I am not physically at war, but my whole being is in a constant state of anxiety.
If I close my eyes, I hear the sirens, even though where I am there are no sirens; I hear warplanes, even though there is no war here; I smell fire, even though I am in a comfortable bed in the same bedroom I slept in as a child at my parents’ home in Italy.
I am not in a dangerous place, yet I don’t feel protected; I feel exposed and fragile. I walk around as if I were made of glass and could shatter into a million pieces at any time.
I am not lacking food or drink, yet my soul is starving. I am constantly searching to learn something new; to be inspired; to know more about the history of my people; to drink the words of famous prophets and rabbis; I feel the need to have them beside me, to lead me, to teach me about faith and God.
I am not lacking sleep, but when I shut my eyes awful images are suddenly screened into my brain.
I fell to my knees suddenly in the middle of the day, lacking strength, not hit by the enemy. I fell from the pain I feel in my heart thinking of what my brothers and sisters have gone through these past weeks. Children taken away from parents, mothers crying for their sons fighting a holy war, brides missing their loved ones, parents looking for their babies – they are all my family.
I have not been kidnapped, yet I am a prisoner of my thoughts which do not allow my mind to rest. I am a prisoner of my fears, and if I let them take over my mind I know I will lose this fight. I need to be focused and positive.
I know I am loved, but my husband is not physically with me. He is back in Israel, back in the army.
The most powerful army in the world called him back on October 8, and without either of us doubting for a second, he said goodbye to me, and the kids, and the dreamy vacation we were on – and left. My husband is not in a fighting unit, he is part of the Home Front Command. They deal with logistics and rescue. He is not in danger, but if he doesn’t answer my call or doesn’t leave me a message, I panic.
We are all in danger, and we are all protected.
I am not armed, but I have the right tools to protect myself and my loved ones from danger. I have my Tehillim (Book of Psalms) always with me. I pray three times a day, I seek God in every little thing I do, I feel God’s presence around me, around us, so much more than before, when life was different and the world seemed so loving and easy.
I constantly feel I need to protect my children, even if they are playing in the park. I sit restless feeding the birds as I watch them slide down or swing high as they laugh and wave to me. I smile back and want to cry. I thank God for each day I have been given to live, to breathe, to smile, to hug, to love, yet I know that everything can change in a second.
I miss my home in Jerusalem, my friends, my life; and I count the days, not knowing when we will go back. It could be next week, it could be in a month, it could be tomorrow.
I don’t know.
My parents want us close to them here. My husband is happy to hear the kids are happy in their new temporary school in Milan. My friends tell me to take my time and enjoy being in a country not at war.
I do, but I don’t feel safer here than in Israel.
Antisemitism is strong in Europe amid Israel's war with Hamas
There’s a strong wave of antisemitism in Europe. This time it is not the German Nazis, it’s the Arabs who declare openly in every square in Italy their desire to “kill all Jews.”
I walk in town quickly, holding my son’s hand and debating if I should take his kippah off and put it in my pocket.
I cannot believe that after more than 50 years since the Holocaust, those thoughts are now coming back to our minds in beautiful and educated Europe.
I decide to leave his kippah on. I am a Jew and I am proud.
A man approaches us. He must be around 25 years old.
“I see your son is wearing a kippah.”
I freeze. I stare at him and cannot respond. He sees I am tense and quickly adds, “I am Jewish, I am from Israel. I came here because I cannot go to the army…”
“Show me your ID,” I hear myself saying. He pulls out his Israeli passport.
I take it from his hands as if I were an officer at border control. After a minute, I give it back to him and smile.
“I am looking for a synagogue, I want to pray and put on tefillin,’ he says.
Now I want to hug him. I have found a brother.
There’s no more planning – we go day by day. The only plan I want to hear is a war plan to wipe Hamas off the face of the Earth forever.
We live day by day, thanking Hashem (God) for giving us life and a Jewish soul, for being on the right side of humanity, and for being part of the chosen nation, even though we are in pain and our hearts are crushed.
We will never forget October 7. It will stay forever in our hearts and minds, but we will come out stronger. We will be united, we will be more tolerant and less opinionated, we will love instead of arguing, we will hug instead of screaming and, hopefully, we will honk less when the traffic lights turn green.
I was the only driver in Italy honking when the light was about to turn.
I stopped doing that.
I stopped doing many things I used to do.
I have changed for the better.
Tomorrow is a new day.
The writer, originally from Italy, now lives in Jerusalem with her husband and four children. She heads HadassahChen Productions and hosts a weekly talk show on Arutz Sheva.