty. So, why were they there? Great question. One I ask every time they’re at the mall. Missiles or not.

Yesterday, we received an automated call from our mayor. Rehovot, along with other southern municipalities, has declared a state of emergency. Not sure what this means. Think we need to stay within 90 seconds of a protected space. Try factoring that into your busy day!

Morning papers filled with instructions on how to stay safe. Definitely a well-prepared country with this sort of thing. Facts speak for themselves. No casualties, despite more than 300 missiles fired at us since hostilities broke out.

My gym routine at work was disrupted by a double siren (one after the other). While waiting in the protected area, I positioned myself for a dash to the bench press once the all clear was sounded. Priorities!

The situation was becoming routine. How quickly we adapt. Calling home, I asked the standard questions. What’s up? What are you doing? What’s for lunch? Any missiles? Reading your book? A totally ordinary conversation.

My son and his friends went to Eilat, which is outside the battle zone. So, in the meantime, just the regular parental worries for a vacationing teen.

On a patriotic note, I hung a flag on our balcony today. Nothing like a good war to bring out the blue and white in me.

That night, the 1970s comic strip Love Is came to mind. Discovered a new one – love is … being alone with your wife in a bomb shelter.

July 11

A siren went off this morning while I was driving to the supermarket. Always dreaded being in a car during a siren. Seems the least safe place. There I was at an intersection, a little jittery, looking for a place to pull over and exit the car – then run for fortified cover … or lie down with my hands over my head. Spotted a place just down the road. Reminded myself I had 90 seconds to get to relative safety.

The red light took forever to change. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Green! A car zoomed out from behind. Cut me off. Took my coveted spot. Dang! Most drivers stopped on the spot, like when the sirens sound on Remembrance Day, so I did the same. Then bolted from my car. Crouched down. Put my hands over my head and hoped for the best.

Crouching next to me was the guy who cut me off. He also didn’t get to “the spot” in time. He apologized. We exchanged pleasantries about the unpleasant situation. And then, moved on.

What’s with the covering our heads with our hands stuff? Will that protect us from burning debris falling from the sky? I told my daughter I’m going to start driving around with her bike helmet. Though not a bad idea, it was quickly nixed. If I did that, she warned, she’d never drive with me again. Too embarrassed I guess. Teens. Even during war. Go figure.

Yesterday afternoon, the Iron Dome intercepted several missiles over Rehovot. Parts of the Weizmann Institute of Science were covered with bomb fragments. Especially by the pool. The lifeguard had ensured the kids were out of the water and ushered to safety. A miracle no one was hurt. One panicked child ran back to reclaim his sandals. The lifeguard ran after him. Unable to drag him back in time, he covered the child with his body. Bomb fragments littered the ground around them. Another Israeli hero. Like the pizza delivery guy.

A missile was fired towards the Upper Galilee from Lebanon this morning. We fired back. Hope our Lebanese friends are deterred. Certainly prefer not to open another front.

The Israel Defence Forces also has struck 1,100 Hamas targets in Gaza: 210 targets over the last day, including 81 underground rocket launchers, 21 command and control centres, 15 attack tunnels, 10 training centres, seven administrative buildings. And a partridge in a pear tree.

July 12

Woke up this morning to find my daughter watching the news. Instead of her usual Saturday morning teen programs, she was actually watching the news. One of the first tragedies of war is innocence. On the positive side, we finally got our daughter interested in the news.

Another casualty of war? Certainty. We are no longer certain about so many things. Things that affect today, things that affect tomorrow, things that affect next year. Small things, large things. Lots of things. Not certain.

Two missile attacks on Rehovot today. Surreal. Scary.

Trying to keep a normal routine. Went to a matinée today. Still planning our summer vacation. Busy with work. Busy at home. Baking chocolate chip cookies. Watching Friends reruns. Doing everything with this horrendous situation in the background. Or the foreground.

A bit despondent today. Want this to end. But what’s the end? What about the economic fallout of a $2 billion bill? What about the political and diplomatic fallout? Waiting for some good news.

Exchange of missiles

It is May 4, 2019. I am at my desk. It’s early Saturday. I’m catching up on some work. Morning sound in the background. Israeli-style. Siren in the distance. Kind of a weird sound. The way chirping birds and wispy winds comprise morning sound elsewhere.

I didn’t really connect with the siren’s eeriness. Was too deep into Excel and emails. Then my daughter darted from her room. Smartphone in hand. (Do they sleep with these things?) “Don’t you hear it? There’s a siren. But my newsfeed says it’s elsewhere.”

“OK, let’s go to the protected room,” I said. Somewhat controlled. Somewhat alarmed.

