On July 13, 2014, Deborah Corber, chief executive officer of Montreal’s Federation CJA, checked into her hotel in Tel Aviv. She would be participating in a 60-hour solidarity mission with the Jewish Federations of North America. The following is taken from the diary of her trip published on the FederationCJA website.

July 13 – 1:00 a.m. EST – Operation Protective Edge Solidarity Mission

By the time you read this I will likely be nearing my arrival in Israel to participate in the Jewish Federations of North America (JFNA) Solidarity Mission. The decision to join this mission was made barely two days ago, when I learned that this leadership group would be visiting Be’er Sheva, meeting with Mayor Ruvik Danilovich and Dr. Rivka Carmi of Ben Gurion University. It was inconceivable to me that our American counterparts would be in attendance, while Montreal would be absent. After discussion with Federation CJA’s president, Susan Laxer, it was agreed that I would represent our Community on this visit to demonstrate our unwavering support and constant friendship to the people of Be’er Sheva – Bnei Shimon.

In recognition of Montreal’s special relationship to the region, JFNA president and CEO, Jerry Silverman has offered me the honour of introducing Mayor Danilovich to the group when we meet on Tuesday. I will let the mayor know that I carry with me the hopes and prayers of our entire community for the quickest possible end to this intolerable siege that our Israeli friends are living.

I feel a bit anxious about the experience that is yet to unfold, but very grateful, at the same time for the opportunity to represent our community in this way.

July 13 – 10:27 a.m. EST – The Mood on Arrival

I was met by a representative of JFNA who ushered me through the airport and to my “transfer” to the David Intercontinental in Tel Aviv. My driver –  Doobie – 50+, lean, tanned and full of good humour, led me to a back-facing seat in his van, which he described as “more official”. “I don’t care about ‘official,’” I told him. “I’d rather sit up front, beside you, so I can watch your driving: I’m more worried about a car accident with you meshugene Israeli drivers than I am from any rocket attack.” That got us off on a good start.

The drive into Tel Aviv was entirely unexceptional. The pace of life seemed pretty normal for a Sunday mid-July: people sitting in cafés, strolling through the streets, shopping. The only excitement were the two men arguing in Hebrew on the radio. “They’re debating from the left and the right”, said Doobie. “Welcome to Israel.”

Wait ….. a siren. Back soon.

Rite of passage: Just experienced my first siren while I was writing this. I’m at the end of the hall, and the desk clerk had told me that the shelter on my floor was directly across from my room. So I calmly grabbed my key – and of course, my iPhone – and walked across the hall, but found a sign saying that the only open shelter on my floor was at the end of the other hall. Good thing I only brought flat shoes on this trip. I trotted down to the end of the hall to find the other shelter, right next to the elevators, and sat there quietly, by myself (texting with my husband), until it was safe to leave. And at the hotel, in any event, as soon as the siren sounds, there is a VERY LOUD announcement over the PA system, in both Hebrew and English, advising you to go to the nearest shelter. Ten minutes later, an announcement tells you that you can “go back to your routine.”

You can’t miss the sirens – they are that loud, and they do kick your heart rate up a notch. But now I hear ambulance sirens, and just saw a JPost banner flash across my phone saying that explosions were heard in Tel Aviv…

Looking out the window of my hotel I see people on the beach, enjoying the late day sun, as if it is another normal day at the beach.

As a visitor on a senior mission, I guess you’d have to say that I’m pretty “sheltered”. Oh sure, I have to get myself to the shelter, and it is a bit rattling (at least, the first time) but the fact that it’s just a simple jog to the end of the hall makes me “sheltered” from the realities that most Israelis face when they’re working, driving, caring for their children, showering – you name it. Hearing the siren certainly does drive home the abnormality of life in Israel these days. And at the same time, it is hard to be afraid for yourself, because Israelis are unafraid and treat this as entirely normal. It’s an oxymoron: the normality of living under rocket attack.

Off in a little while to get a security briefing (what to do, wherever you might be, when a siren sounds), followed by a situation briefing from Aluf Benn, editor-in-chief of Ha’aretz. Maybe I’ll have company for the next siren…

July 14 – 6:00 a.m. EST – Ashkelon & Sderot

Ashkelon – Barzalai Medical Center

Sitting in a protected theatre in this local, public hospital. It won awards for its architectural design in 1961. Today, it is responsible for providing care to 500,000 citizens…but is not protected.

Sitting in a “safe” theatre, listening to Barzalai head, Dr. Hezi Levy, explain the steps taken to secure the most vulnerable patients: premies in incubators, people in critical care units hooked up to all manner of life-saving equipment, patients undergoing catheterization, who cannot be moved during the procedure; with medical staff who won’t leave their sides when the siren sounds. Within a single hour following the launch of Operation Protective Edge, and with the aid of dozens of soldiers, all of the most vulnerable were moved into makeshift protected areas: small, confined, making the business of caring for them so much more difficult…but protected.

