The intangibles of the war can’t be measured - opinion

We never imagined Simchat Torah in Mitzpe Yeriho would turn into a day of sadness. I’m not talking about Simchat Torah 5784 (2023), when all the Jewish people were devastated. I’m talking about this most recent Simchat Torah, 5785 (2024), when the Jewish people were relatively safe. In our small town, the news hit like shattering glass that one of our soldiers, Aviad Neiman, a father of four little children, husband to a young wife, and son to one of our founding families, had fallen a few hours earlier in Lebanon. 

For the second Simchat Torah in a row, our lives were ripped apart. The army came to notify the family in the middle of the night, but in a small town like ours, no matter the hour, the news spreads quickly. If not for the family’s insistence that the usual dancing of the festival should continue, all 13 synagogues were prepared to close their doors and limit the joy of the festival. 

Our community had already entered Simchat Torah saddened with loss. Yishai Mann, 21, a son and brother in our community, was taken from us just two days before we lost Aviad. Both Yishai and his father served in this war, and his loss at such a young age, filled with so much hope and promise, shook our town.

A week of festivity was quickly turned into a week of funerals, and joy was turned into sadness. We tried to stay happy, but it was impossible. The pain overtook us all. 

A year ago, Mitzpe Yeriho went through the same shock that many communities like ours experienced. At first, a few individuals in the security services began getting early morning notifications that there were attacks and they were needed in their units.

As the hours went on, a larger picture of Israel at war spread through the town. Residents were told to go home and get their guns and phones. Then people were told to evacuate the synagogues and lock down at home. More soldiers were called back to base. Eventually, reservists were called to the South, and the news was definite – Israel was at war. 

As rumors of the losses in the South began to spread through the town, our security team noticed Palestinians coming from Jericho towards our town. It was unclear if the caravan seen from afar was coming to avoid the other exits from Jericho, which were closed by the army, or if they were coming to attack our town. Very quickly, the war was at our doorstep. 

It wouldn’t be until the next day that we were told that one of our precious young soldiers, Ariel Eliyahu, who was stationed in his tank that morning on the Gaza border, was one of the first casualties of the war. Ariel was an angel, and he was taken from us without reason.

Immeasurable losses

As the first week of the war began, residents of Mitzpe Yeriho were informed of siblings, relatives, and friends who had been killed on October 7. As the week went on, and weeks turned to months, and months turned into the first year, our community did what it could do to move forward and cope with our losses, the hostages being held from us, and the war that raged around us. 

Ironically, although the world generally thinks of towns like ours, over the green line, surrounded by Palestinians, and requiring sophisticated security technology to keep the enemy away, as dangerous, Mitzpe Yeriho hasn’t had rockets or missiles fired at us.

We weren’t directly attacked on October 7 or since then, although many of our residents, including three of my own children, were targeted by Palestinians in terror attacks. The first time sirens went off in Mitzpe Yeriho was when the Iranians fired missiles at Israel. Mitzpe Yeriho is a relatively safe place. 

Over the course of the war, Mitzpe Yeriho has lost four soldiers. Ariel Eliyahu was killed on October 7 in his tank. Gideon Ilani, a soldier with six children who grew up in Mitzpe Yeriho and whose parents live here, was killed fighting in Gaza at the start of the war. Yishai Mann, 21, lived in Mitzpe Yeriho since he was four years old and was killed in Gaza this month. Aviad Neiman was a 31-year-old father of four who was born in Mitzpe Yeriho, married a girl from Mitzpe Yeriho, and was killed last week in Lebanon. 

Our community has been in a state of depression this week. Hundreds of Mitzpe Yeriho residents attended funerals; thousands are paying shiva mourning period calls. Mitzpe Yeriho schools have resumed after the Sukkot vacation, but all classes are missing kids who are sitting shiva for a parent or sibling. Mitzpe Yeriho children are missing after-school activities and clubs because they are visiting their friends who are sitting shiva. 

As mayor of Mitzpe Yeriho, I had to learn the inner workings of city budgets, sewage lines, and navigating building permits on the job. There are no classes offered in these areas for new politicians, and there are certainly no classes offered to new politicians covering tragedies like the ones we have faced this past year.

On the other hand, as an interfaith hospice chaplain, my CPE training has given me the tools to help people with their grief and loss. It is a service I’m proud to offer to my friends and neighbors but one I never wished to give. I feel more like a counselor these days than a community-elected representative. Yet, even with my training, when the losses are so personal, it is difficult to help others. Our community is suffering. 

The successes and failures of the war can be judged by the numbers. It is easy to measure how many people have been killed, how many people have been taken and are being kept hostage, and how many people have been injured.

But the intangibles of the war can’t be measured. The pain of family, friends, and neighbors is immeasurable. The confusion, exhaustion, and depression of a community can’t be calculated in numbers. 

Like many communities, our community lies in shambles. Yes, we’ve had the joy of the festival and new births; there will be bat and bar mitzvahs in the coming weeks, and even weddings. Yet all the joy will feel overshadowed by the losses. Our community is suffering, and while we know we’ll eventually heal, the recovery will take a great deal of time and pain. 

The writer is a certified interfaith hospice chaplain in Jerusalem and the mayor of Mitzpe Yeriho, where she lives with her husband and six children.