My heart wears an IDF uniform these days, but it doesn't live in my body. In fact, I don't know exactly where it lives, except that it's on an IDF base somewhere down South (I think).
It's a strange sensation, this displacement of the very core of my being. I go about my daily routine - brewing coffee, answering emails, chatting with neighbors - all while feeling oddly hollow. The cavity in my chest echoes with every news update, every distant rumble that might be thunder or might be something far more sinister.
I never understood the phrase "my heart walks around outside my body" until my son donned that olive-green uniform. Now, I know exactly what it means. My heart marches in boots too heavy for its years, carries a rifle that should be a schoolbag, and stands guard over a land that has known too little peace.
When did my little boy, who once couldn't sleep without his favorite blanket, become a lion himself - fierce, brave, and standing on the front lines of our nation's defense? The transformation happened in the blink of an eye, or so it seems. One day he was debating which university to attend, the next he was learning how to field strip an assault rifle.
I find myself studying maps of Israel with an intensity I never had in geography class. Every town, every base, every border becomes a potential location for my displaced heart. Is he there, where the desert stretches endlessly? Or there, where the sea laps at ancient shores? The vastness of our small country has never felt so enormous.
At night, I leave my phone's ringer on, breaking my own rules about technology in the bedroom. Every call could be him. Or about him. My sleep is light, punctuated by dreams where I'm searching endlessly for something I can't quite name but desperately need to find.
When he does call, his voice sounds deeper, more assured. He speaks of things I don't fully understand - maneuvers, assignments, codes that mean everything to him and nothing to me. But beneath the new vocabulary, I hear my child. In his laughter at a joke shared with fellow soldiers, I hear the echoes of playground giggles. In his frustrated sighs about a demanding officer, I hear the same tone he used when struggling with algebra homework.
Friends tell me I should be proud. I am, fiercely so. But pride is a poor bedfellow for fear. They coexist uneasily in my mind, jostling for dominance with every passing hour. Pride swells when I see him standing tall in his uniform, when I hear the conviction in his voice as he speaks of duty and service. Fear grips me when the news speaks of tensions rising, of threats on the horizon.
There's a new kinship I've found, one I never asked for but now cherish deeply. We are scattered across the country, mothers whose hearts have taken flight in uniform. We recognize each other by the worried creases around our eyes, the way we flinch slightly at sudden noises. In grocery stores, at bus stops, in line at the post office, we exchange glances that speak volumes. "Is your heart out there too?" our eyes ask silently. The imperceptible nod in return is both an affirmation and a blessing.
To the outside world, I probably look the same. I still laugh at jokes, still love Netflix and coffee, still plan for the future. But I am forever changed. I am a woman divided - my body here, my heart out there, somewhere in the sands of the Negev or the hills of the Galilee.
They say that to be Israeli is to know that every moment of peace is precious, that security can never be taken for granted. Now I understand that to be the mother of an Israeli soldier is to live this truth every second of every day. My heart may wear an IDF uniform, but it carries with it all my love, all my hopes, and all my dreams for a future where uniforms are no longer necessary.
Until then, I'll be here, going through the motions of daily life, while the best part of me serves on a base somewhere down South. At least, I think that's where it is today.