by Osnat Raveh

My name is Osnat Raveh. I'm married to Dima who is a police officer and mother to 14 year old Niv and Lynn who is almost 13 years old.

Being married to a police officer and a mother to two teenagers is no easy task on any given day; add to that life in Israel and you have an extra portion of tension that includes working around the clock plus daily crime and terror.

When the three Israeli soldiers were kidnapped a couple of weeks ago, our everyday routine, which isn't that simple and peaceful anyway, was shaken badly.

Being a police officer's wife gives you the dubious privilege of knowing things before others. When my husband calls to tell me that he won't just be a little late getting home-he won't be coming home at all for the next few days-I know that something is happening or will happen soon. It's not that I know exactly what's going to happen, but just that it is going to happen, and then the tension level rises.

The first siren alert "caught" me and my daughter Lynn at about 10:00 pm. Niv was with my parents and Dima was at work. It's difficult to describe the feeling of a complete freeze-up of body and mind and the missing of a heart beat when you hear that first siren. It takes a second to get a grip on yourself. Then I start to make phone calls.  Having to hear that everybody is safe. When the checklist is complete, I can breathe easy once again.

Since that first missile alert, we heard several sirens and a few big BOOMS when the missiles landed in Nazareth.  Have we become used to them by now?  No.  Do we go on?  Yes. We must.

We try to create a routine within this crazy reality. For example, we opened a "club" in the building where I live. Whenever there's a siren we make sure everybody is there and, if necessary, we knock on their doors. We decided to adopt the British custom of 4 o'clock tea, as we realized that there was usually a siren around that time.

When people greet each other nowadays on the street or in a store, it's "Let's hope for a quiet, uneventful day".  Quiet is very meaningful now.  On the one hand we want and need quiet, calmness and peacefulness. On the other hand-when it's too quiet-we find ourselves on the edge of our seats expecting, anticipating the next siren, the next boom.

Dima is barely home and in addition to the regular tension we worry about his safety, as his work is where all the missiles are landing.  The remainder of the worries are devoted to the children.  You know, I think the biggest problem of all is that as parents, we are responsible for the kids.  Responsible for their security, for their health, for their happiness.  And I as a parent feel frustrated by the fact that nowadays, I am unable to do anything.  I can't prevent an explosion nor can I create a peaceful and quiet world for them.  I can only love my children to the limit and try to arrange for a comfortable living area.

On Sunday, Dima and I accompanied Lynn to the bus that took her to the airport, on her way to visit you, in Michigan, at Camp Tamarack.  Last year Niv traveled there, and saying farewell to him was one of the most difficult experiences ever for me, the emotions of which lasted for one month.  The few moments of light came, of course, with the pictures from the camp site-an unfamiliar feeling.  A small bit of relief, a bit of comfort. 

I am so happy with this project; it is both wonderful and important.  And I'm not only talking about the fun they have in camp.  I'm talking about the encounter between youth from Israel and the Diaspora; I'm talking about being exposed to Jewish leaders who are not known to secular youth in Israel.  I think that this group will have added value.  They bring with them the experiences of this recent period in Israel and now they are connecting with brothers and sisters across the ocean, all within the Camp's charming atmosphere.  I'm sure there will be something in this experience that strengthens them as people, Jews, and as Israelis (in that order).

I thank you so much for this project, and, as a mother, despite missing Lynn, I am so happy that for the next missile alerts I won't have to worry about her.

I cleaned the house today.  War or no war, there are things that have to be done.  I found a wooden stool that was once a project of Lynn's in art class.  The kids all received a simple stool and were supposed to convert it into what might be defined as an "Israeli stool". Firstly, Lynn chose an Israeli song called "The Children of the Winter of '73".  That was the year of the Yom Kippur War.  Then on the seat she wrote out a part of the song's lyrics:

You promised us a dove, and
An olive leaf,
You promised us peace
At home,
You promised Spring and Spring's bloom,
You promised us to fulfill
Promises.

Each generation we receive promises from our parents, who promise our children there will be Peace, there will be Spring.  Unfortunately, in our generation it looks like this will not be fulfilled, and it's chilling just how relevant this song is to our times, just as it was 30 years ago.  Personally, I prefer to see the portion of Lynn's creation where she painted two of the stool's legs in shining, bright colors, and decorated them with flowers. 

Let us all hope for days of Peace and bloom.