We woke everyone up. My wife. My son and his girlfriend – banging on his bedroom door, “Move it!”

Last siren heard in Rehovot was during Protective Shield in 2014. My son just 16. And sleeping alone. So much has changed. And so much has stayed the same. This Gaza quagmire, to whit.

We congregated in our den-cum-protective room. Shut the re-enforced glass window – a heavy screech. Closed the too-heavy steel door – a loud bang. Turned on the TV – 90 missiles slamming into Israel’s south. Our hearts and mouths dropping. The bang of our Iron Dome hitting the missiles overhead. All clear. We can come out. Morning sound.

Singing about Bobby McGee, Janis Joplin crooned, “Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.” And the Gazans have nothin’ to lose. They live in worse than miserable circumstances. Another war. Another round of missile exchanges. It really has no impact on their miserable living standards.

In Israel. We have too much to lose. The upcoming Eurovision – in two weeks – comes to mind. If we go to war now, or launch a massive retaliatory strike leading to counter-strikes, it risks the wonderful success of Israel hosting this international event. Ten thousand visitors. Ten million dollars in revenue. Excellent public relations. Fun. Lightness. Celebration. In Israel, it’s never a good time for war. Always something to lose.

But I think Janis was singing more about drugs, sex and rock ’n’ roll. Here in wonderful Israel the reality – like our morning sound – is a bit harsher.

Sunday, May 5

Morning

A restless night. Even for those lucky enough to live far from the Gaza periphery. Distance is so relative here in tiny Israel.

Woke up several times to check my smartphone – news updates. (Even we adults sleep with those things.) More than 300 missiles fired. One Israeli casualty after a missile struck his house.

Schools canceled within a 40-kilometre radius of Gaza. We live 45 kilometres away; missed the limit by five kilometres. Before Roni went to school, I grilled her on the basics of dodging missiles. She passed. Although there was some ambiguity about when to leave the protective room. “What if there’s no boom, Dad?” (i.e. The missile is shot out of the sky by the Iron Dome.) “Improvise, kid,” was my best answer.

Evening

Another 200 or so missiles fired at Israel today. They aimed for my place again. And missed. Bastards! Dor called me at work from our protected room. Roni texted me from school. Everyone OK. It’s hard being far away. Again, distance is relative.

A factory hit in Ashkelon. Two killed. WTF! And a moving car hit by an anti-tank missile. Driver killed. Again, WTF!

As I write this, lots of booms in the background. Wife and kids looking out the window. Watching the missiles. And the anti-missiles. A sound-and-light show. Happening in the neighbouring cities. Far away.

Some shock here. I must admit.

Monday, May 6

Ceasefire. Gaza has Ramadan. Israel has the Eurovision. A temporary respite for both sides.

We certainly wreaked havoc in Gaza. Two hundred and sixty high-value targets destroyed. But looking for something a bit more definite. Like victory in six days. Like a spectacular comeback. Like Entebbe. Like knocking through walls. Like encircling the Mukata. Of late, just too many broken ceasefires.

To paraphrase Golda Meir – until the Palestinian leadership loves their children more than they hate ours, only a decisive military victory will create peace and quiet. Or at least quiet.

Celebrating 71 on Thursday. Will raise our flag high and eat lots of hummus and kabab.

Regards from Israel, Bruce.

Bruce Brown, from Winnipeg, lives and works in Israel. His first Israeli home-front diary of life in times of national stress and war, “The draft: a dad reflects,” which was published in the Jewish Independent last year, placed first in the personal essay category of the 2019 American Jewish Press Association Simon Rockower Awards for excellence in Jewish journalism.

The draft: a dad reflects

February 2015

Collected the mail this morning. A few flyers and bills. And my son’s draft notice. A quick double take. A flashback to my son playing with plastic dinosaurs. Then I texted my wife, “It’s here.”

A few hours later, my son came home. “How was school? There’s a letter for you on the table.” Opening it, and with a surprising degree of nonchalance, he said, “My call-up.” As if going into the army was an ordinary occurrence. “Ah, yeah. It’s here.”

A few days later, I asked D if I could post a picture of his call-up on Facebook. “Dad, you can’t post this stuff. It’s, like, confidential.” Duh. Of course.

May 2015

Picked my son up from Jerusalem. He was there for a series of pre-army tests. He couldn’t stop talking about the cute chayelet (army girls). Teenagers!

October 2015-January 2016

D interviewed for various roles in different divisions. None of interest. He wants something air force-specific. My wife and I helped him with a letter to the IAF manpower division. Emphasized

his aircraft knowledge. His love of plane simulators. (How many times did we catch him “flying” instead of doing his homework?) His flying lesson (a 17th birthday gift).

