When the Displaced Arrived: She Ain’t Heavy, She’s My Sister |
We had a quiet Monday night. No warnings or sirens after 9:30 PM.
To my amazement, as I was getting my morning cup of coffee from the restaurant’s coffee maker—an Americano in a cup half the size I’m used to—a live toy poodle scurried by, with a small pack of pajama-clad children in pursuit.
Looking around, I saw several families eating breakfast. They certainly weren’t here yesterday in our boutique hotel in Modi’in. This place has been our quiet respite from the chaos outside.
It turns out that about 100 men, women, and children—perhaps 15 families in all—were checked in late Monday night.
There was near bedlam around me. People speaking loudly. Children running up and down the hallways, shrieking as if at recess. Not one, but at least three miniature dogs in the lobby, not all of them happy to see each other.
Who were all these interlopers, ruining the little peace and quiet of the day?
Then an onslaught of social workers and counselors in yellow vests began to clarify matters.
An undetected Hezbollah missile had landed in the driveway of an apartment building just south of Tel Aviv. There was no loss of life and no serious injuries. But windows and doors had been blown in, debris had made the building uninhabitable, and the residents would be displaced for at least a few weeks.
Our nearly empty hotel was a perfect landing place, and 30 rooms were secured for the group by an Israeli social service agency.
Bedtime for us is not, apparently, bedtime for children running up and down hallways and banging on doors.
Social services, it seems, stop at 5 PM. Social crises, apparently, do not.
Four alerts scattered through early Wednesday morning only compounded our stress and fatigue.
Perhaps these brothers—and their dogs—were too heavy?
She arrived all alone: an elderly woman with gray roots and shoulder-length thin black hair. She was obviously scared and a little disoriented.
Who would care for Leah?
The next morning, the chaos had temporarily subsided.
Leah came to breakfast in brand-new Mickey Mouse pajamas. She proudly wore them all day. Perhaps they were the only comfortable or clean clothes she had.
By the end of the day, she was clearly stronger in spirit. As she was being escorted to her room before her cadre of social workers departed, we told her how much she had become our favorite new guest—an inspiration.
She perked up and declared, “Ani chazakah! I am strong!”
In the end, it is a choice whether to be upset or patient. We too are displaced from our home, though there is a greater likelihood that we will return to ours first—please, El Al, don’t delay our booking again.
We will, and we must, push through the physical and emotional fatigue. And in truth, Leah’s words speak not only for herself, but for us as well—and perhaps for the Jewish people altogether.
To paraphrase her: “Anachnu chazakim! We are strong!”
Strong enough to endure uncertainty. Strong enough to bear disruption. Strong enough, as Jews always have, to carry one another through fear, fatigue, and dislocation.
She ain’t heavy. She’s my sister.