The unsung heroes of the war are, drum roll please, the children. Really. I have five kids. Three of them are under 12 years of age. My 11-year-old is in grade 6. He started grade one wearing a mask and was in school for approximately two weeks before his class went into “bidud” quarantine. Who even knew what that word meant before 2020?

On September 13, 2020, my youngest was born. A few hours after we got home with our newborn, my grade-one kid tested positive for Covid, and the whole family ended up in ‘bidud’ for however long, according to the regulations. Meanwhile, my preschooler, who changed kindergartens mid-year, didn’t even get the chance to fit in and establish his social circle, before Zoom and a gazillion hours of screen time took over. For my grade-one child, his only “normal” year of elementary school was grade three. Shortly after beginning grade 4, October 7 happened. And things have never returned to normal since.

My preschooler in 2020 is now 9 years old, and it’s only been a matter of months since he could finally take a shower unaccompanied, because for a long time he was scared of sirens. I guess that independence has left the building again.

So where are we today.

We’re in this strange national déjà vu where the adults keep saying, “It’s temporary,” and the kids keep thinking, Sure, just like the masks were temporary. Just like the two-week quarantine was temporary. Just like the “only a few days of Zoom” was temporary. Temporary in Israel has a way of unpacking a suitcase and asking where you keep the towels.

Here’s what’s wild. If you ask our kids what they remember, they won’t necessarily give you the headline version. They’ll give you the texture. The sound of the Home Front Command alert that makes your stomach drop before your brain even catches up. The rushed “shoes, water bottles, go” choreography that somehow everyone knows without being taught. The way you can be mid-math worksheet and then suddenly the teacher is a tiny rectangle on a screen again, trying to smile with her whole face while her eyes are doing something else.

And still, they go. They do the day.

They do their zooms because it’s now become their school routine and kids really do need routine. They argue about who gets the last pancake. They sit down to homework and immediately need a snack like they’ve just returned from an expedition to Antarctica. Ordinary kid stuff. And then, threaded through it, the not-ordinary stuff, like “Can you leave the phone volume on?” and “Is Abba coming home on time?” and “What if it happens when I’m on the toilet? Is it safe to poop?”

It’s the switching that gets me. How fast they switch.

A kid can be laughing so hard at something stupid on the couch, really belly laughing, and then a siren goes off and their whole body changes shape. No big scene. No dramatic announcement. Just a quiet little recalculation, like their brains are constantly running updates in the background.

We adults like to talk about resilience as if it’s some inspiring poster on a school wall. But watching this generation, I’m not sure “resilience” is even the right word. Resilience sounds like bouncing back. These kids aren’t bouncing back to anything. They’re growing up on moving ground. They’re learning to do long division and emotional triage in the same week. Sometimes in the same afternoon.

The other day I heard one of my kids say, totally casually, “It’s fine, I’ll just take my shoes with me.” Shoes. As in shoes for running to the safe room. Shoes for not stepping on broken things. Shoes for not being barefoot when your heart is already doing enough gymnastics for everyone in the family. He said it like he was talking about taking a jacket because it might get chilly later.

And there’s this particular brand of kid logic that’s both funny and devastating. Like when they negotiate: “Okay, but if we have to go in, can you unlock my tablet and give me extra screen time?” As if screentime is the correct currency to bargain with reality. As if a tablet is a reasonable insurance policy. So, yes, bring the tablet. And yes, I’ll increase your screen time limit while we’re in the safe room. Bring whatever keeps your hands and minds busy while the adults pretend they’re calm.

Because that’s another truth. The kids know when we’re faking it.

They know when our “It’s okay” is the kind where your voice goes a half-octave higher and you start cleaning the kitchen for no reason. They know when we’re scrolling too much. They know when we say “Just a sec” and it’s not a normal “just a sec,” it’s the “just a sec” that means a message came in and your brain is trying not to explode.

And still, they keep being kids. They keep demanding to stay up later at bedtime. They keep making sibling drama out of absolutely nothing. They keep drawing pictures, because apparently every child on earth is issued the same internal art handbook. They keep asking for a pet. (Five kids. In this economy. In this mental state. Sure. Let’s add a hamster and see who survives.)

I don’t want to romanticize them. They shouldn’t have to be heroes. They should be bored in class and annoyed about chores and obsessed with some dumb anime and worried about a math test, and that should be the biggest thing in their day. Hero is a title adults give when we don’t know what else to do with the fact that children are carrying things they never asked to carry.

But I also can’t look away from what they’re doing.

This generation is learning, early, that life can change in a single morning. They’re learning that grown-ups don’t control as much as they claim. They’re learning how to read a room with terrifying accuracy. They’re learning how to comfort each other, how to share, how to crack a joke at the exact right moment, how to keep going even when the calendar has been torn up and rewritten three times. They even know, by smell, which one farted first in the Mamad.

And they’re doing it while losing teeth.

So yeah. Admiration doesn’t even cover it. Respect doesn’t either. I look at them and I feel this mix of pride and heartbreak that sits right in the chest, heavy and bright at the same time.

Tonight one of them will probably ask me something normal, like what’s for dinner, and I’ll say “pasta,” and they’ll groan like I’ve ruined their entire life. Then they’ll eat two bowls. Then they’ll ask if they can watch a movie. Then they’ll fight about which movie. Then, at some point, either my wife or me will take them to bed and stand in the doorway for an extra second, just watching their faces go slack with sleep, and we’ll both think, “please let them have a childhood that doesn’t require this much bravery.”

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)