I received a jarring reminder from a parallel universe this week. As I scrolled through my Facebook feed, up popped a sponsored story with the headline “Celebrities who died in 2023.” I carried on scrolling. I wasn’t even tempted to click.
Like most Israelis, I’m finding it hard to take in that 2023 is ending. Date-wise, I’m stuck on Saturday, October 7, Simchat Torah. We haven’t finished celebrating the religious holidays that marked the start of the Jewish New Year. Hanukkah last week caught us almost by surprise.
I don’t need to add to my list of people to mourn and miss. I realize there were some major celebrities who led colorful lives and left a cultural legacy who aren’t going to see 2024 being heralded in, but for more than three months I have been much more concerned by people I have never met who lived closer to home.
A recent study showed that more than 33% of the Israeli population are exhibiting symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. And that’s before we enter the “post-trauma” stage.
Along with the stress, which can reveal itself in subtle ways, I think many people are suffering from “survivor’s guilt.” It might be irrational, but we have collectively lived through a trauma that is now ingrained in our collective conscience. It’s compounded by every story of a fallen soldier, a dead hostage, a home destroyed by ongoing rocket attacks.
How to cope with the tragedy?
In Israel, we have our own list of unwitting “celebrities” – it’s a list that no one wants to join. More than 1,200 people were killed in the Hamas terrorist atrocity on October 7; some 220 were kidnapped; and some 130 soldiers have fallen fighting the terrorist forces of evil in Gaza and in the hostilities with its ugly sibling Hezbollah in the North.
That is way too many names to remember. Too many stories that deserve more than a few minutes of “fame” on a morning radio show or an evening news broadcast.
Poet and lyricist Yechiel Mohar once wrote that of all the words in the Hebrew language, “the worst of all. Two terrible words: Hu haya.” “He was.” Today, we have learned to dread their prequel: “Hutar lepirsum…” “It has been cleared for publication…” followed by the name – or often several names – of soldiers who have fallen in the war.
Israel is a tiny country. There can be very few people who don’t know someone who was killed, at least by association. There are not many degrees of separation between us, despite the political and religious divides.
That’s why the hostage tragedy last Friday night was so horrifying. Three Israelis being held in Gaza’s Shejaia neighborhood literally saw the light at the end of the tunnel of captivity before being shot down by Israeli soldiers who suspected them of being terrorists setting a trap.
The shock and pain felt personal because we have come to know the captives, and we could also identify with the soldiers fighting an enemy that doesn’t act according to the normal rules of human nature, let alone the rules of war: Who hides arms caches and rocket launchers in schools, mosques, and hospitals? Who attempts to attract soldiers into terror tunnels with the recorded sound of babies crying? Who uses human shields? Hamas. The same terrorist organization that raped, tortured, and murdered innocent people during the October 7 invasion.
The three hostages killed on December 8 symbolize the diversity of those affected: Alon Shamriz, a computer engineering student and former elite Yahalom unit soldier – whose family blamed the government, along with Hamas, for his death; the ginger-haired, much tattooed, heavy metal drummer Yotam Haim; and Bedouin agricultural worker Samer Talalka.
Yotam’s mother, Iris, has spoken about her son’s struggle with mental health issues which prevented him from IDF service. At his funeral, Iris Haim eulogized Yotam: “You wanted to be famous, to be a drummer that everybody knew… You spoke about a better world, you wanted a world that would be better, without evil and revenge.” But nobody wants to become famous in these circumstances. No one wants to be on that alternative list of celebrities who died in 2023.
Whoever fired the fatal bullets, whoever made the fateful decisions that led to the lack of preparedness on October 7, the ultimate blame lies with the terrorist organizations that carried out the mega-attack and with Iran which provided the funding, weapons, and support to make it possible.
Recently, someone talked about meeting a soldier who had been serving in Gaza since the start of the war with almost no contact with his family or access to news from Israel: “Is there still support for the soldiers here?” the soldier asked. The answer is a resounding “Yes.” It is clear to all of us what you are fighting for. It is the battle to protect the country. There might be disagreements over the way the battle is waged, but nobody should be under any illusions about the need to defeat and deter Hamas, Islamic Jihad, Hezbollah, and their jihadist ilk.
Last week, several friends shared that they could not celebrate Hanukkah; they were unable to identify with the holiday spirit. It might be that survivor’s guilt at play. My holiday was definitely not as festive as usual. We’re all haunted by ghosts. During the eight-day holiday, I paid a shiva call to the young widow and family of a soldier, Naftali Gordon, who used to pray in my minyan. I also went to the shloshim, the 30-day memorial, for a close family friend, Capt. Kfir Yitzhak Franco.
But in between these sad acts of respect for the fallen, I went to two low-key concerts – one raising money for Israelis displaced due to the war, the Middle East’s overlooked refugees. I also went on a tour of the new National Library of Israel building with its impressive architecture and collections. The tour started at a temporary exhibit, a display commemorating all those who had died on or after the events of October 7. Sadly, it couldn’t keep up with the daily casualties. They might not be celebrities, but they are heroes, nonetheless.
At the National Library, I took a moment to pause in front of the poignant tribute to the hostages: The photo of each captive rests on a chair along with a book to which they had a connection. The children’s books resting on the highchair of 11-month-old Kfir Bibas and the kindergarten-style chair of his four-year-old brother, Ariel, told a particularly tragic story. There’s not a day that I don’t think about “the two gingies” and their parents, Shiri and Yarden. Nobody would want being kidnapped from their home by Hamas-ISIS monsters as their claim to fame. The Bibas family isn’t the type to naturally seek publicity, but they need the international pressure that could help attain their release.
I worry constantly about the soldiers: the sons (and at least one daughter) of friends serving in Gaza, as well as those serving in the North and in Judea and Samaria, also volatile fronts.
Yet if we stop functioning and stop celebrating our festivals – particularly Hanukkah, which marks the Jewish triumph over the forces of darkness in ancient times – then we are giving the terrorists a victory. Life must go on to have any meaning.
My favorite celebrities and heroes include the living. The unsung heroes on the home front – the wives, parents, and grandparents carrying an extra burden while a soldier is called up for reserve duty; the relatives and friends struggling with the uncertainty; the overwhelming number of volunteers helping wherever they can, sometimes as a form of therapy.
My tip to all those who are struggling with PTSD, survivor’s guilt, or any other undefined disorder caused by the traumatic events we are all experiencing is to remember that cliched but true advice given by flight attendants on every aircraft: Put your own oxygen mask on first. You can’t help others without it. And remember, nobody, anywhere, has the right to make us feel guilty for living and breathing, individually or as a nation.