Day 23, as I write, and what is extraordinary is the way in which our new reality has become routine. By which I don’t mean that the pain has become dulled. If I am careless or undisciplined enough to follow one TV or radio story too many, I am still liable to find myself fighting back tears on a daily basis. And, yes, those individual stories of, on the one hand, unimaginable atrocities, and, on the other, inconceivable heroism, continue to surface, even more than 20 days later.

No, the pain hasn’t dulled. As one newspaper columnist put it, in the Shabbat supplement, the entire country is suffering from primary trauma, secondary traumatisation or collective trauma. On top of which, as Israel steps up its incursions into Gaza, the likelihood of more of our soldiers being killed or wounded is, once again, increasing

However, I don’t plan to write this week about the indescribable loss or the heroic altruism, or the trauma. I don’t even have any appetite to attempt political or strategic ‘analysis’. Instead, I just want to offer you a couple of snapshots of life under the shadow of the new reality, as the country becomes aware that this previously unthinkable reality is, for the moment at least, and for an indeterminate time to be, the new routine.

Overheard at the off-licence/liquor store. (Bernice and I are punctilious in ensuring that we always have a good supply of bottled liquid in the house; the Home Front Command suggested water, but we felt it was legitimate to interpret that liberally.) A conversation between the owner and a customer (these are both amcha – the ordinary man-in-the-street):

“Of course, it’s not enough to make sure your gun is ready to use; you have to make sure you have enough ammunition.”

 “At least they’ve relaxed the daily limit, and now you can buy 100 bullets a day, instead of 50.”

And I find myself feeling as matter-of-fact about that conversation as the participants themselves.

These days, when I am in shul, I find myself looking around to check which of the people who I know carry a gun are there. Since the mass call-up of reservists, our armed congregants are almost as likely to be carrying an M-16 semi-automatic assault rifle (the standard-issue Israeli infantry weapon) as a handgun.

Speaking of shul: we have started saying daily the Avinu Malkeinu prayer, normally said only during the 10 Days of Repentance and on fast days. This prayer comprises 44 supplications, each beginning Our Father, Our King; for example, Our Father, our King, forgive and pardon all our iniquities. The congregation read the first 14 lines as individuals; then the person leading the prayers and the congregation say each of the next 9 lines antiphonally (first the cantor recites the line, then the congregation repeats it in unison); then the last 23 lines are said again by each individual.

Now, for me this presents a problem, one I often encounter in shul. My Hebrew is good enough for me to understand what I am reading, but not good enough for me to absorb it instantly. I also have this madness that I like to think of my prayer as a conscious thought process, rather than a rote recitation. As a consequence, I seldom quite manage to keep pace with the congregation as a whole. I have various strategies for reconciling this situation.

In Avinu Malkeinu, I always read the first 14 lines at my own pace, knowing that I will be able to catch up with everyone else at some point during the 9 lines recited antiphonally. For the last 23 lines, I have no chance of keeping up, and so I usually read some of the lines without any conscious thought. This always includes five particular lines that I have never found it easy to connect with personally. They have always seemed to me to be harking back to some earlier painful period in Jewish history; I have always associated them specifically, for some reason, with the medieval massacre of the Jewish communities of France and Germany by the Crusaders on their way to the Holy Land.

In the new world we inhabit, these five lines have become, for me, among the most powerful lines in the entire prayer:

Our Father, our King, have pity on us, our children and our infants.
Our Father, our King, act for the sake of those who were killed for Your holy name.
Our Father, our King, act for the sake of those who were slaughtered for proclaiming Your Unity.
Our Father, our King, act for the sake of those who went through fire and water to sanctify Your name.
Our Father, our King, avenge before our eyes the spilt blood of Your servants.

We have also introduced, at the end of each service, the reciting of one or two from a list of eight or nine psalms that speak uncannily to our new reality. They serve as a vivid reminder of the majesty of the Book of Psalms in spanning the entire human condition.

