Facing Facebook In Times of War
"In order to get to Marilyn Monroe or music from last century, when we were young and the world seemed sane, it’s necessary to scroll through random postings from all parts. And that's a challenge."
By Pamela Peled
I’ve never been a big fan of Facebook. Perhaps it is because I am a naturally envious person, although I try hard not to be; somehow pictures of Me-plus-my-handsome-boyfriend/husband/whatever or Me-in-the-most-exotic-location or even Me-eating-some-prettily-arranged-sirloin-on-lettuce-leaves-drizzled-with-mustard-sauce just leave me cold. I can never see the point of posting about heavenly birthdays of long-gone parents, or even happy birthdays to those still around – if you’re friendly enough to note the day, why not pick up the phone and chat?
But I fully accept that this is a personal quirk, and probably one born from a meanness of spirit. I don’t have a gorgeous boyfriend/husband to parade to the public, and I don’t travel much to exotic places anymore… maybe I’m just a jealous wreck.
But be that as it may, during this unspeakable war in Israel, FB has saved my sanity, if not my life. Every night, since October 8th last year, I have gone to bed with my phone. I lie down and scroll through snapshots of other people’s lives until I come to “Reels” — and then I devour tiny snippets of The Nanny, or Friends, or Seinfeld till I’m blotto. Then I play some virtual hands of bridge and flip back to tempt sleep with clips of Gone with the Wind or Barbra Streisand hitting those exquisitely high notes. I’ll watch anything, anything! to blur the never-ending nightly recital of hostages dying in tunnels, funerals of fallen soldiers and victims of terror, and Netanyahu and Ben Gvir’s sneering faces.
It sometimes works.
Here in the unholy mess of the Holy Land we are so consumed with death and horror and fear that innocent sleep, sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care; sleep, the balm of hurt minds, has become a shrinking commodity. Sinwar has murdered sleep, and our appalling Coalition of shame has buried it. Bad news just keeps rolling in. We spend our days mourning; the gardener arrives with tales of his nephew, wounded in Gaza many months ago, and still heavily drugged against incessant pain. When the youngster surfaces another pain kicks in – the guilt that he survived to watch his best friend die in his arms.
These kids are 19.
We watch the unspeakable news over dinner; and feel guilty to swallow our pasta — how can we eat while learning of how Hersh and Carmel, Eden and Alexander, Almog and Ori were murdered in that godawful tunnel in the bowels of Gaza? How can we breathe?
We wake up thinking of our soldiers and our hostages, we make love thinking of our young girls being raped, we shower knowing that they can’t. We are obsessed; our minds are in a loop — whatever we talk about when we talk to each other we end up sighing and crying and fearful and spent.
So I turn to FB in the dead of night, to solicit sleep and to dream… but there’s the rub…
In order to get to Marilyn Monroe or mellow music from last century, when we were young and the world seemed sane, it’s necessary to scroll through random postings from here, there and everywhere. And that’s a challenge.
Here the notices are about shiva details for more dead, and pictures of our boys minus their legs and arms. Here people are sharing stomach-churning montages of our leaders galloping us into the abyss, or yet another jaw-droppingly insane comment by one of the Netanyahu ruling family.
Our FB friends from abroad are focusing on golf courses and cute shots of adorable puppies frolicking in the woods; children graduating from colleges, the inevitable, elegant white plate of quails’ eggs and cream. Etc.
In the early days I was insulted and horrified; how could friends — FB and real — be so insensitive about what they were sending out into cyberspace for all to see? Me at Niagara Falls! Having more fun than you!! (Unless you count tracking missiles that might land on our babies’ heads some sort of fun).
But today I’m not insulted anymore, and I’m not horrified. Today I’m just plain honest-to-goodness green-eyed with jealousy. We are bone-weary of this war, sick of hearing that ‘together we will win’ from leaders who tear us apart. We are done with coping with refugees from the north and the south; we want everyone home and tilling their fields. We want to forget about the dull tunnels long since scooped through granites which titanic wars had groined, and we want to tell the truth about the pity war distills.
We want to publish pictures with our stories for the world to see: ME ON THE MEDITERRANEAN HAVING A PITTA AND HUMMUS!! In the happiest place in the world.
I am itching to post. May it come to pass speedily in our days.
DR. PAMELA PELED is a journalist and author of four books, including For the Love of God and Virgins and Doing the Daf as Israel Implodes. She lectures in English Literature and also teaches Public Speaking at the Reichman University.
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