Caught Between The River And The Sea

Leslie Lisbona

The author and her two boys

Word Count 1643

In 1949, Beirut’s Jewish community was forced to leave their country. My parents ended up in New York City, some of my aunts and uncles went to Brazil, Argentina, and Australia.  Most went to Israel.

My husband, Val, born Vahid, is Muslim, from Iran.  We met at a party in Queens in the early 1990s and fell for each other.  Our marriage was not trouble-free.  He agreed to have Jewish children, but he didn’t come to our second son’s bris. We divorced soon after that.  Four years passed, and then one day we looked at each other.  I knew then that I still loved him.  He moved back in and we remarried.  We don’t talk much about religion or politics. We both know it is better if we don’t. 

Val and I have two sons, Aaron and Oliver, now 23 and 25. At the time of the massacre in Israel this past October, Oliver was away in Italy studying for a semester and Aaron was living at home.  They were raised Jewish, attending Hebrew school, having bar mitzvahs, and going on Birthright.  In the aftermath of Hamas’ attack on Israel, members of my extended family reached out to me about my children’s postings on social media. They mentioned things that were against Israel. Angry things. I blocked my sons. I didn’t want to see their posts. 

On Oct. 18, I woke to a message from my cousin, Hagai, who lives in Israel.  We became close on my first visit to Israel, when I was 17 and Hagai was 15.  For a while, in our twenties, he lived with my family in Queens.  We looked alike.  We used to catch each other’s eye and laugh for no reason. When our mothers died, we consoled each other with long distance phone calls. When 9/11 happened, he reached me by phone and told me he was there for me.  When I visited him in Israel in 2016, he gave me a tour of his home and showed me the safe room.  In my mind, his home was also mine, his safe room a place for me if I ever needed it. He had copied what Aaron had posted about Israel’s role; a genocidal nation, it read. Hagai said my parents would roll in their graves.  

I stared at the post and suddenly  lost myself. I became unhinged.  I screamed at Aaron. I screamed at Val. “It’s all your fault,” I said.   

Val tried to appease me, but I knew how he really felt. “Where do you even stand?” I asked him. After a moment I said, “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” 

I tried to make Aaron understand. “Hagai is my family, my cousin,” I said. “I love him.” 

“I don’t care about Hagai,” Aaron said.  

“Do you care about me?” I said. “I wish I could buy a ticket to Israel right now,” I said and ran to my laptop and typed in El Al.

Then I thought, Hagai doesn’t want me; Israel doesn’t want me either. I can hardly enter the country as I am a person of interest, a person who married a Muslim from Iran.   

I ran outside sobbing. My home felt unsafe, unstable. The sky was slate grey. I should have been cold. I could barely see where I was going. Feelings of panic and nausea rose in me. I considered the possibility that I might throw up on someone’s lawn. I bent over and looked at the grass until the feeling passed.  Aaron called, and I answered my phone. “Mom, don’t leave me,” he said. “I need you.” He burst into tears. Instead of throwing up, I cried with him. 

But it didn’t change anything. When I got home, I was breathing hard and coughing out my disjointed words. Aaron and Val tried to calm me. This was a reversal: I was normally the soother, the mediator, the de-escalator. Noises came out of my mouth, a strand of hair was clinging to my lips, spit spewed when I tried to speak. I had an urge to hit myself, pull at my hair. I was angry, disturbed, sad, crushed. Nothing made sense. I didn’t know how my life at home and in the world would go on.  

Aaron tried to explain his position without upsetting me. “Mom, you are a Mizrahi,” he said. “Aren’t we more kin to the Palestinians than to Eastern European Jews? We should protect them.” 

“Please stop talking,” I said and walked up to my bedroom. He followed me, his voice getting louder and more urgent, accusatory, hateful.  

“Leave me alone,” I yelled, hurting my throat, steam rising to my head, filling my pores. I felt dizzy and sick. I slammed the door on his face.  

“You are a racist Nazi,” I heard him shout.  

