It takes a war to make you pine for a plague.
Well, not pine exactly. But maybe look back a bit nostalgically to the High Holy Day season of 2020 – the year of COVID-19.
Everything, as the saying goes, is relative. So, relative to the current war on seven fronts, COVID now seems tame.
It wasn’t, of course. Anyone who lost someone as a result of the disease or who was stricken hard by it understands that it was anything but tame; rather, it was dreadful.
But for those of us who muddled through wearing masks, working from home, and keeping a safe distance from all but one’s spouse, that time – Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot of 2020 – seems preferable to Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot of 2024. The previous storm is always perceived as calmer than the current one.
When you live through multiple crises, there is a tendency to reframe past hardships through the lens of current experiences, which is what I find myself doing a lot of these days.
The Wife and I spent the High Holy Days of 2020 alone, without our children, like so many others. COVID made it unsafe to gather. The thought of it beforehand was lonely – all those meals alone. But in actuality, it wasn’t all that bad: less food to cook, fewer dishes to wash.
This year, we spent the High Holy Days without some of our children again, but this time it wasn’t because they were afraid of infecting us – it was because they were called into the reserves. I would have gladly and eagerly cooked more this year and washed more dishes.
Forced to choose between the two reasons for kids absent from the holiday table, I opt for the precautions of the COVID days rather than the necessity of their being called to Gaza and Lebanon to face an enemy trying to kill them.
In this light, compared with what the country is facing today, COVID-19 doesn’t seem all that bad.
The beauty of nostalgia
THE BEAUTY of nostalgia is that it smooths the edges and blurs the negative, leaving the mind with only the softer memories. That’s what’s happened to me regarding the coronavirus.
For instance, when I think back to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur of 2020, I don’t remember the feeling of isolation; instead, I recall the pleasure of praying from my balcony.
It was, in fact, the most comfortable Yom Kippur service I’ve ever experienced – plenty of room to move, control over the temperature, no one around to annoy me, birds chirping, the cantor on the street below reciting the prayers without any frills or flourishes, since there wasn’t much of an audience to perform for, just a minyan scattered on the balconies above him and across the street.
Yom Kippur 2024, by contrast, was very weighty – real-time events giving the prayers added painful meaning, the cantor breaking down at certain poignant moments in the service, such as when chanting, “Our Father in heaven, save us for the sake of those killed in Your name.”
First, a plague; then a couple of years later, a war. That’s quite a bit to deal with in four years – enough to last a lifetime.
Having experienced them nearly back to back, I noticed one difference: As tough and miserable as the COVID era was, there were parts of it that – in retrospect – were manageable and even had a long-term positive impact: for instance, working from home, the development of Zoom, the realization that prayers on Shabbat and the holidays can move more quickly than we’d ever thought possible.
By contrast, it’s tough to imagine looking back at this war period in four years and seeing anything positive on a personal level, such as, “Gee, I miss waking up in the morning afraid to turn on the news because of a fear that something awful happened the night before.”
On a societal level, there may be some positive outcomes – for example, perhaps a country more united and a political discourse less toxic. Also, on a geopolitical level, there may ultimately be great benefits, especially if the regional axis of evil – Hamas, Hezbollah, and Iran – is roundly defeated. That could open up all kinds of possibilities in the Mideast. But positive things on a personal level? Less so.
NEVERTHELESS, ONE of the country’s assets is its abundance of people who can find good in bad situations. I’m an immigrant, and some family members would say a congenital kvetch, so this is something more difficult for me. But my kids – Sabras, all – they have this Israeli quality.
Take The Lad, who is once again in miluim (reserves), doing more than 200 days in one year. If it were me, I’d have a tough time finding the upside in that. But not him. He found the silver lining: lemon squares, that tangy pastry dating back to the Renaissance.
The Lad loves lemon squares and always has. But the problem with lemon squares is that they require a lot of patchkeying to prepare. So The Wife makes them once in a while. On special occasions – essentially for The Lad’s birthday and when he goes into the reserves.
“Good thing I got miluim,” he said before heading off again. “It means more lemon squares.” Actually, this is a bit of a throwback to when I used to do miluim. Before coming home, I’d always buy the kids lollipops. They were young, and their mother was strict about sugar, so this was always a thrill for them. It actually made them look forward to me going off to reserve duty.
But that’s not all. The Lad was also excited that he would be in the army during Yom Kippur. Why? Because it meant he would not have to fast the entire time. When I asked him if, given the choice, he would prefer staying in the army or getting out for Yom Kippur, he discreetly changed the subject.
Skippy, son No. 2, also was back in the reserves for the third time in a year. His take was remarkable. “It’s great,” he said. “We do seven days in, and then get five days off.” He was so tickled about the five days off that he overlooked the seven days in.
“Great attitude,” The Wife said.
“Yup,” I concurred. “But I’m not quite sure he’s my son.”