Having a Son In Gaza

For the first eight weeks of the war, my son was at a base not too far from the Dead Sea. My husband and I visited him there twice. It was a hot place with a rocky terrain. We had an infinite number of flies buzzing around our heads as we shared words of love and encouragement.

He was anxious to stop training and enter the action. As a Jewish mother I was thrilled he was where he was at. That ended on the eighth Friday of the war. Thankful to have been given a 48-hour leave Thursday evening, he looked forward to spending Shabbat with his family in the Golan where they live. It was not to be. A call in the middle of the night informed him he needed to return to duty at another base and prepare to enter Gaza.

No doubt the adrenalin of going to battle offset his disappointment at leaving his family. They had no such excitement. For all of them, especially his three children, aged 4-9, it felt like someone had grabbed candy out of their mouths.

I kept my worries silent and my tears private, trying to be a bastion of strength for my son’s family.

My husband made the long drive to the Golan to bring them to us for Shabbat. It was my daughter-in-law’s birthday, and I resolved to give them the happiest Shabbat possible. I kept my worries silent and my tears private, trying to be a bastion of strength for my son’s family.

That has been my intended M.O. throughout the war and most of the time I think I’ve been successful. It’s not so easy.

One of the hardest parts of having a son in Gaza is the lack of communication. When he first crossed the border, he went in without his phone for two good reasons. Phones can be distracting for the soldiers and there’s always a possibility that their location could be tracked by the enemy.

Despite this, every morning I sent him a message. They were short, just a couple of words. Miss you. Praying for you. I hope all’s well. I didn’t expect a reply, but I knew sooner or later he would see his phone and understand I love him.

As things calmed down a bit, he did have his phone returned but often had no reception. Short messages were sporadic.

I kept my phone close to me. Every beep would cause me to grab it. Perhaps there’d be a note from my son. And when it rang. Well, my heart would race and if I saw his number my joy could not be contained.

How could I express my love, pride, concern, and longing for him in one short conversation? Such a mixed bags of emotions. In America during World War Two families of soldiers kept a star in their front window to announce to the world they had a son serving the country. That idea appeals to me.

Every morning, after sending my message, I’d check the headlines. On the days names of fallen soldiers were announced I’d wince or, if alone, cry. Both my husband and I shuddered whenever we received a call from an unknown number.

Before the war I could go a month or so without seeing my son. Since October 7^th, every day seemed like an eternity. In the course of two months, he received three short leaves. Naturally, he went straight to his family using much of his precious time to travel roundtrip the 200 miles from Khan Yunis to the Golan. Twice I tried to meet up with him and twice, due to circumstances beyond our control, I could not.

But third time’s the charm.

How can I express all the emotions I felt hugging my son after not seeing him for nine weeks? He looked the same but I doubt he is the same person he was before he entered Gaza. With my arms still around him I whispered I was sorry to hear about his friend. (I’d been told that his friend was killed in front of his eyes. My son eliminated the killer.)

How many friends has he lost? And how many enemies has he been forced to kill?

His reply made my heart clench. Which one? How many friends has he lost? And how many enemies has he been forced to kill?

Golda Meir’s famous quote haunts me: When peace comes, we will perhaps in time be able to forgive the Arabs for killing our sons, but it will be harder for us to forgive them for having forced us our sons to kill their sons. Peace will come when the Arabs will love their children more than they hate us.

I don’t know if I agree with the first part of her statement, but the second part certainly rings true. As for the end, I wonder if all the mothers in Gaza really do hate me more than they love their sons. Do all of them rejoice, throwing candies and cheering when they learn their sons have murdered ten Jews with their own hands or raped several women and chopped off their breast? Surely some mothers in Gaza are like me, mothers who wish their sons would never have to fight.

As I ponder this, though, I remember another quote of Golda Meir’s: If the Arabs put down their weapons today, there would be no more violence. If the Jews put down their weapons today, there would be no more Israel. Sadly, I don’t believe that is an exaggeration. If the Gazans wanted peace, they would have found a way to return our hostages months ago. Instead, their sons are fighting to annihilate me and all the Jewish people. My son fought to protect us. He’s part of just and necessary war against evil that threatens the Jewish people and all civilized countries.

Thankfully, he’s been home and out of Gaza for a couple of weeks. Slowly, he’s acclimating to civilian life. His loved ones are happy to have him back. His seven-year-old wakes up every night to go into his parents’ bedroom to make sure his father is still home. I understand my grandchild. When we’re together I keep hugging my son to make sure he’s truly with us. While doing so I can’t help thinking of all the soldiers still in Gaza and their mothers.

I’ll probably be joining their ranks again. My son has informed me that he needs to return after Passover. It’s not a statement I want to hear. I pray that long before then we will have had total victory with true peace, alongside the return of all the hostages, injured, evacuees, and soldiers, all safe in body and in spirit.