My family lives in one of the few places in Israel untouched by the physical effects of the war. We haven’t heard rocket sirens, seen rockets overhead, or faced gunmen infiltrating our village. It’s a strange, beautiful (albeit hot and humid) bubble of normalcy amid the nation’s anguish. From this bubble, my heart breaks for the victims of October 7 and the families shattered by a war that drags on, forcing men to serve over 200 days in a conflict they [may] no longer believe in.

And my heart is breaking for this world. It is a challenge to pretend that the world is good, to try to inspire hope in the next generation when this nation I now call home is weeping, when this nation is up in flames, and mostly, when this world makes me question the essence of humanity. How can there be such hate for those trying to rescue the innocent hostages held captive for so long?

I watch the news of the hatred targeted at American Jews and feel grateful that my children and I aren’t subject to this. And yet I don’t know if I’ll be able to protect them when the rockets from Lebanon are directed at the center, where we reside. Hezbollah’s rocket attacks are a real threat, one I have tried to ignore for the last eight months but can no longer do, as the place where I was vacationing with my family on October 7 is up in flames from nearly 250 rockets from Hezbollah. And still America is quiet.

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