Aliza at the memorial
Tiberias, October 2002

We’re here with my platoon at a memorial ceremony for our friends. Adi Avitan, Benny Avraham, and Omar Suad were kidnapped exactly one year ago. The ceremony is so we can call out to them in Lebanon, letting them know they have parents, friends, and many other people waiting for them at home. Hopefully one day they’ll come back into the arms of those who love them. We must keep this hope for their safe return. Sometimes soldiers are kidnapped, and every day soldiers die for the cause of peace and security in Israel. Like they say in the song: “I have no other country, even if my land is burning. I will not stop crying out because my country has changed its face. Only a prayer in Hebrew penetrates my veins and my soul. With a pained body, with a hungry heart, here is my home.”

Warda and Rasha on the boardwalk
Jaffa, September 2002

We always come to the beach on Friday. We go to an Arab school, but it ends early on Friday because of Shabbat [all schools follow the laws of the Jewish state]. It’s good because Friday is also a holy day for Muslims. Our families usually have a picnic here that lasts until evening. We have to stay modest, so we swim with our clothes on. We love Tel Aviv and would never want to live anywhere else in the world.

Yussie in the Old City
Jerusalem, May 2002

My whole family is back in America. I was just there, and everyone — my friends and family — was trying to convince me to stay. They were afraid for me to go back to Israel because of the situation. I understand why they worry, but I tried to explain to them that my heart and soul are in Israel. I can’t live in America without this part of me. That’s why I am back in Israel. As I see it, a person has two ways of living: either with their mind, or their heart and soul. I am happy with my decision. I have to and will always follow my heart.

Journal entry 20

Maryanna
Safed, October 2002

I was born in Lebanon, but don’t remember what it was like. I like Israel and my friends here, but my parents want to go back to Lebanon. My sisters and brothers speak Hebrew, but my parents can only speak Arabic. Yesterday we went to the defense ministry in Tel Aviv, three hours from home, with other Lebanese families living in Israel. My parents want more rights. They need secure jobs and help, as they were promised after my father fought for them in the war. My parents are afraid to go back to Lebanon because people may think we are traitors. My parents say we didn’t really have a choice.

Ron in his backyard
Kfar Meishar, May 2002

I’m one of five quintuplet brothers. I just arrived home for the weekend with all my brothers. It’s really hard for my mother to have her five boys away in the army. I don’t think she sleeps much at night. It’s my ninth month serving in the rescue team unit with my brother Oz. My other brothers, Shay and Ziv, are in the military intelligence and Dor is in the artillery forces. Getting used to the army wasn’t hard for me. After all, I was used to living with many people in one room. But being away from home and my family is hard. 

It’s a real honor and privilege to protect my country, the country that rose out of the ashes of the Holocaust. Israel’s purpose is to be home to all the Jews in the world. It’s the only place where Jews can be responsible for their fate, which makes this duty so important to me. My wish is for a better future and quiet times for Israel. A little anecdote: I think Hebrew and Arabic are the only languages in the world where the mutual greeting is the word peace. All that’s left is to implement it.

Journal entry 13

Michal
Tel Aviv, July 2003

The day that changed my life was November 22, 2000. My girlfriend and I went for a walk after work in Hadera where I was living. A car bomb exploded by the pizza restaurant we were about to enter. All of a sudden, the place that used to be my home, a safe and fun place to live, became a war zone. It starts with a big boom, which changes your life completely, or ends it, as in the case of my girlfriend. I was in intensive care between life and death. Then a miracle happened and I learned that life is a gift. I don’t always feel this way. Coping with life like this is not easy at all. I am trying to overcome my own obstacles daily, sometimes with success, but not always. In any case, I am trying. Maybe a day will come when I will arrive where I want to be. And that is to go back to a normal life, a life as much as possible like my life before that terrible day. It is almost three years later, and I am waiting for another surgery. I am hoping to be able to stand on my own with my prosthetic legs.

I don’t think the fact that I was in a suicide attack makes my opinions more relevant than anyone else’s. Actually I am not interested in politics at all. The only thing I can tell you is I want this fire to stop and this war to end. I don’t care how.

Ben and Gil on a break
Rosh Hanikra, August 2004

Gil: We’re just resting in our room, after hours of being on duty. We’re combat soldiers stationed at the border of Lebanon. Even though it can be hard here — days can go by without us even taking our shoes off to sleep — we have made friendships that are as thick as blood. We would die for each other. Unfortunately our girlfriends just broke up with both of us. It’s probably because of the army. We never get to see them. Hopefully, when we’re done with our service, we will travel together in Australia and New Zealand.

Ben: There are only three things that scare me: G-d, civilian life after the army, and my mother.

Kinneret
Tel Aviv, January 2004

At the age of twenty-three, I celebrated my birthday in Sinai with my boyfriend, Tal. I was a student of reflexology, and a bartender on Allenby Street. I lived in an apartment with Tal and two dogs in Tel Aviv. 

Now, at the age of twenty-five, I am a victim of terror fighting for my independence, with many years of rehabilitation to come. I am burned on seventy percent of my body. I just celebrated my birthday in the park with a very select group of people. Because of this group’s belief and love for me, I realize there is a reason to live, and to live at any price.

