The lives of these babies are not always a fulfillment of that hopeful psalm, however. I was born in July 1973, in Virginia. When I was three months old, Egypt and Syria attacked Israel in the middle of the Yom Kippur fast, marring the holiest day of the year. A song written by my same-age peers as they entered the IDF in 1991 sang,“ We are the children of the winter of’ 73 … You wanted to refill with your bodies what the war took away … You promised a dove, an olive leaf, you promised peace at home … Now we’ ve grown, we’ re in the army with our weapons and helmets on our heads … when we were small you told us,‘ Promises must be kept.’” I weep every time I try to sing it.
The song debuted one year before the signing of the Oslo accords, before it seemed like those parents might finally be delivering on their promise. By 1992, it seemed entirely reasonable for those“ children,” some of them now officers, to be singing,“ We are also dreaming of babies.” Thirty-two years later, they were now sending those babies, the grandchildren of the“ parents of the winter of‘ 73” who promised peace, off to fight in another war.
And yet here we are, still dreaming of babies. Taking photos that circulate on WhatsApp and social media, sending meals in disposable containers to exhausted parents, and buying adorable outfits. Promising promises, like the one I made to those parents the morning of the shooting. Promises like Psalm 128:6:“ You shall see your children bear children and peace for Israel.”
44