On Morale and Chickpeas  

I’m a health care worker, so when the war started, I had to come in to work Sunday morning as usual. I expected the clinic to be empty, but that wasn’t the case. Person after person slumped in, usually needing some kind of semi-emergency care that couldn’t wait, and slumped out again. Everyone was dejected, anxious, angry, or afraid.

“What do you say about our wonderful army now, eh!” one elderly veteran soldier bellowed, waving his cane. “How did this happen? How did it happen?”

There was nothing I could say.

“I just can’t. I can’t,” was what a number of clients said, apropos of nothing. Sometimes, when barrage after barrage of missiles hit Ashkelon, both I and whichever patient was in the room instinctively stood listening, waiting for the bombing to end. Boom. The clinic shook. Boom, boom, boom. One, two, three. Silence. Onetwothreefourfive. Silence. Silence. One-two, bam, bam, bam.

By Monday afternoon, I was depressed. I was frightened, like everyone else. My kids were home, like everyone else. And on top of everything, I seemed to be absorbing everyone else’s misery.