“What it comes down to,” I said to my wife as I pulled on boots by the door, “is where do we want to ride out the apocalypse?” She made a sound in between a laugh and a sigh and replied, “I guess that’s about right.” I shook my head. We pulled on hoodies and called up to my parents that we’d be back soon. We were going for a walk; we had to go make a decision.
My wife and I are in Israel, where we’re both originally from, and we’d been planning this five-week trip for a long time. It was a chance to see friends and family, rest, eat good food, and feel the sunshine on our skin. But mostly it was an opportunity for those closest to us to meet our infant son. We’d been equal parts nervous and excited for the trip, but the planning helped us feel better, and so far things had been going swimmingly. Our child was in seventh heaven—we’d brought him to a country full of people who wanted to play with him and give him toys. The sun was shining all the time, which meant endless outdoor adventures—his favorite thing. What could go wrong?
By the time we arrived in Jerusalem (my hometown) for the final two weeks of the visit, Israel seemed to be shutting down.
As it turns out, plenty.
It started small: a family friend returned from Italy and had to self-quarantine. Then another friend. Then another country was added to the list, then another. By the time we arrived in Jerusalem (my hometown) for the final two weeks of the visit, Israel seemed to be shutting down.
Then my aunt, a seasoned travel agent with a major Israeli firm, called. “We just got an official notice,” she said. “Your airline is canceling all flights from Tel Aviv to New York starting the day after tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes.
“I can try to get you on a flight tonight or tomorrow,” she went on, “but it’ll be tough. Let me know what you want to do.”
Behind my eyes I saw the world as a series of doors sliding shut. It was up to us to choose a side and slide through at the last minute, like Indiana Jones. But where did we want to slide to? Should we stay here, far from our Brooklyn home with its familiar rooms, friends, sights, and smells? Who would care for our cat? What about work? My wife works as a composer from our home studio—how would she replicate that?
If the world is going to fall apart, maybe we want to be with family.
But if we did return to Brooklyn, on the other hand, that would mean leaving behind the support of family and friends here in Israel. With no childcare back home, we’d be stuck at home trying to work and take care of our baby at the same time. A global pandemic doesn’t exactly inspire us to invite strangers into our home to care for our child.
Not to mention, if the world is going to fall apart, maybe we want to be with family.
Not to mention, if the doors close, it may be months before they reopen. At least.
My wife and I are big believers in information. When in doubt, make a list, we say. So we spent a harrowing 12 hours researching. We called a family friend who is an epidemiologist, read the policies being implemented both in the United States and in Israel, checked in with our wonderful friends who are house-sitting in Brooklyn, read about the dangers of being on an airplane right now, contacted employers, considered the risks to infants and young parents, and on and on.
A storm swept up, seemingly from nowhere, and rain poured down on my parents’ home all night long as we pored over the data. At one point the electricity cut out—I guess the universe felt we needed some dramatic effect?—and we continued the conversation by candlelight.
Finally, we slept.
The next morning, after a first cup of coffee, we headed out to decide. Where did we want to ride out the apocalypse? Rain swept over us as we walked and talked. Wet feet be damned, we make our best decisions when we walk, and this was a big one.
When all was said and done, we did what we believed was best for our child. We’d been watching the U.S. government evade questions, lie about policies, and take its sweet time responding to a dire situation. In Israel, the government’s policies regarding COVID-19 are some of the most stringent in the world. As I’m writing this, the country is under severe lockdown and scores of people are self-isolating. Hundreds of tests are being carried out each day. To be sure, this situation is complicated and worrying for other reasons—nothing is ever simple in Israel.
We decided to find a way to iron out the logistics of it all, take a deep breath, and try to be OK with not knowing when we can return home safely.
Meanwhile, a friend who’s a family doctor in New York had described to me the lack of tests, lack of hands on deck, and lack of resources. We knew that taking a flight back was a health risk for all three of us, as well as for more at-risk members of our community in Brooklyn.
Staying put meant a great deal of discomfort and uncertainty, neither of which we relish, but we’d be avoiding risks that we couldn’t see ourselves taking. We’d have the support of our families, of our friends. We decided to find a way to iron out the logistics of it all, take a deep breath, and try to be OK with not knowing when we can return home safely.
As it turned out, there were no flights anyway. But coming to the decision ourselves, even before knowing that, was hugely empowering in a moment when everything else feels out of our control. If we’re stranded, at least it’s intentional.
So here I am. In the room I grew up in. Writing this from my childhood bed, across from family photo albums and stuffed animals, old CDs and vinyl records. My wife and child are downstairs, safe and healthy, with my parents. I can hear them laughing around the kitchen table. And no matter what happens out in the world, this feels right.
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