The price of a life

The dreadfulness continues. The sound of siren haunts us day and night. In the hollow, quiet darkness, reminding you not so gently the price of life.

The red alert is more vivid than ever, like a ghost hallowing, roaming past each neighborhood, coming and going. Especially during the quiet peaceful night, sneaking up on you in the most vulnerable state.

School has been canceled, a short trip to the supermarket across the street seems too far away, even stepping into the shower takes serious evaluation. Concrete walls separating us, confining us, imprisoning us. Contrary to the joy of escaping our temporary responsibilities with the day off, there is only heaviness in our hearts. I changed my online status from invisible to green. At this moment, we stand together as a community.



The silence following the siren is the dreadful part. Anticipating the loud boom, earth shaking tremble giving the glass windows a loud shake. My mind goes blank, imaging the trajectory, hoping for minimal damage, and observing the reactions around me. Then before you know it, the next wave continues, and your heart accelerates and sinks again, afraid that your legs will fail you this time. 

Jets flying overhead, day and night.

When I turned on the news, the front page filled with human suffering, war, violence. And all of that gives me so much context of understanding. With my morning cup of tea, I cowardly closed the page.

A story my mentoring doctor in Ashkelon recounted came to mind as I did so. While the rockets were shooting in from Gaza 7.8 miles away, he raced in to the operating theater performing a caesarean section on the woman who was just wheeled in from the Gaza strip. The sound of siren stressed her delicate body inducing labor, the baby inside wants to see the world before he/she loses that chance. In the only bomb shelter on the whole floor of labor and delivery, the joy of the baby's first cry was heard intertwined with the horror of the siren. It was the baby's first lullaby.

His father was the one who made the bomb.

The world needs to hear it... the sound of quiet heroes.