We are not reading about war. We are living inside it.

I bumped into some neighbours last night, one of those casual encounters that begins with a few words and a bit of catching up, but then shifts almost naturally into something deeper, as we started talking about what we are all carrying.

The trauma we carry is different; they were more direct about it, while I found myself more dismissive, almost brushing it off, and only afterwards, reflecting on it, I realised that this too is a way of carrying it, or perhaps denying it.

For me, solace is in my blogging, and hopefully this reflection will make me —and those who read it —more resilient—if that is even the right word to use.

We are living in it—sirens, real damage, real loss of life—and a missile landed a few weeks ago next to our building, not something you read about or see from a distance, but something that happened here, a near miss that stays with you even if you don’t talk about it.

It doesn’t feel ordered; it feels random, almost like a lottery, where you go here, or you don’t, you hear the siren in time, or you don’t, and then somehow life continues, or at least appears to.

We function, we get through the day, each in our own way—some speak, some stay quiet, some dismiss—but none of us is untouched.

The Three Weekly Teaching Cycle

At the same time, we........

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