Writing about food and specifically the joy of food in the context of all that we have been through in the last 18 months, are going through, well, I don't know, but just, Marie Antoinettish? Obtuse? Detached from reality?

My neighbours lost their son, the deputy principal at my kid's school was seriously wounded and hasn't been able to come back to teaching, relatives of other people I know are still held hostage by Hamas, others are still displaced from their homes, and I'm going to ponder ingredients and recipes, revel in a cake that came out just so and delight in gastronomy?

And yet food is so central to our society, to how we show care, show love. It's cliche to say it, but far beyond mere sustenance, cooking someone a meal is a way to send a hug. Every weekend thousands make homecooked meals for strangers, and others deliver these meals around the country, to the displaced, to on duty first responders, to reservists away from their families for weeks and months and more. We make meals for the bereaved, for reservist families who haven't seen their mother or father in so long, for the new mothers trying to hold it together alone, the families spending every moment by the bedside of a wounded child or spouse, Nova survivors locked in trauma.

Sometimes it feels like preparing food for someone is the only thing you can do because there are no words for such situations and a comforting fresh baked hallah loaf or pot of soup seems so much more articulate.

And now it's spring again and the Passover holiday is coming again but we are all still frozen in October 2023, time moves but at the same time we are shocked that it does so. And yet time moves and life must continue even if we aren't sure how.

Sometimes our days seem mostly normal, some days we're walking zombies because of 3am missiles from Yemen that send half the country running into the shelters.

The elementary school round the corner took the young kids on a little nature walk recently to recite the traditional spring blessing on blossoming fruit trees. Right there in the open they were surprised by a midday missile siren (the Houthis had mostly been firing in the wee hours) and all the children and teachers had to hit the ground, scrambling for cover, no time to get to shelter, listening to the massive booms of the defensive missiles intercepting the attacking missile, thankful that no shrapnel fell in our area and everyone was physically OK.

And then they all got up and continued their nature walk and saw the blossoming fruit trees and enjoyed the wildflowers and the flocks of migrating birds and the dancing butterflies. Because what else can you do?

So when I was asked if I could be a volunteer helper with the school's annual pre-Passover matza bake I had to say yes, These kids have been through so much, I wanted to be able to contribute to something fun and traditional, part of the typical spring routine that they enjoy every year.

I love the teacher who organised the bake this year, low key and very traditional in the way that he set up domed griddles over a bonfire, just as though we were camping out on our way through the desert after the exodus from Egypt.

The children made the dough and rolled it out, then used spiked rollers or forks to create the dots. Some of the kids insisted on rolling the dough out so thin that it tore and others made it so thick that it didn't quite bake through and still others just wanted to make the biggest pile of dough they could. And some got it just right. Not quite the rigorous sterile process used to bake strictly "kosher" matza used for the holiday itself, but enough of an insight into the process for young kids to experience baking matza.

And while the custom is for one to refrain from tasting matza between the Purim holiday and Passover, so that the matza will taste new at the Passover seder meal, the kids of course couldn't resist tasting their freshly baked creations. The teacher in charge also teaches gardening, so the pupils harvested some herbs from their school herb garden, then ground them with olive oil in a pestle and mortar to make a deliciously fragrant herb infused dip. Those children averse to green things could choose chocolate spread instead.

We were blessed with a bright quiet, calm morning of smiling faces and laughter, truly a taste of spring and the holiday of freedom.

 It's been quite a week, but while I wasn't able to go out with Leket this week, thanks to local friends driving I did get down to the Otef to volunteer in support of Israeli farmers.

This week I returned to a little paradise in the sand dunes of the southern Otef where Itzik works his magic growing fruits and nuts from around the world. Some are native, some come from distant regions like the Amazon. He grows them all with a botanist's love and a scientists curiosity combined with an engineer's practical problem solving. He sells plants to private individuals, gardeners and farmers, common "exotic" fruit trees and rare plants that he's learnt to adapt to Israel's climate and soil, along with new varieties he's developed himself.

With only one worker and a war going on a short distance from his home Itzik has struggled to keep his unique plant nursery going, but despite the war and recently suffering a heart attack his enterprise is thriving. Each time I've volunteered there he has more plants, more stories, more projects and more patents. Israeli agricultural innovation at its finest. It was an honour to help even a little bit with this incredible project.

A gentle breeze was blowing, the weather was a perfect 24C, the sun felt a little strong at times but we were working in the shade of a net house surrounded by cool, lush greenery. But the occasional distant thud boom of artillery, whirr of drones or roar of jets reminded us that fighting had resumed in nearby Gaza.

This whole region could be a paradise for all if only Hamas would let everyone focus on building life instead of their obsession with destruction and death.

