A Walk Through The Park

It's early evening, and I set out with Sushie for a walk through our park. I enjoy going there at this time, listening to a podcast or an interesting audiobook, or just feeling at one with nature. We have a lovely park with verdant lawns and tall trees and paths to amble up and down while alone with our thoughts.

Sushie pulls me past the new building housing the "Assisted Living" residents and those in nursing care. This is the time when the caregivers bring out their charges. Avi. a tall man who used to work for the Mossad, walks arm in arm with Melanie, his caregiver, a cute young thing who could be his granddaughter. They chatter constantly. What can they be talking about?

A man walks by with his dog, "That's twice we've passed each other. Next time you owe me an ice cream!" A woman with mobility issues sits in her scooter reading her book. People trundle walkers; some sit or lie in wheelchairs, sleeping, dreaming. Like the "lilies of the field, they toil not, neither do they spin".

A group of Uzbeki caregivers sit under a pergola. They chat and laugh with one another and Face-talk on cellphones, with their families back home. A beautiful lady shows me a picture of her daughter's wedding. "Look at her dress," she says, "Lovely, isn't it?" I agree.

I can't imagine what it must be like as a migrant worker living so far from home, and in a country at war.

I wish the caregivers would include their charges in their conversation, but when I watch closely, I see, that in some limited way, indeed they do. Simmy sits with her arm around her old lady. "Are you cold?" she asks, adjusting her shawl. Another strokes the forehead of a little old being with closed eyes. "Hello Ima," she says.

They're all busy stroking, adjusting, kissing and gentling the people in their care. I am filled with gratitude for them. I hope their employers treat them well. And I pray, "May they be kind to me when I can no longer speak for myself."

Sushie and I stroll along the path. Thin sprays of water splatter the lawn and I can almost hear the young shoots gasp as they strain toward the precious drops of liquid. The relentless summer has been so hot and dry. I think of the young soldiers who fight for us, clad in heavy uniforms and shlepping army gear wherever they go.

It is not in spiffy condition, my park. Some of the disrepair is seasonal; we're moving into autumn and the bark of the Eucalyptus trees peels in wads, leaving a surface as fresh and smooth as a baby's backside.

"Did you hug your tree today?" The shrubbery along the back of the park is not well-watered. Why are so many covered in sooty mold or scorched? Why don't the gardeners pull them out? The park doesn't need a shrubbery if it can't be managed. Perhaps water-resistant cacti would be more appropriate.

I love the frisson of air as it tickles my skin. The sky is already navy but clear. The buzzing I hear overhead is only a colorful sky-glider who has no gravitational fear. Our park is far from picture-perfect. But I like it this way. Wild, untamed. In tune with nature. In tune with the spirit of Israel, hostage to a relentless war of survival.

A helicopter's whirr reminds me that all is not well with our dear little country. Here, in our retirement haven, we live with the illusion that all is serene and secure. We tell ourselves there are people looking after us. That's one of the reasons we came here, isn't it?

But not far away, four soldiers were killed and dozens injured when a drone targeted their base at dinner. They were only rookies, inexperienced young men still wet behind the ears, beautiful boys who could have become fathers and doctors and builders and creators. I feel so sad. Why are we humans still engaged in such senseless killing?

Why does mankind continue to cull its youngest and best by feeding them to the cannons of war? What forces create and support the monsters who turn the world into a furnace destroying everything in their path? How dare some psychopath with power rob a mother, a father, a family, or a child of life? How do we raise our children to know it is the greatest evil to kill another human being, and then send them to commit mass murder?

Then suddenly, out of nowhere the chilling scream of an alarm bursts through my reverie. I knew what to do – get to a bomb shelter and stay for at least 10 minutes. But I am on the far side of the park and we only have 90 seconds to get to a shelter. I panic and run, pulling Sushie and repeating, "Let's go, quickly, quickly, come, let's go…!"

I forget the wheelchair-bound people and any concern about how they will get to safety. They move so slowly. We reach a shelter just as I hear the blasts. Vibrating waves of reverberating sound meant to kill.The missiles had to have landed somewhere. But where? I say to myself, "It's okay, we're okay, … it's okay."

Nothing terrible happened to us. I heard later that the missiles were intercepted a safe distance away. I reassured myself that Hezbollah would not waste expensive weapons on a bunch of defenseless old people, then later learned that a facility for the aged in Herzliya was hit by shrapnel. When we got home, Sushie ran straight to the safe room and crept under the bed, where she stayed for hours. Except to come out every few minutes to check on me and bark to tell me to join her.

I went for a walk in our park, glowing with well-being and thanking my good fortune for being able to buy a home in this beautiful village. I have everything I need: a lovely house, friends, and opportunities to explore new activities and interests. I love walking through our park and relating to the people who come, tzuspatseirin of an afternoon.

But in Israel today, a stroll is not just a stroll. I now keep close to safety, my body is poised for flight, and notice that the scorched plants have still not been attended to.

Sharon Bacher lives at Protea Village, a Retirement Village in Bnei Dror.