“I am the prettiest girl in my class” — that’s a line from a famous Israeli song. I’m a girl who likes to laugh and have fun. But this girl is actually not a girl anymore; I am a woman who is newly aware of her own power. This power exists in all of us, if you are put to the test. I am as happy as I have ever been in my life. I won the knowledge to discover exactly what I am worth; to understand that although there is so much suffering in the world, there is also much happiness and joy. I feel blessed to experience both deeply. Like my best friend in her wheelchair says, “There is an angel in every one of us, and we, the crippled, are the ones who learn this.”

My goal is to show the world that the force of life is stronger than everything. And love — the will to live is all that really matters. No religions, no borders, no nothing, just this.

Samar and Rawan
Hebron, December 2003

On Thursday, July 19, 2001, we were returning home from a relative’s wedding, happy after a great night. We were taken by surprise by a Jewish Settler’s car; they opened fire at us. I didn’t see anything but a flash and then I felt warm over my entire body. I woke up in the hospital. They told me three were killed in the car, and my daughter Amira was injured. Rawan was fine, but she almost bled to death. I was shot by four bullets, in the back, shoulders, pelvis, and colon. Thanks to God, we are still alive. I am lucky. But I am thinking now about my daughter’s future. How is she going to live with a deformity? I try to give my children a normal life. I do not want to teach them to hate. I do not want my children to hate Jews. We used to live well, without any trouble with anyone. But then the disasters came to us.

Madelaine and her brother
‘Akko, September 2005

I am eighteen years old, and live at home with my mother, father, and five siblings. I love ‘Akko because it is on the water and a mix of many different people live here; Arabs and Jews live together in peace and brotherhood. Maybe the sea helps people feel more calm and peaceful. My two best friends are Jewish and they treat me like a sister, not an enemy. They are going to the army next year. I will do my civil service (Muslims can’t serve in the Israeli army) in a children’s day care. I love children, and I love listening to romantic and classical music. I hate the war in Israel and I would like to live in peace in the future. I believe it’s possible.

Journal entry 3

Dimet family in the park
Tel Aviv, September 2005

Guy and Netta: We have been a couple for seventeen years. Both of us found ways not to join the army, but we became total outcasts because all our friends and family had this experience that we could never relate to. We work together, making animation shows, so hopefully one day we’ll be able to work abroad. We’ve wanted to leave for a while because of this horrible and tense situation here. We want our children to grow up healthy and happy, and that can be challenging. We stopped reading the newspaper and watching the news months ago, because it’s just too painful and depressing. We’re much happier this way. We take the kids to the beach all the time. They love the sea. If there wasn’t this daily war, Israel would make a great vacation destination.

After so many years of war, why can’t we just all move on? Stop the occupation and maybe they will stop bombing. Every day we change our minds about our future. Now we are just trying to be Zen and take each day at a time.

Journal entry 150

Vared with her family
Moshav Rinatya, July 2006

Vared: It’s been a week since the war in Lebanon started. It took us all by surprise. I can’t believe this is happening again, just when I thought things were improving in Israel. I live here on the moshav [village] with my parents, brothers, and fiancé, Avital. We have eleven cousins visiting from Haifa so it’s pretty crowded. They didn’t want to leave Haifa, but then a Katyusha rocket hit next door, so they came to stay with us. We live an hour south, so for now, we are safe. I am just nervous that Avital will be called up by the army. It’s the phone call I am dreading. Some of our friends have already been called. One minute you are living your regular life and the next you are called and told to be ready in twenty-four hours to go to war.

Avital (On the left, with the dog): I am getting prepared for the call from my officer. Nobody was expecting this war. But that’s how it is here. We never know what tomorrow will bring us. Life is so unpredictable here. We’ve learned to live with this reality. After my three years in the army, from age eighteen to twenty-one, I traveled in South America for nine months. In the second month of traveling, my cousin (who is like a sister to me) was severely wounded in a terrorist bombing. Everyone kept it a secret from me. Nothing could have prepared me for the shock I got when I returned. I understand now why they didn’t tell me when I was away, but I still feel guilty. So you ask how I feel now about the situation and possibly going to serve in the war, well, I don’t have a choice, so I can either waste this time thinking about it and be depressed, or enjoy it with the ones I love. We don’t know what the next moment will bring us, so why not enjoy life while you can?

Journal entry 4

Haya and Hannan
Jaffa, July 2002

We’re twin sisters. We go to the Achva [friendship] school in Jaffa and are ten years old. We have some Jewish neighbors who are nice to us, but there are others who aren’t so nice. The Jews and the Arabs fight, even though we are all the same. They fight about nonsense. We hope to have peace between everyone.

Bitanya
Tel Aviv, September 2005

I am twenty years old, and emigrated from Ethiopia to Israel at the age of nine. I feel completely Israeli and Jewish in every way, even though I made aliyah [Jewish immigration to Israel] at a relatively late age. Right now I am living in Tel Aviv and studying dance. My dream is to be a professional dancer — the type of dancer that as soon as people see her, they feel the same kind of inexplicable magical energy that I feel when I dance.

