Third day of fighting. What at the moment is much more of a national disaster than an operation or a war.
Ever since Noam published what the family is currently going through, five beloved souls at the hands of Hamas, about whom we know nothing, have not stopped contacting us from all over the world and around the clock. Media people from the US, UK, France, Germany, Japan, Spain and elsewhere. Everyone wants to talk to the family, and we are looking for relatives who can be interviewed in foreign languages. They are looking for those who can go on the air without choking on tears and terror, and those who can.
Our lives, needless to say, revolve around this.
And who hasn't bothered to get in touch yet? Who hasn't picked up the phone, if only to say, "We know. You are in front of our eyes. As soon as we know something, you're the first to hear." Which of you will be surprised to hear that the answer is the State of Israel?
No phone. And I'm not talking about us. We are nephews overall. No phone call to Hadas, mother of 9-year-old Erez and 16-year-old Sahar.
This woman, I have no idea how she's breathing. Hadas Menir Oz, like the many other family members of the missing, did not receive a request from the Ministry of Defense. Or advocacy. Or the face. Or one of those bodies that, until this moment, were mainly busy appointing members and associates to positions in which they have no idea or interest.
As a child, there was a popular war song, a song longed for by father and doll and loquat. There was an intolerable line about a girl from Kibbutz Gadot, and that "there are no more homes on the farm."
So that's it. I didn't think we'd go back to that row, but that's the situation in some communities in the south and that's what happens when the country that is supposed to be the most protected in the world collapses into complete oblivion, and this is not the time to elaborate on its components.
I understand that what opened on Shabbat morning (forgive me, you can't write Simchat Torah) has already been officially certified as "War," and even received a name that on another day we would have made fun of. Here and there it is compared to '73 and the Yom Kippur War. But the Yom Kippur surprise did not take place on the streets of Sderot or between the kibbutz paths, and what happened over the weekend and is still happening is much more reminiscent of a pogrom. On full.
We will also settle accounts with those who were responsible for our well-being and above their responsibility, who were negligent and committed crimes.
Now we must focus on eradicating and destroying the enemy. He made his goals clear beyond any doubt. The question that should guide our decision makers is quite simple: Will what happened last weekend be remembered in our history as a terrible disaster, or will it merely be a preview of what lies ahead, God forbid? It's in our hands. Only in our hands.
So far, excuse me, the promise that "what was will no longer be" is far from being fulfilled.
Everything looked surgical and spot like last year. And again the feeling is that people upstairs are considering too seriously what they are allowed to do, if they want to enter and leave European capitals in the future.
To Alf Azazel, who even thinks about going abroad now? Gazans slaughter children, women and the elderly, and many more follow them eagerly and drool, from Yemen to Morocco.
Who hasn't woken up yet?!
This woman, I have no idea how she's breathing. Hadas Menir Oz, like the many other family members of the missing, did not receive a request from the Ministry of Defense. Or advocacy. Or the face. Or one of those bodies, which until this moment were mainly busy appointing members and associates to positions in which they have no idea or interest
In these moments as I write, my beloved Noam cries into the screen of a Zoom meeting between relatives of missing and abducted persons.
I have a tendency to live in the film, and I thought that maybe, at least, this encounter was coordinated by professionals sent by some state authority, maybe even some government ministry. But no.
The meeting is run and guided by wonderful young volunteers, whose professional training I have no idea is, but it is clear to me that they are the ones, they and their contemporaries, who will blow the hell out of the layer of hollow and incompetent idlers to whom we have entrusted our steering wheel, keys, savings and children.
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