About the author Natanel is a musician, lecturer, and translator who lives in Metula on the northern border of Israel with Lebanon, and lives with cerebral palsy
In Tiberias, on the hotel rooftop, the dreams of returning home never stopped.
Sixteen full months of ongoing frustration, deepening depression—alongside small points of light with friends and family—and finally, the long-awaited return home.
Ironically, maybe the depression made those moments of light feel even brighter.
Who would have thought that eating pizza on a hotel rooftop while watching missile interceptions would become quality time with my nieces?
The batteries (Iron Dome units) fired five volleys.
The first two made me jump—there was a relatively long gap between them, so I relaxed for a moment.
I paid for that mistake with tight, aching muscles.
Almost a year of something like a ceasefire felt like a real vacation.
A small taste of a gray but comforting routine.
Not for long—it’s obvious.
The anxiety shows up in small indulgences: a few more snacks with the canned goods, a few extra items in each order, a couple more flowers on the table.
Cocoa becomes something you stockpile—it comforts you, helps you fall asleep.
You even let yourself have that liqueur you haven’t touched in months.
Soon enough, your routine will be interrupted again.
Again, no maintenance—no training, no physical therapy.
Again, the anxiety about losing function creeps in, though not like in Tiberias.
The standing frame locks your body in place, but it also calms your mind.
Here—you’re standing. The decline is held back.
For a few minutes, you feel like you’re fighting something—and winning.
The batteries fired three volleys.
I only flinched at the first.
The other two had already become part of the rhythm—the background noise.
Sometimes the intensity still catches you off guard—so strong your body reacts before your mind understands.
The muscles tighten again, this time inside the standing frame, so the pain spreads out more evenly.
The noise makes it impossible to focus on reading, and my head fills with thoughts.
Remember the job you didn’t get?
Doesn’t matter—you found other work.
Remember the house you never built?
You came to your senses in time—you still have your savings and some peace of mind.
Remember the one who didn’t choose you?
If only there had been just one.
Because you’re “just a friend.”
Because you’re “too much” for her.
Because, in hindsight, you’re the villain in her story.
Because you’re just one—and she still wants to experience many.
You wanted an exemption, didn’t you?
Well—you got it.
No responsibilities.
You were rejected—and along with that came freedom.
Suddenly, every rejection feels like relief.
You leave your mark and move on—not good, not bad, not even a fallback—just quiet, unobtrusive.
The thoughts keep running until the feeling in my legs disappears.
That’s it—the standing frame has done its job.
Just as the legs go numb, the mind can finally quiet down.
You’ve earned it.
This time, you’re not displaced.
No restrictions about vaping only on the rooftop.
As much as you want, whenever you want, however you want.
Who said you wouldn’t get to experience war on your own terms?
Not in small doses from a portable device, not as a ritual of preparing to go up to the seventh floor, not depending on the weather or worrying about the people around you.
Just decide when to fill a balloon with vapor
and blur the lines between day and night, between moments of calm and sudden sirens, between waves of despair and comfort.
Don’t forget—you’ve already lived through this on a hotel rooftop, and now you’re back on the ground floor.
Balance comes faster when you’re in your own space.
A breath of relief.
The batteries try to cut through the fog surrounding me.
I have no idea how many barrages have shaken the apartment—it’s all just white noise.
Right before I fade out completely, one last thought surfaces:
At least I’m not in Tiberias…