Solitude, Resignation, and Hope

For over a year now, we have been at war in Israel, Gaza, Lebanon, and Iran. The continuation of war has become a fixed, soul-crushing fact. Many of us have come to think more contemplatively as an act of survival, as a way to anchor our souls and psyches. I want to record my impressions and paint a picture for you of a particular experience of psychic loneliness that I have noticed accompanies all of us here, in varying degrees, during these most traumatic times.

I am talking about the painful solitude of being in a war outside our country while functioning inside Israel as a family-like collective. As a nation we are conflicted and divided, trying in different and difficult ways to preserve and change our home in order to find a way to live a life worth living. But even within our togetherness in this struggle, the sense of solitude does not dissipate. On the contrary, it is intensified. It is a solitude that I especially see mirrored in the experiences of my colleagues and patients who, like me, oppose and actively protest this war and our government's policy.

I cannot begin this essay, however, without marking the number of days since the date this war began. This is the count we all count. This is the count of the days of those held captive by Hamas. This is the count of days since October 7. Perhaps this is the basis for our sense of solitude. We are a wounded family.

On this, the 416th day of war, time has lost its natural progression. Days accumulate rather than pass, creating one endless day that offers no promise of a new morning. While the psyche continues its movement beyond time, even when appearing frozen, we find ourselves in an unprecedented reality where pain accumulates, despair creeps in, and blood stains the lands of Israel, Gaza, and Lebanon. Our protests, continuing for nearly two years, seem to fall on deaf ears. Our cherished home has transformed into an unrecognizable place where both sides have been drafted into what increasingly feels lik