One might think that the average person who calls Israel home would have to engage in some serious self-talk, bordering on self-deception, when it comes to accepting a way of life that, from an outsider’s perspective, appears akin to learning to sleep with one eye open.
I’ve been there, I’ve walked in Silwan, the Old City and New, and many other places south, north, east and west in the country, and there were few moments when I wasn’t reminded of the burden that every Israeli shoulders on a daily basis. It’s the burden of a fragile peace, of carrying on daily life despite never being fully convinced that that peace will hold through midday.
Their homeland is only 75 years old, though their ancestors have lived there for millennia, but their history since 1948 has been peppered with skirmishes and wars and loss and constant arguments over boundaries and borders and who’s allowed to live where. They seem cursed, in a way, yet they must carry on as if they are home at last.
I deeply admire them. They have to be strong. Yet I can’t help but wonder, from time to time, if they yearn for life to be different– in a more mundane, far less consequential way.
3 Cents' 