Only in Israel #234234 Swords of Iron

After a long morning working on a farm in incredibly windy conditions our group stopped at the petrol station in kibbutz Kfar Azza for a loo break.

Along the horizon, behind the fields of the kibbutz you can just about make out the white buildings of Gaza's urban skyline on the other side of the border.

As the bus parked the red alert apps on most people's phones went off, though not mine.

For a second we all made the calculation of Gaza border + phone red alert = we must be under attack.

Except that there was no Red Alert in Kfar Azza. I was with a group from the Rishon Letzion area and their phones were pinging because rockets had been fired at central Israel with sirens in and around Rishon Letzion and Tel Aviv.
In Kfar Azza and the Otef it was calm and safe, no alerts.

We heard the very occasional boom of distant artillery from the war in Gaza.

Most people have their phones set to get noisy siren alerts for where they live, where they work, maybe where they have family.

As this was a group from Rishon Letzion and nearby areas their phones went off while my phone stayed silent.

We were standing in today's calm, quiet of Kfar Azza, along the infamous Route 232, ground zero for some of the most horrific events of October 7 2023 with everyone phoning their family in the Rishon Letzion area and Tel Aviv to check that they're OK because Hamas has just fired rockets from Khan Yunis in south-central Gaza toward central Israel.

Everyday tears

Sometimes it's the normal that brings the tears. 

Not the overwhelming tragedies, the horrors, the terrorist atrocities, the cruel fate of battle, the bone deep, heartsick pain we all live with since October 7. 

Sometimes, maybe even often, what brings the tears are the intrusions of normal life, everyday joys, peacetime routine or ordinary childhood innocence. 

The moments of repreve. The glimpses of a life that was. 

Like on Friday watching our traditional local Adloyada Purim parade. 

Last year it was cancelled due to the war and we substituted a much more low key event with just our school, a tribute to Israel and the many, many families and staff in the school with a parent or sibling, or both, or more, called up to emergency reserve duty. 

This year the mayor decided that the Adloyada would go ahead, despite the war and the terrible sadness engulfing the country after the return of several dead hostages, including Shiri Bibas and her two little boys Ariel and Kfir. 

As I have done for so very many years, even before I had children to take to the parade, I grabbed my camera and made my way down to the central palm tree lined boulevard closed off each year for the Adloyada. 

My younger kids and I found a nice spot with a clear view along the road ahead and were joined by an elderly relative as excited as the little children for the spectacle to begin.

As the first marchers and colourful floats came down the street though I made a new discovery. It's hard to see through the camera lens when your eyes are full of tears. 

The smiling children, the upbeat pop arrangements of Israeli heritage songs, the bright homemade costumes, the whimsical floats and handwritten signs - it all hit me like a sledgehammer of innocence, of the carefree peaceful days we all desperately long for, of normal life that seems like another world. 

A tumult of emotion that has been frozen, submerged, through wartime weeks and months of body blow after body blow. 

Every red headed small child, every Batman costume this Purim season has been a twist of the knife to the heart. It's feeling that agonising pang all over again, just like the day Shiri, Ariel and Kfir's bodies were returned to Israel after a sick Hamas gloating ceremony over their murders. And then the agony all over again of the pathology reports that confirmed that they had been murdered in cold blood, strangled by their kidnappers. 

Seeing the throngs of happy, smiling Jewish children strolling along in the Purim parade though I felt that surge of pain even stronger, a sucker punch of images of all the Jewish children Hamas murdered on October 7 and since who will never have another Purim parade. 

At the same time though I realised that I was also feeling something else, something I don't quite know how to express, but an opposite reaction to the pain and grief, though I wouldn't call it joy. It was something more profound, not pride, not elation, not victory.

For want of a better word I will call it an intense feeling of being alive. 

Of being a living Jew, a living Israeli rooted in my homeland. 

An awareness of the generations of Jewish blood flowing in my veins, an overpowering sensation of life, mine, my children's, my fellow Israelis in the parade and watching from the sides, of our connectedness like a an invisible mycelium, regenerating, carrying on even us pieces might be picked off or damaged. 

My children were fortunately enraptured by the parade and their "auntie" was too, all enthralled so much that they couldn't see how I was affected by it all, too overcome to speak, tears blurring my vision, my camera clicking on automatic even though I couldn't really see what I was photographing.

I wasn't really seeing the details through it all until suddenly everything came in to focus again, the signs of the group walking past in the parade "Am Yisrael Hai", "We are a nation of superheroes" - words from a popular, moving, wartime poem turned in to an anthemic song. The children and teachers had dressed up with simple capes and headbands illustrating the song.