February-March 2016

Silence.

April 2016

The air force came knocking. Another interview. Another psychometric test. D felt he aced this one (pun intended).

May 2016

Text message from the Israeli Air Force. Accepted. Not the specific role he wanted but within his window of satisfaction. Excitement. Trepidation. The air force is the darling of the military. Best conditions. High-tech environment. Much to my son’s amusement, I don’t really understand what he’ll be doing.

July 2016

D called me at the office. Draft date pulled in. “Dad, we need to change our holiday plans – three weeks and I’m in.” New York will have to wait. Improvising, we quickly made other travel arrangements. A week later, we were in northern Italy. My son a reluctant traveler. He’d rather be home with his friends sharing the excitement of the draft.

August 2016

Took D for a buzz cut. His beautiful golden locks. Gone. I also had a buzz cut. My less beautiful grey locks. Gone. Solidarity.

We threw a draft bash. Lots of friends and family. I toasted: “We are celebrating your draft … into the world’s best air force…. I can’t tell you how proud we are…. You obtained a role – and I still don’t get it – that is meaningful and challenging, with great responsibility and opportunity. Embrace it. Be safe and strong. Keep us safe and strong. D, sweet child of mine. May God make you like Ephraim and Menashe … and establish peace for you.”

Draft day, 2016

We traveled in two cars. My wife. Our daughter. My mother-in-law. D’s friends. His girlfriend. And, of course, the cadet. We arrived at the induction centre at 0800 hours. Despite living in Israel for more than 22 years, I’m still amazed by the informality. Sometimes disguised as chaos. My Canadian self still says lines. Order. Please. Excuse me. The security appeared to be in disarray. Then I remembered I’m on an army base. Umm … can’t get more secure than that.

Hundreds of young recruits. Balagan. Israeli flags waving overhead. Old ladies passing out amulets with the prayer for the Israeli army. Sephardi grandmothers spraying water into the crowd to wash away the evil eye.

Much too quickly my son’s name was called. Won’t forget the apprehensive “I guess it’s my turn” look on his face. Nor the tears flowing from my wife’s almond-shaped eyes. Nor the tears flowing from my daughter’s green eyes. Nor my mother-in-law’s “shouldn’t there be peace by now?” hunched and saddened look. I took D aside. Covered his head with my hand. Recited the blessing for a son. Then, like at a beach party, his friends hoisted him on their shoulders. Carried him forward. Innocence. Bravado. Another generation coming of age in Israel.

He walked the final distance alone. Oversized backpack. Buzz cut. Excitement. Trepidation. Then disappeared into the military transport and his next three years. Actually, two years and eight months, but who’s counting.

Bruce Brown has been living in Israel for a long time and is the proud father of two Sabras, one currently a sergeant in the Israeli Air Force.

Longing for past headlines

How I miss those mundane headlines of my youth back in the ’Peg. Nothing more serious than potholes and (the more serious) urban decay of the city centre.

I even miss those mundane headlines of the local papers here in Israel from mere weeks ago. Nothing more serious than the stuck peace process, disputes with Obama, the Iran nuke deal, stray mortar shells from Syria and the like.

I used to love the quiet of those mornings. Sipping my Turkish coffee with the paper spread out in front of me. Catching up on those mundane Middle East headlines before waking the kids up for school, walking the dog and getting ready for work. A typical start to most days probably anywhere in the world.

Well, my world is not typical anymore.

As of late, the headlines blare the new insanity of terrorism in our midst. Random, lone wolf attacks – how random, how lone wolf? – shaking up our beloved routine. No longer so pleasurable reading the morning papers when the headlines shout about multiple terror attacks around the country. Alright, we might expect it in Jerusalem (don’t tell anyone I said that). But for stabbings and car attacks to take place in the cities of Ra’anana or Holon? Even in Tel Aviv. What the heck is going on?!

What is a car attack? It’s when a crazed terrorist rams his car into a crowd of waiting commuters at a local bus stop and then jumps out and starts stabbing the wounded and shocked. Have I disrupted your morning coffee?

This craziness has done more than ruin my beloved morning time. Not sure if it’s just me – I am kind of embarrassed to ask my friends – but I find myself looking over my shoulder much more frequently. Even when exiting the elevator of my condo, I kind of prepare myself for the worst; if I am with my dog, I will let him go out first, just in case (don’t tell my daughter that).

