Wednesday, April 15, 2026
It was early evening, almost time for Havdala, when my 6-year-old granddaughter asked my daughter-in-law, “Can we go to school tomorrow?”
She’s a bubbly little thing, eager to get back to her friends at school.
“I don’t know yet,” my daughter-in-law said.
“Why don’t you know?”
“Because there’s a war.”
The way she said it caught my attention. As if it were a simple statement of fact—when nothing about it was simple.
A mother shouldn’t have to tell her child she might not have school because of war. And yet, there it was: the plain, unvarnished truth.
To a six-year-old like my granddaughter, war doesn’t mean sirens, headlines, and geopolitics. It means no school. No friends.
She looked down for a moment. Then she accepted it.
When she looked up and saw me watching, she called, “Come!”
She was already running down the hall, her bare feet pattering ahead of me—the sweetest sound I know. She turned to look at me, exactly once—confident I’d follow.
She was right.
She led me to the small sofa at the end of the hall.
“My Eema and Abba were supposed to go to Rome for his birthday,” she said. “But there was a war, and Abba had to go away. So Eema went with Sabba and Savta. Then Abba came home, and they went together.”
Watching my face to make sure I understood, she reached for the photo albums on the shelf beside us and pulled one down. Rome. Then another—Rome again.
After a moment, she reached for a different album.
The pages turned carefully under her hands until she stopped and pointed.
“I was a baby,” she said.
And then she turned the page.
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"He's an Anti-Zionist Too!" cartoon book (December 2024) PROTOCOLS: Exposing Modern Antisemitism (February 2022) |
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