When my phone rings at odd hours, like 7 a.m., my heartbeat takes off
I live in perpetual fear of the rumors.
They’re like icy bits of snow, blowing from phone to phone, swirling between buildings, among people huddled together in conversation, until they land, melting into freezing wet droplets on my shoulders, my face, my heart.
Gone are the days when I dismissed rumors as just that: rumors. On Simchas Torah we heard bits and pieces of bad news — terrorist infiltration, hundreds killed, soldiers kidnapped — and I immediately said, “Okay, let’s not get carried away here. None of this is possible. None of this could be true.”
And I was wrong. So wrong.
There were moments of relief. At the beginning of the war, when they said Hezbollah Radwan fighters had landed in the Golan heights, and it turned out to be a random group of paragliders, or when Pikud Ha’oref accidentally sent a message for everyone to go into their safe rooms and stay there until further notice.
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