It took my breath away again, lyrics that encapsulate so much of our nation's experience, a feeling of mutual care and responsibility, a sense of duty and purpose, a willingness to risk everything one has to protect our people and our homeland. This is why we are still alive, Am Yisrael Hai, because our superpower is that mutual care and responsibility, whether it's the thousands who've put aside their civilian lives to defend our country or the thousands more civilian volunteers holding the country together so that they can go and protect us.

The people making vast quantities of meals each week for the soldiers and their families, the people rebuilding the Otef and the north, the farm volunteers, the folks who go round the country each week to provide support and raise the spirits of the Nova survivors, the refugees, the wounded, the military families, the bereaved and the returned hostages and their families, even the huge numbers tying tzitzit because so many have asked for them.

It doesn't take a village, it takes a nation. This is our story, the nation of Israel lives. 

Alive!

 This song is a family favourite.

The other day I was watching this Eurovision performance with the twins and Twin Q asked me "Imma, it was such a long time ago, how did they know to wear yellow for the hatufim (hostages)?"

This is song is so much an anthem of the Jewish experience. At the time the song "Hai!" (Alive!) was chosen because of the deep symbolism of the Jewish state performing in a song competition in Germany, and not just Germany, but Munich. All around Europe and Israel Jewish viewers were not the only ones to shed some emotional tears at seeing Israelis singing "Am Yisrael Hai!" on German soil.

Since October 7th 2023 the lyrics are more relevant and more poignant than ever, exemplifying a Jewish ethos that maintains a hope and faith in a better tomorrow, that looks back on centuries of persecution and suffering through the lens of national survival despite each oppressor who has attempted to wipe out the Jewish people. This is the song of eternal Jewish optimism, always bittersweet, always with the thorns and the flowers, the honey and the sting, but nevertheless maintaining that hope for better times.

Our people just buried the brutally murdered Bibas mother and little boys, and the father of the Yahalomi family, and elderly Oded Lifshitz and day after day we hear of the horrors endured by the surviving hostages, those released and those still suffering Hamas captivity in Gaza. Hamas raises its head as though in triumph, with shiny new uniforms and guns and gruesomely staged hostages releases that look more like lynchings. We are surrounded by uncertainty and the constant threat that war will resume. This time of year I hear so many saying how to we even think of celebrating the upcoming Purim holiday under these circumstances? Hai, this is how we even think of Purim right now, we see it in the frame of giving thanks for the survival of the Jewish people, just like the Jews of the Persian empire did all those millennia ago after surviving Haman's attempted genocide of the Jewish people. Am Yisrael Hai, the nation of Israel lives.

Hai (Alive) peformed by Ofra Haza, Israel's entry to the 1983 Eurovision song contest hosted by Germany. (please excuse my very rough 3am translation)

Hear my brothers,

I still live!

And my two eyes are still focused on the light

I have many thorns

But also flowers

And there are so many years ahead of me

I ask

And I pray

It's good that we haven't lost hope

A hymn passes

from generation to generation

Like an eternal spring

Hai, Hai, Hai (alive, alive, alive)

This is the song that grandfather

Sang yesterday to father

And today it's me

Alive, alive, alive

I'm still alive

The nation of Israel lives!

This is the song that grandfather

Sang yesterday to father

And today it's me

Straight up anger and mourning should be a legitimate response to the gruesomely staged "release" of the living hostages and those returning in boxes. The ability to feel anger towards those who promote genocide against the Jewish people is basic self-preservation. If we can't feel rage against the savages who invaded our country, massacred, tortured, raped and kidnapped our people, burnt our yishuvim and our farms, put on sick public spectacles to revel in all these crimes, if we aren't allowed to be angry or can't feel rage, then how do we feel anything at all? How do we internalise the murderous hate directed against us and how do we defend ourselves from it? The anger has a purpose, the recognition of the utter depravity of the enemy has a purpose.

We have been taught that we aren't allowed to be angry at our enemy, we aren't allowed to even mention the enemy. We have entire memorial days where we mourn our losses without even mentioning the enemy once, without naming him, without pointing fingers - so and so was killed in a terror attack, so and so fell in battle, so and so was murdered in their home. But the enemy has no name, no face, no identity in most of these ceremonies. There's just an anonymous, amorphous force that culls our people. We focus on mourning the dead, remembering their lives, not on who took their lives, out of a fear that naming names of the enemy leads down a path to a hatred that gives way to revenge and the loss of our civilised humanity. Yet doesn't losing the ability to be angry at the monsters who did this, who continue to revel in this barbarity, show that we have already lost something of that civilised humanity? Isn't part of being a civilised human feeling rage at those humans who engage in inhuman savagery and brazenly trample on the concept of a civilised society? How do we protect ourselves, defend against an enemy intent on our erradication, if we are not allowed to feel anger at what this enemy has done to us?