We are all family here: Connecting with each other during wartime

One week every year we take a real vacation. Just the immediate family – us and the kids; no grandparents, cousins, or friends. We enjoy delicious meals and simply connect with one another, creating lasting memories and strengthening our family bond. It’s so important to take this special time as a family, free from distractions and obligations.

We usually go to the same place in Israel. As we approach our destination, the children are already squealing with delight. I switch to vacation mode as soon as the familiar scent in our hotel lobby magically signals my brain that we are back in our happy place.

Twenty minutes after checking in, the kids are already jumping into the big pool and I am lying on a lounge chair in my fancy summer hat, sipping a drink, thoughts lined up in my head to be processed, one by one. The gentle sounds of the adjacent marina and the warmth of the sun create a perfect backdrop for introspection and relaxation. My projects, goals, dreams, and fears dissipate under the summer sun as I slowly drift off into a restful siesta.

We are only an hour away from home and, technically, a 40-minute drive from Gaza, the war, soldiers, and hostages. The contrast between my calm state of mind and the chaos just a short distance away can elicit a whirlwind of emotions – guilt, confusion, anger, and ultimately the need to find peace. I do not want to hear, or speak to, anyone, I do not want to be disturbed or meet anyone I know – apart from the waiter who is about to bring me my second drink of the day.

“Yes, you can order burgers and fries,” I call out to my son, who is sitting on a large inflated swan in the swimming pool.

“Let us pretend we are normal,” I think, like Italians vacationing in Sardinia, or Americans in the Hamptons, without a care in the world.

But even a five-star hotel cannot change my nature and state of mind. My hands already ache to write, my mind is already looking for the next guest on my talk show, and my heart is thinking and praying for my brothers and sisters in pain. I need to feel like I have done something special every day, that I have fulfilled my role, the purpose God created me for. No fight, no win.

WORKING AT my laptop in the lobby, I notice a woman sitting alone. We smile, and our eyes meet. “I hope she doesn’t start talking to me,” I think as she asks where I’m from.

“Jerusalem,” I reply. (Why can Israelis never mind their own business?) “And you?” I ask, to be nice, not really caring.

“I am from Kiryat Shmona,” she says.

I close my laptop.

I step closer to her and smile. She must be in her late 60s, she’s dressed simply and looks tired. She doesn’t fit the image of a typical guest at the hotel. I shake her hand, and she looks deeply into my eyes as if we know each other.

“Ten months ago I had to leave my beautiful home,” she says. “We were brought to this hotel, and since then I have been living in a hotel room. A beautiful room,” she points out with a smile, “but still a room.”

“I miss my home, my kitchen, my cooking. I come down here to the lobby and watch the people passing by, and I wonder where they come from and how long they will stay. Eventually, they all go back to their homes. We remain here, and we do not know for how long – me and 80 people from Kiryat Shmona,” she says.

Another sad reality of this seemingly endless war that I had set aside, amid my own efforts to find peace and joy, are the evacuees from the North and the South of the country. Their plight triggers a wave of compassion.

The images of families torn from their homes and of children forced to leave everything behind appear in my mind, weighing on me, awakening sentiments of guilt as I try to savor my moments of peace. I am also just a tired woman – who wants to feel like a princess for the day

We order tea

I let her talk, she is very likable.

“I came from Morocco when I was 19,” she begins her story as she adds sugar to her cup. “I was already married. We went straight to Kiryat Shmona; we loved it. I had nine children, bless God. My husband died a few years ago; my children are now married; and I find myself alone in a hotel room.”

“At least it’s a nice one,” I try to be funny.

“I miss home,” she says, “although I have to say that they are all so nice to us here. We are spoiled and pampered. We can go to the pool and the gym, but what do I do with all this? I don’t like the sun, and I want to be in my kitchen and look through my windows into my garden.”

I take her hand and whisper in her ear, “You can join me in the kitchen... and I will stay in your room alone anytime.” We laugh and sip our tea like two English ladies in a fancy hotel lobby, without a care in the world.

For our family, every night at the hotel is costly, and we do our best to make our time there count, wanting never to leave. For the woman from Kiryat Shmona, accommodation is free, but she is longing to go home.

Everyone has their own story to tell. The hotel staff treats everyone the same; we are all family here. And no, we are not like the Italians in Sardinia or the Americans in the Hamptons.

It is in times of crisis that we realize how intertwined our lives are. In the face of overwhelming chaos and sadness, there is strength in unity. By reaching out and being there for one another, we help create a supportive community that can weather even the most difficult of storms.

And while the world faces its great challenges, my role in my own little universe is also important. Even with so many things at stake in the current massive game of world chess, my presence, my love, and my joy can have a positive impact on those around me, creating a ripple effect of hope and happiness, even in difficult times.

Certainly it helps if it’s with a cocktail by the pool.

Spread love and have faith. 

The writer, originally from Italy, lives in Jerusalem with her husband and four children. She heads HadassahChen Productions and hosts a weekly talk show on Arutz Sheva.