Published originally in Hebrew: Haaretz, Family and relationships section, July 9th 2024.
Almost three years passed before moments of tranquility began to emerge. Moments that allow retrospective contemplation on how life led us here. Where is here? Currently, the ropes connect us to the dock on the banks of the New River in Fort Lauderdale's city marina. A few weeks ago, we crossed the Gulf Stream after five months in the Bahamas, back to Florida; in two weeks, we'll ride that same Gulf Stream all the way to New York, Boston, and Maine on the northern East Coast.
Life at sea taught me that home isn't a place—it's a feeling you carry within you, no matter where the anchor drops.
For three years now, we haven't had a permanent address. Every now and then, we have an address at a random marina where we can receive some packages. For three years, we've been traveling everywhere mainly by wind, carried on water waves in our floating home. Three years of being four people - a couple of parents and two small children - together all the time on one boat.
"Sister, hand on my heart, I prefer being in war than on a boat with kids," my beloved brother told me honestly, during one of the hundreds of times I urged him to visit with his family. This isn't the first time I've heard such statements. I also hear "there's no way I could be with my partner on a boat 24/7" quite often. And sometimes rightfully so.
Our life is a dream, studded with small moments that feel like nightmares. There are moments when I feel trapped, especially during storms, without any ability to be alone for a moment. On a boat, like on land, the tired parent's refuge is the bathroom; but on a boat, unlike in an apartment, closing the door isn't enough - because children might appear through the ceiling window.
Be Thankful
Then, eight months ago, from across the ocean separating us from you, October 7th arrived. It shattered everything for us too. Nothing is the same anymore. The delicate balance that we managed to create in boat life for fleeting moments collapsed along with the world we knew before.
Feeling trapped? Stop complaining. Be thankful that you and your family are alive and have a home. Be thankful that the home you chose floats and can move and that you can't be displaced from it. Be thankful that you chose to leave earlier, and didn't have to deal with the guilt of leaving during wartime.
It's hard for you and the kids are exhausting? Be thankful you're not in captivity. The kids don't like what you cooked? "Be thankful you have anything to eat at all, there are children..." I say and stop myself just before telling them about the children who aren't eating at all.
These are the tiny children I pray are still being held alive, or those in Gaza who burned in the fire at the Rafah refugee camp. The waters carry everything straight to us. Including unbearable pain.
Living at Sea
It's difficult these days to talk about what it means to live on a boat. Living at sea means planning your food far in advance. It means cooking seven days a week, three times a day. No restaurants, no deliveries, and you can't just pop to the grocery store, so everything needs to be calculated and planned.
Living on a boat means agreeing that all plans will change according to the wind. It means making a range of decisions at every moment that directly relate to your personal safety and that of your home. It also means being together with each other, parents and children. Without breaks. Without kindergarten. Without framework. Without grandma or aunt nearby. It means homeschooling, or sea schooling, or world schooling. Whatever we call it - for better or worse, it's our responsibility.
Between waves of chaos and moments of peace, I discovered what it truly means to belong.
It means you can't go out for dinner with a friend, or go for a beer with a buddy. No work to escape to. Well, there is work, but it has to be done from the boat, in a place where it's very difficult to isolate children's noise. Living on a boat means your partner becomes your co-captain. I think it's a bit like working with your spouse, only much worse.
Since October 7th, living on a boat means that for nine months now, I have received every alert: rocket warnings in the cities around Gaza, reports of attacks within Gaza, drone incidents in southern Israel, and rocket launches in the northern part of the country. I also receive the military-approved "cleared for publication" notices about casualties and updates about soldiers and civilians who were abducted by Hamas. During this period, it also means living in a warm international community where people ask me about what's happening, want to understand the situation, and even express sadness and compassion.
I feel like I'm only half listening. As an Israeli, living on a boat today means living with a bleeding, bubbling, and burning wound. Just like living on land. And when I dig deep within myself, a friend from Sarajevo reminds me that there were atrocities in Kosovo too. "I know what it's like when your home is at war," she says with glistening eyes, quickly averting her gaze to put on the smile of the half of her that exists here and lives on a boat. "In wars, there are no winners," she whispers to me.
Opmerkingen