From Naomi Regan

Eleven summers ago I arrived in Israel with a husband and
six children. We couldn't imagine what the future held but,
in truth, hadn't given it a lot of thought. We came, simply,
because the brand of Zionism in which we believed said that
if we have a homeland, we should live in it. At the time of
my personal aliyah, I felt adamant that, even if I was
dreadfully unhappy here, I would not leave. My personal
mantra was "Unhappiness has nothing to do with doing the
right thing."

After a month in ulpan and receiving an Israeli driver's
license, I laughingly said at a community Shabbos luncheon
that I finally "felt Israeli." An attractive, middle-aged
woman sat across from me and said - - not unkindly - - "You
aren't Israeli until you attend your first soldier's
funeral."

I was stunned and felt chastened but knew that there was
truth in what she said -- that the shared experience of
burying an anonymous young man who made life here more
livable and safe was something that transcends verb
conjugations and lane changing.

That conversation came back to haunt me on Tisha B'Av as I
stood with thousands of other Israelis beneath a scorching
sun at the military cemetery at Har Herzl. The beautiful
surroundings belie the weighty reason for its existence.
Boys, beautiful boys, sleep forever beneath the trees.
Amidst the eerie silence of our march toward the most
freshly dug grave was the occasional murmur: "It's such an
honor to be buried here."

I didn't know the young man who was being honored but had an
inexplicable compulsion to join the mourners from the moment
I heard of his killing. The description of his Philadelphia
upbringing sounded akin to my own life. There was talk of
his community. His education. His love for the land of
Israel and his supportive family. How could I not share
their pain?

The parents and two sisters of this chayal boded (lone
soldier) were the only blood relatives present, but that
didn't matter to the thousands of other attendees. We wanted
Mr. and Mrs. Levine to know that we love Michael. We cherish
his memory. We are grateful for his sacrifice and will never
forget his spirit and, in turn, his love for us. We cannot
give him back. But we can "pay it forward" and not let his
sacrifice be for naught.

Here, we talk of routine and living a normal life, but how
can anything feel normal? There are weddings and new babies
who need inoculations. Even if a missile lands near Beit
Shean, I'm still expected to pay my telephone bill.
Yesterday, after a day of consulting, laundry, and writing,
I took the children to the park for a picnic supper. War or
no war, we have to eat, and we have to breathe, and we have
to talk about school and when to take the dog to the
groomer, no?

Three weeks ago I wrote an article for an Israeli newspaper
supplement dealing with fine dining and home entertaining.
It was a fluff piece. Light-hearted and truly superfluous in
the context of day-to-day existence. I wrote about
decorating one's patio with seasonal flowers, fresh fruits,
and tissue paper lanterns. I researched al fresco menus and
suggested simple napkin rings fashioned with colored twine
and dried roses. And although the train station in Haifa had
already been bombed, and the citizens of Nahariya were
dodging katusha rockets, my editor and I agreed that "life
goes on," and we can't live in a state of pessimism.

Within a week, it was clear that running this article would
be an obscenity. It wasn't published, because even folks in
the "safer" parts of the country would take offense. Yes,
life does "go on," and even war doesn't prevent a Shabbos
table from looking beautiful. But to celebrate the "good
life" while our every tomorrow is up for grabs, seems, at
the time of this writing, an exercise in madness.

My friend, Raymond, lives in South Africa but that didn't
stop his two oldest sons from making aliyah as soon as they
were able. They went to university here and did their army
service. Happily. Proudly. Their dad also was in the IDF and
talks about army service with absolute reverence. Thus, it
was only a matter of time before the boys got called up for
reserve duty.

When I spoke with his eldest son, Tomer, I was particularly
struck by his sense of relief.

"I finished my exams, so that's out of the way," he said.
"Now I can't think of anything better to do than take part
in this operation."

"But Tomer," I asked, "are you going right into Lebanon? How
does this work?"

"No, we are starting our training. It's been a while since
we've been to war, and a lot of us are rusty. But don't
worry, Andrea!" he laughed. "We miluim'niks (reservists) are
the best there is. We're older. More mature. We don't try to
be heroes . . . ."

Of course, I invited him for Shabbos, and, of course, he
said, "No." After all, it would be the last Shabbos home for
a while and he wants to be with friends. He told me,
"Everyone else has already been called up. There's hardly
anyone left.

"I'm ready."

My fervent wish on this Sabbath Eve, as I press "send" and
submit this to my editors is that, at the hour of
publication, this article should no longer be "timely." That
the war will have passed and all of my deliberate wording
and attention to detail shall have been in vain. That, like
the aforementioned "Good Life" piece that describes elegant
home dining, this piece shall be deemed "unusable," because
the war is over, and we've moved on.

Amen