March 2024
I have no home. I don’t know if or when I’ll return to my lovely, pastoral apartment in Metula. After the fourth month of evacuation, I’ve lost trust and hope. Intrusive thoughts about starting over somewhere else are inevitable—I have no idea how much longer I can push them away before I’m forced to consider such a discouraging option.
I have no interest in being an inspiration, whether as an independent disabled person or as someone displaced from their home. I just want accessibility and a quiet corner, with a beer and some weed vapor (don’t worry, it is medicinal…) to take a break from all the frustration and uncertainty.
I found a nearby, accessible bar. I came with my electrical wheelchair, so I saved them a chair, parked in a side corner, and turned off the lights. I even had noise-canceling headphones on so I could be alone with my beer. It’s hard to broadcast “I’m a snob, leave me alone” more clearly than that.
Twice. two different people came over to sit with me and start a conversation. I appreciated the politeness, so I put on a show with some dark humor—some jokes about my disability, some venting about the overall feeling of despair, considering the situation in the country.
“Fascinating”, “captivating”, “spreading light” (not just from my wheelchair’s lights or my shiny bald head),”inspiring”. Great compliments and titles, though unfortunately, they didn’t always come with a free beer or meal. I know their curiosity comes from a much deeper place—probably waiting for me to solve the puzzle. When the questions start getting personal, I answer without hesitation and start asking my own…
“Do you have a disabled brother? Sister? Mother? Father? Aunt? Grandpa? Maybe one of your kids?” Like my disability percentage, the answer is 100% yes. I knew it! I reminded them of something lost or almost was, even though I was born disabled and never actually lost anything. But it seems that independence. Being a cynical always seems to attract those who know how exhausting it is to be an independent disabled person, even when it looks completely natural. With me, it’s okay to admit the struggles, the fears, and the anxieties—not just the inspiration.
I don’t have answers or life-changing advice. yet, just by listening, something changes in the other person. Sometimes a spark lights up, or you can see the relief on their face.
People. Who knows? I don’t even try to figure it out—I just don’t get it
Where’s your disabled person? Let me know while I try to survive this war outside. The war inside is already behind me, and my sense of chill is quite to be crowd-friendly. No problem—just make sure someone refills my beer.
This post was written by Nathanel Yermiyahu, who was evacuated from his home in Metula in northern Israel right after October 7th to a hotel in Tiberias, along with elderly residents, since he uses a wheelchair.