In the spirit of the Rambam’s teachings, Barzalai treats any people in need of medical care, including significant numbers from Gaza itself. So, what do you do when you have four  individuals needing critical care, three of them are from Gaza, and you only have three critical care beds? You allocate the beds according to the degree of medical need, not religious, ethnic or national identity. As they say, ce n’est pas évident, for many of the Israelis living in Ashkelon.

Sderot

Now in Sderot, at an Israel Trauma Coalition facility, that trains teams to work with trauma throughout the community. Here’s an interesting fact for your next conversation around the proverbial water cooler: a child of 14 raised here, has been exposed in her/his life to 650 rocket attacks. Is it even conceivable that some form of trauma will not be experienced?

We come to understand that for every person treated, there are many caregivers involved (fire fighter, physician, teacher)  – and these people have families of their own to worry about – they are, in some ways, doubly stressed.

An interesting phenomenon during this Operation, and confirmed by our man on the ground, Arie Levy, is that for the first time since these attacks began some years ago, people are being offered respite elsewhere, BUT DON’T WANT TO GO. They don’t want to leave their extended families, their workmates, their neighbours. So this facility provides respite wherever people are located.

Therapy is particularly challenging because once it is provided, and rockets begin again, it is no longer possible to use the same therapeutic techniques over and over again. People are painfully aware that it never ends…ceasefire maybe, but soon enough it will begin again. According to the DSM, which categorizes mental illnesses and disorders, there must be more than 75 per cent of the population in this region suffering some form of trauma. And people are always licking the wounds of the previous operation….

 Delegates practice safety protocols.

July 14 – 5:15 pm EST – They Are Not Alone

When Operation Protective Edge was launched, just over a week ago, I started getting calls from community members asking when Federation CJA was going to organize a “solidarity mission” to Israel. In the first few days, I tried to dissuade people from moving too quickly, believing that it was premature to make mission plans, and hoping against hope that the Operation would be over so quickly that a mission would not be necessary. And in truth, I was somewhat ambivalent about the very idea of a “solidarity mission.” I worried that Israelis would view it as an opportunistic move, a ploy to get a few good photo ops, or worse: that we would be seen as voyeurs, just like the people who cause infuriating traffic jams on the highway so they can get a good look at the accident on the side of the road.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. To a fault, every single person I’ve encountered in the 32 hours since I arrived has been grateful for our visit. From the taxi drivers, to the hotel staff, to the bakery owner where we stopped to pick up treats for the kids in the shelter, to the medical staff at Barzilai Medical Center in Ashkelon, or the patients and their families being cared for at Barzilai, to the social workers dealing with trauma victims, to the residents at Kibbutz Nir Am virtually on the border with Gaza, to the Sderot mother of two young children under five who were saved because of the safe room in their apartment (mandated by law for every home in Sderot), but who are now too fearful to leave their apartment: they all thanked us profusely for making the long trip to come show our support. I believe that they are deeply touched by this demonstration of solidarity, by the knowledge that Jews all around the world are paying attention, are concerned, and are committed to helping them weather this storm.

Federation CJA’s tagline is for one another. For me, being in Israel in this way and at this time has made those words more real, more relevant than ever before. Israel today is a wealthy, successful country, with miraculous defence systems like Iron Dome that in most cases, prevent grave harm from being realized. But at the end of the day, Israel remains a country made up of people, individuals and families who live with unimaginable stresses that we can barely imagine. By visiting Israel now, and reaching out to Israelis in the most affected areas like Ashkelon and Sderot, we have shown our fellow Jews that they are not alone and we have lifted their spirits. After today, I now understand the importance and the beauty of solidarity missions.

July 15 – 11:45 EST – Normal

“We don’t take it for granted”: the phrase I have heard most often from Israelis during this two-day whirlwind solidarity mission. This is the way they tell us how deeply touched they are by our presence here during this conflict, that we came – as Jerry Silverman, president and CEO of JFNA put it – “to stand shoulder to shoulder with our Israeli brothers and sisters” during this conflict, as always. “We are one people,”  said Silverman, “and we will stand by our Israeli family for the good, the bad and the ugly.”

This morning we had hope: hope for a ceasefire, hope for an end to the incessant rocket attacks and the unnerving wail of the sirens, hope for an end to the boredom of days and nights spent in a bomb shelter, hope for a return to some semblance of normalcy. By the afternoon, those hopes were put on hold as Hamas made its rejection of the ceasefire proposal abundantly and dangerously clear with 47 rocket attacks today alone until the IDF finally responded.

But what does “normal” look like?

Normal means being able to take a shower whenever you feel like it, without planning your escape to a shelter, or rising at dawn to shower because you know Hamas is unlikely to attack when people are still in bed (maximum damage being easier to inflict when folks are out and about).

Normal for a university student – yes, it’s the season for exams in Israel –  means being able to complete an exam without multiple siren interruptions; it means being able to actually do your summer job, the job that Dr. Rivka Carmi, president of Ben Gurion University in Be’er Sheva explained students must do to be able to pay for their next year of studies.

Normal means being able to use your own bathroom, whenever you need to, rather than having to use a portable toilet because your disability prevents you from doing the bathroom-safe room dash in 60 seconds.

