Dahlia Responds to the War

 By Dahlia Rosenthal, HDNA Kvutzat 72

It feels like my life is a distraction from what is going on in Israel and Gaza. There are the tears and the fears that I face, and everything else feels like a dull performance, an impersonation of my life. 

I feel cold. A reminder that I am here. I feel lonely. A reminder that I am here. I feel disconnected. A reminder that I am here. It feels like all I do is wait. Wait. wait. To hear something. Not the sirens. Or screams. No, it is awfully quiet here. Too quiet. I can hear the prayers of the Jews surrounding, when they are around. The rest is noise. I can usually tune in, and tune out. But it feels like everyone around me is speaking a language I don’t understand. Or rather I am speaking, screaming, crying, and all they can do is watch me through a glass window, as something so easily walked past. I wait. Wait. wait. But it’s awfully quiet here. The footsteps are sympathetic, if there at all. They become louder and louder, but once they hear my cries they become softer and softer, eventually becoming just another reminder that I am here. And they are not. They can walk by. It’s angry, and lonely, and empty in here. It’s political and polarizing and confusing out there. Sometimes the glass of the window becomes so thin I don’t know right from wrong, anger from sadness, political from personal. I hear an echo of my tears and fears. My silence is the presence of fear. For others, silence is a sign of peace, or death. As I write, my fears and tears are riddled in every letter of my words. I don’t know what to do. I can’t keep breaking the glass window that keeps me from the world, and keeps the world from me. But I will drown in my tears and fall into my fears if I stay put, stay silent. But my main fear, the thing that keeps me standing, is that my tears and fears will go to waste. 

I don’t know what to do or say, ever. Ever. I will break the glass every day, and soon I will not stand alone, scream alone, cry alone. It will be a chorus. We will sing and cry so loud and boisterous you won’t know the chorus from the tears. Our voices will echo to those in the deepest darkest pockets of the world. As long as I keep standing, I have hope others will catch me when I cannot stand anymore. I don’t know what to do, ever, but writing, and speaking, is the beginning.