War & Death in the Middle East

In which the power of connection is the only way to survive

Photo by Moslem Danesh on Unsplash

The first time the Iranian regime attacked Israel, I was getting ready for bed, and I just so happened to glance at the news online. Hundreds of drones and missiles had been launched at Israel, and they'd start arriving in a few hours. I stared at the headline. The headline stared back. A "few hours?" What do you do? Wash the dishes? Fold laundry? Call friends and panic? I chose the latter. Sorry, friends.

The second attack came with less warning. This was frankly easier. To panic for 30 minutes is easier than panicking for several hours. Ask me how I know.

The third time, we weren't attacked – Israel attacked Iran. At 3 a.m. I know this because my phone shrieked that there was a national red alert. Gidon and I rushed to the living room and turned on the news. We learned that Israel had launched a massive attack on the Iranian regime. The entire country of Israel was under lockdown as we awaited an inevitable retaliation.

But it took a while – 18 hours, in fact. Around 9 p.m. the following evening, a new alert arrived. In Hebrew, it said something something stay near your shelter for reasons. Then, silence. An hour later, it started. There were several waves of attacks throughout the night.

Exactly five days earlier, I was in a much quieter space.

I was watching dust swirl from shovelfuls of earth landing in a grave. It caught the last rays of the sun, with the Carmel Mountains in the background. I imagined our friend Kobi's spirit in that dust, rising and drifting over the valley.

Kobi died at 75 after a year-long battle with cancer. Bright-eyed, sharp-witted, a former journalist, Kobi told great stories and asked incisive questions. Trust me, you didn't want to argue about politics with Kobi. He was very good at making his points. Gidon and I saw him about a month before he passed. He told us about a trip to Spain. I remember he was so animated as he told us the story – again. We'd already heard this story, but it felt like an important kindness to listen all over again and even hear about new details.

After nearly 15 years of living in Israel, it was my first funeral here. Remarkable, really. I have been very lucky. There have been too many funerals in Israel since October 7th.

To me, Jewish funerals in the U.S. feel different. Maybe it's the Hebrew spoken throughout, not just for the prayers. Or the dirt—Israeli dirt, ha'aretz—laid upon the casket. The land itself. What struck me most was the generous space and time for anyone wanting to speak. As the cantor's voice rose over the plain wooden coffin and echoed into the valley, I took in the Jewish diversity in attendance. There were bearded Hasids, men wearing knitted or felt kippot – or none at all. Gidon wore his cherished newsboy cap. Some mourners wore black, and others wore shorts and sandals. Israel is a very come-as-you-are country.

My eyes fixed on Rachel, Kobi's widow. She sat motionless, stunned. After years of caregiving, the moment had come. Kobi was alive yesterday. Today, she was burying him.

I couldn't help but wonder - will all eyes be on me when Gidon's funeral comes? Will I sit stoically, like Rachel?

In the Jewish tradition, shiva—the seven days of mourning—brings people into the bereaved's home. They help by bringing food, cleaning up, making coffee, and, importantly, sharing memories of the one who has passed. If you're observant, you cover mirrors, sit on low chairs, and recite prayers. But mostly, people just come. Not for seven days straight; you pick a day that works for you. Maybe a couple. It depends on how close you are to the family and how far you have to travel to be there. Childhood friends might show up, or distant cousins, and of course, your neighbors.

Even before the funeral, I got a WhatsApp notification: I had been added to a signup list to bring meals to Rachel's family. At first, I entered my name in English. Then, on second thought, I retyped it in Hebrew. I can do this, I thought. No more excuses. Use. Your. Hebrew. Julie, I thought. Stop being an outsider!

I visited Rachel's family home twice: once with Gidon to sit with Rachel and her children and reminisce, and again to help in the kitchen—unpacking food, combining salads in the fridge to save room, trying to figure out who brought which tray or container. I met Dorit in the kitchen, who gave me her chili recipe as she was collecting the pots she'd delivered a batch in. I met Kobi's son, Daniel, and his sisters, Michal and Tali. Ayelet brought mujadara and swore the secret was a tiny pinch of cinnamon. I learned Rachel's kosher kitchen layout: meat plates here, dairy there. Leah complimented my pashtida – which is a huge compliment since it's a very Israeli dish. I told her about the specialty grocery store I love in the nearby Bedouin village of Zarzir, and I was surprised that Leah, a long-time denizen of the community, didn't know about it. Ha! Even I, the alleged "outsider," had something to contribute! My Hebrew was fine – it was good enough, and the connections were easy because we were all simply there to help, like a bucket brigade.

Unfortunately, Kobi's shiva ended early—three days short—because of the war. Now Rachel and her family sleep in the safe room; her son, his wife, and their two kids. Six people, with mattresses on the floor. The ritual of grieving has been interrupted by something altogether different. Trust me, Kobi would have had a lot to say about this war.

"How do we stay strong during times like these?" my California mom texted me, quite understandably worried after watching news of the war in Israel. I didn't know how to answer. Later, I realized we don't stay strong. Nobody can really do that - we are only human in these impossible times. We can feel strong or brave for a minute, an hour or an afternoon and then find ourselves lying like a rag doll on the couch, mouth-breathing.

It might sound strange, but my situation—a war zone—is not unlike Rachel's grief or my mother's despair over the disintegration of American democracy. Loss, chaos, fear. No one can face it all alone. But we're not supposed to. That's what community is for.

At the shiva, I saw people I'd seen at the funeral. People I see at the market. Who I'll see at the pool, at the fall festival, after the war ends. My community is strong because we are woven together. Yes, Israeli society is politically fractured, but in crisis, we are there for each other. Because we have to be.

Americans do this, too. Disasters show it: neighbors helping neighbors. But it has to become a practice, not a reflex. Though humans need community and connection like oxygen, in some cultures, it's not the preset, and it doesn't feel natural unless there is an emergency. But these things can change; community doesn't spring up overnight. It has to be cultivated.

We all have excuses: for me, it was being "too busy" – but in reality, I felt self-conscious about my Hebrew language ability. Maybe for you, it's that you are not a "joiner" or really don't know your neighbors and would feel weird talking to them for no reason. Personal and sometimes cultural barriers make community connections less organic to create and sustain. Generally speaking, social and familial connections are a powerful value in the Middle East. If someone lives with their parents in America, it's so weird; what went wrong? The economy? The kid just can't get a life? But in this part of the world, it's totally normal for families to live with or near each other. That's just one example.

As an expat, I can tell you that it's impossible to simply copy/paste the values of another culture onto your own simply because you like it. Sure, you just got back from France, and for two weeks, you will buy fresh bread every day and grow and pick your own basil. But then what? Back to Trader Joe for you. That is completely understandable. But that doesn't mean you can't riff on the essence of what you liked or admired - focusing on the pleasure of food - and find ways to bring that into the routine of your ordinary (and, may I remind you, beautiful) life.

You can be part of what I believe will be a new era for Americans – one in which, yes, fine, out of sheer need and desire, we create and cultivate community again. We don't have to stay strong or be brave all the time – we need to connect. It’s not just a pleasure - it is an essential part of being human. You don’t need to join a church or the 4H or something. What do you like to do? What have you always wanted to try? Mah-Jong? Pickle-ball? Steel yourself to feel kind of dumb and GO to your local chess club for beginners. Learn how to play bridge. Show UP.

I always felt somewhat like an outsider in Israel, but do I want to remain one? NO. Because I need my community - and they need me.