Here’s another fun fact: in Sderot, you have 15 seconds before the rocket hits, in Ashkelon – 30 seconds, in Ashdod – 45 seconds, and in Be’er Sheva – 60 seconds. Black humour in these regions, closest to Gaza, is that Tel Aviv gets a luxurious 90 seconds –  enough time to make a latté, if not to drink it.

Normal if you’re a kid, means…being able to actually be a kid during your summer break: to go to camp, go swimming, hang out with your friends at the park, take a carefree vacation with your family.

Normal if you’re a new oleh (immigrant) means only having to adapt to a new environment, new language, new culture, new universe, not having to get used to running for cover in a matter of seconds – as if your world was not already upside down.

Normal means being able to take both of your toddlers out of their car seats when you finally reach your intended destination, not having to decide which one you will be able to pull to safety once you pull over to the side of the road, unbuckle your own seatbelt, and have 10 more seconds to hit the dirt and cover your heads.

Some people say that “normal” is over-rated. But here in Israel, “normal” sounds pretty good right now. And even then, most Israelis understand that their normal really means some peace and quiet for another year or two…until this nightmare begins all over again.

July 17 – 5:57 am EST – 60 Hours

Sitting in Zurich International Airport  – possibly one of the most quiet and orderly airports, as befits the Swiss – I noticed that unfamiliar sounds made me flinch.  On the plane coming home, I experienced a first: I actually slept sitting up (which I never do), so deeply in fact, that I missed two of the meals (never do that either), and was blissfully unaware of my seatmate climbing over me multiple times when he needed access to the aisle.

Clearly, there wasn’t too much sleep going on during the 60 hours I spent in Israel. I slept semi-clothed, with my pants and shoes right next to the bed, room key already in the pocket of my pants and iPhone by my side (OK, I always sleep with my iPhone by my side) just in case I needed to make my way to the shelter during the night. Not a very restful sleep, as you might imagine.

Looking back on it now it all feels so surreal. But it did happen, and it did change me in ways that I probably won’t understand for a while.  Here are some of the things that I learned in my 60 hours in Israel.

I learned how to shower in record time.

I learned to case out my surroundings constantly – making sure I always knew where the shelter or safe room was located, and to choose my seat strategically – just in case we needed a quick exit.

I learned how to jump out of a vehicle and hit the ground in under 15 seconds.  There we were, a bunch of middle-aged tourists lying face down, hands over our heads, on the sidewalk outside the Dan Intercontinental Hotel. This was only a drill, and we must have looked fairly ridiculous to passersby. But when the security guard started the stopwatch and began yelling Yallah, Yallah (Arabic/Hebrew slang for “Let’s Go”), it didn’t feel like much of a joke to me. On my return yesterday evening, I saw Wolf Blitzer of CNN, trying to demonstrate the reality of living under rocket fire.  He was en route to Ashkelon (a 30-second zone) when the siren sounded.  The jeep stopped (good), he started to get out (also good), but then he crouched down beside it, left hand seemingly still touching the vehicle, eyes skyward looking for traces of Iron Dome (NOT GOOD). And all I could think of was, you idiot – you’re supposed to move away from the car, look for shelter, and if you don’t see any, lie down flat on the ground, preferably with something to throw over you.

I learned that meetings in Israel, even under rocket fire, never take place without cookies, coffee and Coke Zero.  It is deemed a collective national failure if people traveling on missions to Israel arrive at one meeting from a previous meeting … and are actually hungry.

I learned how to appreciate black humour. From Be’er Sheva: You know the rockets are reaching Tel Aviv when talk turns to “what to wear in the bomb shelter”.

I learned the meaning of the expression, there’s the State of Tel Aviv, and then there’s Israel.  Folks in Tel Aviv don’t stress over sirens in the way that their fellow Israelis do living barely an hour south of them.  They’re certain that Iron Dome will protect them (though the IDF estimates it’s only about 90 per cent effective), and when you point out that the music in the club is so loud they might not even hear the siren, they are more likely to shrug … than to lower the music.

I learned how much our brothers and sisters in Israel appreciate our gestures of support. Israelis are tough cookies: they live in a tough neighbourhood and navigating everyday life without the rockets is tougher than it is here in Montreal.  But tough as they are, Israelis need to know that in spirit at least, they are not alone.

I learned that Israel still needs its historic partners – Jewish communities and federations all over the world –  during conflicts and in between them. To be sure, the nature of our partnership is evolving, because we are evolving. Israel today has different needs than it did in earlier decades, and it has considerable resources with which to meet those needs. But the fact remains that with all of its resources, all of its koach (strength) and all of its amatz (courage) Israel and Israelis still need to know that we are one Jewish people, and that we will stand by them, always.

This conflict will end, hopefully very soon, and Israelis will carry on as they always have. But they will be left with the aftermath: emotional costs (millions of citizens suffering some form of PTSD) and financial costs (estimated to be approximately NIS 8.5 billion), while also preparing for next time.  And those of us living in Jewish communities around the world will need to keep paying attention after the Iron Dome batteries go quiet.