These two acts of absorbing something additional into the daily routine of prayer make it easier to continue living day to day in these abnormal circumstances.

Changing the focus: I subscribe to two ‘weekly email update’ services: one from the National Library of Israel, and the other from the Academy of the Hebrew Language. (What can I tell you? I’m an intellectual snob…and if that hasn’t changed in 73 years, it’s unlikely to change now.) Both of these august bodies have succeeding in integrating the utterly new part into their particular same old with consummate ease.

In the world before October 7, both the Library and the Academy would always include in their weekly newsletters some item relevant to the season. So, the Library might present, from their archive, at Rosh Hashana, early 20^th Century New Year greetings cards, and discuss the iconography used to illustrate the cards. The Academy might discuss the origins of the names given to the various notes produced on the shofar, and list the correct names for producing music on other specific instruments.

Last week, the Library’s email, and their site, featured the story of the printing press at Kibbutz Be’eri, one of the kibbutzim most horrendously attacked on October 7. It’s a fascinating and uplifting read in English.

The Academy, on the other hand, (and I apologise in advance to those of you who have no Hebrew) looked at the slogans which have sprung up on motorway bridges and inspirational newspaper announcements: נעבור את זה ביחד (‘We’ll get through this together’) and יחד נצליח (‘Together we shall be victorious’).There followed a discussion of the relative merits, and interchangeability, of יחד and ביחד in these slogans. This was followed by a piece about the traditional farewell to soldiers going off to the army: שוב בשלום…..or should that be שוב לשלום. (‘Return in peace’ or ‘…to peace’, respectively)?

I can put you out of your misery by telling you that the Academy rules that the two (-ל-, ב, ‘in’ and ‘to’) are interchangeable in everyday use. However, they then follow that conclusion by pointing out that our Sages distinguished between the two, and they follow that with a detailed discussion of Biblical sources that indicate nuanced differences. I warmly recommend the analysis (in Hebrew, of course), which you can read here.

Aside from this, what adjustments have I made in my own life. Well, on Shabbat I now carry my driving licence with me when I walk to shul, so that in any circumstances I will be easily identifiable. When I go out in the car, I make sure I have a full water bottle and take it with me when I park and walk to wherever I am going, so that, whatever happens, I will have half a litre of water to drink.

Does all that sound slightly paranoid to you? Well, it sounds slightly paranoid to part of me, but there’s another part of me that is prepared to ignore that and do it anyway. Earlier this week, I read the new revised guidelines for eligibility for gun ownership and realized that I am probably eligible, thanks to my three-and-a-half weeks’ basic training 33 years ago and my several years of reserve duty. I then mused, for a short while, about whether I should apply for a gun licence. In this particular case, one glance at Bernice’s face when I ran that idea up the flagpole one evening led me to reconsider.

Since you ask, Bernice and I are doing pretty well. Bernice is basically using me to pass all relevant news on to her, and blocks out the radio, because she finds too much of what leaps out at her without warning too painful. I have cut down on my listening, and particularly viewing, drastically. There is a thrice-daily Hebrew-language news summary that is distributed by WhatsApp that keeps me pretty tuned in, and I catch the hourly news bulletin between times. Beyond that, I am striving to be very selective. (This news bulletin has, in the last couple of days, begun to appear in English as well. I highly recommend it as a non-graphic snapshot of the news in Israel.)

Because of our specific generational position and the ages in our family (including siblings’ families), the generation beneath us are just too old to have been called up, and the generation below them are just too young, so that none of our immediate relatives are at the front. This is, naturally, one less thing to worry about. However, when I think of our friends in shul and elsewhere, and our more extended family, and count those who have children at the front, I realise that this only means I have more spare worry that I can deploy to share their worry.

As part of my effort to keep a handle on normality, I feel I can resume offering you pictures of the grandsons, who are blessedly still too young to be aware of the times we are living in. Tao and Ollie were on the train to Lisbon for a couple of days, and Raphael was on the train in gan, where he is now really feeling at home.