By Raz Newman

“Oh, you’re here?! Come, come, look what happened to Moses’s Shack,” my long time friend yelled at me with excite over the phone. “Now we have to find a new place to hang,” he continued.

I went back to Israel for a visit after a year in the States. The previous couple of months were extremely difficult. It started with the kidnap of the three boys, continued with the discover of their brutal murder, and finally escalated to a total war with Hamas.

(l to r) Raz Newman at home in Israel with his brother, Saar, newly inducted into the IDF, and their father, Ofer.

I felt so powerless; incapable of doing anything. My friends were all drafted, while my family ran for shelter every 10 minutes. Then, my little brother was inducted into the army. My little brother who followed my footsteps ever since I can remember, chose the same major as me, and now was inducted into the same unit as I was. Now, he’s on his way back to base. He had a 48-hour leave at home and now back to base. I am scheduled to be in Israel for three weeks, and I got to see him only for 48 hours. Thirty of which he slept. When will I see his beautiful face again – next year?

Harsh times indeed.

So, I went back to the Promised Land, and was expecting to find a broken nation, drained of joy and hope. And why wouldn’t it be? How would you feel after two months of horror? Rockets raining down on schools, parks, hospitals…over Tel Aviv, Jerusalem and even the north. Fifteen seconds, and sometimes even less, to run for shelter.

Little kids at the age of four are already well trained to react to alarm sirens: “You pick up little Sarah, I’ll grab Michael, and Adam will take care of Maple the dog.” That’s a normal routine in our little country. That’s a normal conversation between two parents. Always know where everyone is. Always time them. The safe room is stocked with water, cans of good, dog food and Monopoly. Sometimes you have to stay there for a very long time, and you need to occupy yourself.

So, we went to Moses’s Shack, that now looks more like a dump. A rocket hit the Shack directly. Since it was in an open field, no one even bothered to cover it on the news. They didn’t know that Moses put so much time and effort to build it for his friends. They don’t know that our friend Sean wanted to propose to his girlfriend the very same day the rocket tore it apart. If you look very carefully, you can still see the remnants of an eight-course feast and smashed glasses, shattered bottles… It didn’t stop us from gathering a few broken pieces of wood and improvising some chairs. Moses lit his hookah and we opened a few beers.

“So tell us, Raz, what’s it like there? Do they know? Do they care?” they all asked.

They were thirsty to know. They just got back from Gaza. Whole in body, but not in heart and mind. They wanted to know if Jews abroad know what happened, what is still happening.

“They do, my friends,” I replied quietly.

And so I told them about the solidarity rally we held at the Mandell JCC in Hartford for the three murdered teens. And about the bracelets we gave away and the contributions and donations we made. They smiled and their eyes widened. And after a long time, I could see the joy in their eyes again.

And they tell me this: It’s hard sometimes to remember what you are fighting for when you’re dogged down in a pit, getting ricochet from an RPG, and you can’t peek out because you know there’s a sniper there just sitting and waiting to see your helmet. Then you go inside a house, and you find a tunnel. And you know, you just saved the life of hundreds of your brothers and sisters. Or when you get a letter from a little child, drawing a picture of a soldier and a dove, writes “Thank you for saving us,” or you hear of 338 olim (new immigrants) from the U.S. and Canada, over a third of them young boys and girls about to join the army. That’s when you realize that there’s no other way, no other option. You are exactly where you need to be.

Israel and the Israelis are funny that way.

We sit in front of the TV, inhaling every piece of information about the situation, listening for the names of fallen friends. Then we go out to bars and try to forget.

We fight in Gaza like lions; then, we tear up when we see a small beautiful boy smiling at us from the TV screen and we read the news feed below his picture, telling us that this four-year-old boy, Daniel Turgeman, was killed by an explosion from Hamas mortars, while running for shelter.

We drive on the highway, to Eilat – our answer to Las Vegas – and pass S’derot Ashdod and the settlements surrounding the Gaza Strip, that are our first line of defense. These cities have suffered from never-ending rocket attacks for over a decade.

We go to the funeral of a Lone Soldier from Texas. Tens of thousands. Saying he was never alone. He is family.

A new oleh from Belgium takes his young boy to the kindergarten to celebrate his birthday – only to find himself using his body to protect his son and the rest of the kids from a rocket just fired at them.

We pass signs on the highway that don’t say, “Drive safely.” Instead, they say, “In case of a siren, immediately stop your car and seek shelter.”

We are a unique country, to be sure.

It’s been almost two weeks now since I arrived back to Israel. The IDF hasn’t called me up yet. They might.

If they do, I will gear up, kiss my mother goodbye, cut the line to get on the bus, and complain about the prices of coffee and gas. Then I will sign for my weapon and go defend my country.

We are funny that way.

Raz Newman is director of Israel Programs at the Mandell Jewish Community Center in West Hartford.