Of course, I worry more about my kids now. They, too, are also frightened. Especially my 14-year-old daughter. Even my son – with all the bravado of a pre-army teen – is, well, let’s just say, concerned.

I picked my daughter up from an after-school event the other day. Much of the activity took place outside. I had terrible visions. Fortunately, the area was more heavily guarded than usual. Not enough for a paranoid parent, but there were a number of police stationed at strategic points. Probably better not to think about it.

Do I want my son walking home from his friend’s this weekend at 3 a.m.? Or meeting his pals at the local ice cream parlor or mall after school? For sure not! Will he? Probably. Life goes on, he says. He just wants to have fun, as do most teens everywhere.

And take my wife. She called me from a business meeting in Tel Aviv today. The city was on high alert. Those dang terrorists again. Major throughways were blocked. Helicopters hovering overhead. The army moving about in full force. The White City in lockdown mode. Stores and malls shut their doors. People stayed inside. Luckily, my wife’s meeting took place at an excellent restaurant; at least she could enjoy a good lunch. Or could she?

Hmm. Looking forward to a quiet morning tomorrow with my Turkish coffee and newspaper; catching up on the insanity taking the country by force, and hoping it doesn’t become mundane.

Bruce Brown, from Winnipeg, lives in Israel with his Sabra wife and children. He actually doesn’t like Turkish coffee – his wife drinks it every morning with her paper – but took the poetic licence to describe himself as drinking the black goo while reading the headlines of his morning paper.

Israeli election scenes

Left to right: Winnipeg transplants Miriam, Ronit, Dor and Bruce Brown. (photo by Bernie Bellan)

Rehovot, Israel

Once again, Election Day has come and gone and the world continues to spin; albeit slightly more rightward for Israel.

I went to sleep the night before the recent election a bit more excited than usual – I love the hoopla of an Israeli Election Day – and a bit more apprehensive than usual – I was still not sure who to vote for.

Election Day in Israel is a holiday, and we had a fun day ahead of us. My son was set to participate in our democratic process. My wife and I were set to vote – well, almost, as I was still undecided. We had a family lunch date with friends. And I was looking forward to watching the exit polls at home.

My son – still too young to vote but not too young to hold an opinion – was manning a party booth outside the local polling station. Dressed in a party hat and T-shirt and armed with colorful brochures, he was out of the house by 7 a.m., surprising, since we can barely get him out of the house on a school day, which starts an hour later!

As opposed to the sterile polling environment of Canada, Israel’s polling stations are last-minute electioneering grounds. Every party has a booth with party hacks or students for hire (such as my son) vying for last-minute votes. And multiple cars covered with party posters and carrying huge loudspeakers on their roofs compete for sound waves by blaring political jingles – a classic Israeli balagan. The scene is lots of fun and a great place to catch up with neighbors and friends to debate Iran, the religious, the economy, last summer’s war and who to vote for and who not to vote for.

I think the last time I voted in Canada was in the 1998 election when I cast my vote for Brian Mulroney. Oops – should I have written that? In Israel everyone knows not only what you earn and how large a mortgage you have, but also how well you get along with your mother-in-law and who you vote for. We are a very open and argumentative society, so voting preferences are common water cooler and Friday night dinner table talk.

Anyway, by mid-morning my wife, daughter and I – and even our dog – went to visit my son and to cast our votes. With our identity cards and a falafel in hand (a not unusual text message arrived from my son a few minutes before we left the house: “I’m hungry”), off we went to the polling station.

It was more crowded than usual and we actually had to wait in line – or what counts for a line in Israel – to reach the ballot box. My wife confidently cast her vote. And I – in a last-minute decision (no doubt influenced by a quick chat with a party faithful just outside) – cast my lot for a pure centrist party. OK, there were two of them, but being a good Canadian (!) I will keep my specific choice secret.

Afterwards, we drove to Tel Aviv where we met friends at an excellent Persian restaurant, an appropriate choice given some of the election issues. For sure the talk was about the elections but also about other things just as in any normal country. And Israel, in its own special way, is a normal country … even on Election Day.

Towards mid-evening, I popped my microwavable popcorn and relaxed in front of the TV to watch the exit polls. Since it appeared to be a virtual tie, I went to sleep around 11 p.m. believing a national unity government was inevitable. True to form for Israel – where the unexpected should be expected – I woke up the next morning to a strong right-wing lead, with the overwhelming likelihood of another four years of Netanyahu rule, with a strong tilt to the religious right.

Good? Bad? With Election Day come and gone, one thing is clear: the Israeli beat goes on.

Bruce Brown is a former Winnipegger now living in Israel. This article was originally published in the Jewish Post and News and is reprinted with permission.