At night I watched as the hours passed and the sun came up. Everyone was sleeping. I had urgent things on my mind that I had no one to tell.  I woke Val, and he saw my torment.  He gave me a Gabapentin, which knocked me out for twelve hours, a dreamless sleep, leaden, only to waken to my own misery.  “You have to see a doctor,” Val said. I looked in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself.  

During the next few days, Aaron and I had talks that devolved into shouting.  

“Why don’t you ever post about the hostages?” I said.  

“You are right,” was his answer. “I should have.” 

“Why are you kicking Israel when Israel is already down,” I asked. My voice was no longer my own. I continued with less breath. “When did Zionism become a dirty word?” I shrieked, exhausted and wheezing. Val tried to intercede. I sensed disgust in Aaron’s gaze. Everything was out of whack, off kilter. I didn’t know who my family was anymore.

Aaron said, “Mom, you raised me to think openly.”  Now he was on the verge of tears. He was this way, this unrecognizable way, because of me. How did that happen, I wondered. I asked him if he still considered himself Jewish.  “Proudly,” he responded. He said something about not wanting what happened to the Jews during World War II to happen to the Palestinians. And that Netanyahu doesn’t speak for all Jews, and that he doesn’t want to be associated with the government of Israel. He was concerned about human rights, I heard him say, because he is Jewish, he felt the need to speak out. I couldn’t really absorb anything else.  I wondered how could I be so angry at my beautiful boy?

A day of terror was promised. A march took place worldwide by a leader of Hamas.  I called Oliver in Italy and told him not to march. I told both boys to take down their posts. There were protests in Grand Central and on college campuses: Free Palestine, From the River to the Sea.

I went through my jewelry box until I found my Star of David, a gift from a cousin. I had never worn it.  I put it on my neck, my hands trembling. I needed to talk to my parents. To make sense of what was happening. But they were long gone. “I need my parents,” I said to my husband, my head in my hands, my eyes swollen.  Val patted my hair, unsure of what to do with me. My father had been so wise. When I asked him something, he contemplated my words, his pipe in his mouth. My mother had been erudite, finding her glasses, willing to research and discuss. They once had the answers to all my questions. My dad used to say, if you scratch the surface, you will know someone’s true feelings. Now there was no surface to scratch. It was a gaping wound. The feelings were all there, out in the open, oozing and frothing. 

I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to look at anyone. I didn’t want to march for anyone. I hated everyone. Everyone scared me. I didn’t want to see. I sent my brother a text. Right after the attack, I had urged him to be open minded about Hamas. Now I had changed my mind. I told him I was sorry for what I had said.  He called immediately and said, “Okay,” and chuckled like I was his little sister again. He wanted to talk more about Israel, but I stopped him. “I can’t right now,” was all I could say.

I braced myself for Oliver’s return from Europe. But when he walked through the door, he dropped his luggage and took me in his arms.  “Oh, Oliver,” I said.  “Mom,” he said.

Aaron moved out of our house. I noticed that he has a mezuzah on his new apartment door. We no longer have heated exchanges. He is loving and attentive. He still shows me funny videos on Instagram, and we laugh easily together. “I miss you, Mom,” he says whenever he hugs me goodbye, and then he looks at me longer than usual, our little code that our feelings go beyond words.

Hagai and I have not spoken.

Everything is back under the surface, though not too deep. I still feel my misery, but 10mg of Lexapro dulls its urgency. I’m vigilant that the situation is not to be discussed around me. 

At night, I go to our bedroom early, close the door, read, stare, watch The Golden Bachelor, and then my heart slows down so much that I feel I can die in my sleep. My Star of David pokes into my neck, but I won’t take it off.  I’m considering buying a larger one.

Leslie has been published in various literary journals, most recently in Wrong Turn Lit.  She is the child of immigrants from Beirut, Lebanon, and grew up in Queens, NY.  Her work can be found on Substack: https://substack.com/profile/129102103-leslie-lisbona