On Wednesday evening, when Israel’s 78th Independence Day came to a close, the relief felt like a metabolic change. Anxiety from the end of the 40-Day War with Iran through Holocaust Memorial Day came with a lull at the end of the latter, and renewed anxiety anticipating Memorial Day, anticipating it would subside after Independence Day. It did. Realizing this, unable to temper it.

Sorrow. “Never again” resonating. Israel an answer. Yet pain, loss, conflict – the price. Victims. Inevitable. National struggles. This national struggle. Distinction. Identity. Identifying. Context. New players at center stage. Tiptoeing in the margins. Observing. Not understanding. Reframing. Reorganizing. Stepping back. Disenfranchised.

With the relief, I gained perspective on the anxiety. On Independence Day, I anchored myself in concerns about the past, the present, the future. The Nakba as the counternarrative of the past. The present uncertainty of a ceasefire. Present, Jewish Israeli settlers taking violent actions against Palestinians to encourage ethnic cleansing of the West Bank. Indifference of authorities at best? When will war resume? Will we be safer if it does, or if it doesn’t? If not now, when? Will we elect new leadership that will reverse trends? When we are attacked, will we be fighting to defend the Israel that bring us pride? Do we have a chance in the fight to make Israel reflect values on that trajectory, so we can identify with pride?

If those questions are my anchor, it’s a little heavy for a holiday barbecue. On the Erev Yom Haatzmaut, I enjoyed seeing our granddaughters with blue and white designs painted on their cheeks when they came home from the quiet fireworks and not-so-quiet performances in the park. But something inside felt sad. I was relieved not to have to smile and celebrate with adults the next day at a big gathering. Only the company of someone grateful for the State of Israel, but hurting for the trajectory, and agreeing it needs rerouting felt comfortable, acceptable. I have that company. I didn’t want to diminish others’ joy that day, but nor could I categorically participate. It was a relief for the day to end.

Routine back. Same concerns. Just not enmeshed in celebration expectations. Relief? Not really.

Two days later. Evening news. Babysitting for our granddaughters. The oldest is in 6th grade. Her father is in the reserves in the north. That’s code. It even works on me. North. The news. Hezbollah. Drones. Violating ceasefires. Our granddaughter says, “My dad is in Lebanon.” We tell her, “He’s in the north.” His base is close to the border. She tells us she knows. She shows us a Lebanese coin. I guess “the north” is no longer an effective phrase for reducing anxiety. Then her 4-year-old sister calls her 8-year-old sister to come play in their bedroom which happens to be their home shelter, and in fact, she doesn’t say, “let’s play in the bedroom.” She says, “let’s play in the shelter.” Relieved?

Harriet Gimpel – April 25, 2026

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