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot and have reached the conclusion that my family and I have been through some pretty difficult times. We came to Israel for a better life. Starting life in a new culture with a new language, especially when you look very different from everyone else, is so hard. I don’t think it’s normal to be totally cut off from an identity you thought you’d have for the rest of your life. But really, I wouldn’t change it for anything. All this has made me stronger and into the person that I am today.

I recently made a trip to Poland. While I was standing in the former gas chamber in Auschwitz, there was a group of girls praying in Yiddish. Even though I couldn’t understand the words, this prayer had so much power. It was then that I no longer felt divided, but finally connected. I believe you don’t have to be born Jewish to have a Jewish soul.

Journal entry 138

Masadi with her daughter
Fureidis, July 2002

I am thirty-five years old and the mother of six — five daughters [Hannan, one of the five, is standing to the left] and one son. I’ve worked for many years in Zichron Yaakov, the neighboring Jewish town, for the same family. They have become like family to me. We attend each other’s gatherings and celebrations — birthdays, weddings, funerals. Some people in my village think I shouldn’t be working for a Jewish family. Although we live in Israel and are happy to be citizens, some think we should stay loyal to our Palestinian brothers and not be friendly with the Jews. I tell them: to hate is easy. To love is hard. You have to be strong to love.

Siaham
Fureidis, August 2006

Siaham (pictured left) with her sisters and son: I know I look different (it’s been four years since the last photograph). But I am still the same person. I don’t dress in traditional clothes anymore. My husband prefers that I don’t. He thinks I look younger and prettier like this. Right after school we married, and I have two children now. I keep in touch with my film teacher. She moved to Tel Aviv and I moved to Daliet el Carmel, which is twenty minutes away from my family in Fureidis. Today we are in Fureidis for my friend’s engagement party. We may stay here because it’s getting scary (we live close to the Lebanon border) and we have trouble sleeping with all the sounds of sirens and bombings. I don’t understand the point of this new war. So many innocent people are being killed and losing their homes, Arabs and Jews. Although I am Israeli and support Israel, I have friends in Lebanon, so it’s difficult to think about what they are going through. I feel conflicting things all the time.

Journal entry 38

Journal entry 18

Murad
Hebron, April 2004

It was February 22, 2002, the first day of ‘Id al-Adha [Islamic festival marking the culmination of pilgrimage rites]. I bought a plastic gun with the money my family gave me as a gift for the holiday. I was playing with my friends. We were all carrying plastic rifles. I guess the soldiers thought it was a real gun because I was shot by a bullet in my knee. I used to be an excellent goalie. I really miss playing soccer. It’s depressing when you realize you can’t do what you used to love in the past. Sometimes I get really sad when I think about my future. It’s unknown what it will be.

As far as the peace process is concerned, I don’t believe the negotiations with Israel have been useful. I blame the loss of my foot on the occupation. Once we have our own state, with no occupation, then there will be a possibility for peace with the Israelis. It all depends on this. Then you will not find Palestinians thinking of revenge.

Tal and Moran
Tel Aviv, May 2002

We’re Tal and Moran, twin sisters, both in the army. In this picture, we had just arrived at home for our weekend off from the army and were getting ready for Shabbat dinner, a time when our entire extended family gets together at our house. Our father built this community, so all our relatives live close by. We look forward to these Friday night gatherings with the cousins all week. We try to come home every other Friday. Going to the army at the age of eighteen puts a huge responsibility on our shoulders. It is a big honor to have the opportunity to give back to our country that we love very much, but it also gives us a whole new perspective on life. We have to become adults in a very short amount of time, but learning this kind of commitment feels good. These aren’t such good days for Israel. The future is uncertain.

Families on Jaffa Beach
Tel Aviv, August 2003

Ruth (woman with children piled on top of her): This is our favorite beach in Israel. We live in Tel Aviv and always bring our children to this particular spot. It’s special because it’s mixed and our kids can play with the others, no matter what religion they are. I think the beach and sea are what saves everyone in this country. Here at the beach all the problems are neutralized and they can just be kids. In this country, kids have to grow up too fast. That’s why this place is so important to us. We come at the end of the day for the beautiful Mediterranean sunsets. For this short time, we can forget about what’s going on down the street.

Noam in her yard with some neighbors
Tel Aviv, May 2002

I’m twelve years old. I have an older and a younger brother. I am here in our yard and we are all taking turns on the swing. Mica and Tom are on the blanket waiting for me. I know there are always horrible things going on in this country, but the truth is I don’t feel it. I think we live in a little bubble in Tel Aviv. Especially when I hear stories about what my grandfather went through. His whole family was killed in World War II and he was put in an orphanage in Czechoslovakia. He doesn’t talk about it, but my parents tell me. When I think about what my family suffered through, I feel like we live in a fairytale here. By the time I’m old enough to serve in the army, maybe there won’t be a war going on. I wish for that.

Journal entry 5

Journal entry 6

Alma Beach
Tel Aviv, July 2002