My Last Cigarette Ever
On endless cycles of war
“I promise you, my little girl, that this will be the last war.”
- Haim Hefer, Israeli lyricist, 1973
When I was addicted to nicotine, I lost count of how many last cigarettes I had. I would promise myself I was smoking my last one, and a few hours later I would light another. That one was the last one too.
Announcing to myself that it was the last one is what gave me permission to smoke it. If I had admitted I was just having another cigarette in a long line of cigarettes with no end in sight, I would have had to look at the fact that I was an addict. So I told myself a story that made each cigarette possible, without looking at the fact that I was smoking packs of cigarettes.
The cigarette gave me a few minutes of what felt like peace in a nervous system that could not sit still, enough to function, to keep moving, and to avoid the discomfort with myself that was hiding under the surface. The nicotine didn’t help me process my pain, it helped me avoid it. And when I avoided it, it grew.
Over time, the interval between cigarettes shrank because the discomfort came back faster and harder. Eventually I was not getting any relief at all, I was just trying to stop the withdrawal from the one before, endlessly trying to avoid confronting the reality underneath.
Growing up, each war arrived carrying its own promise of finality, its own fresh certainty that this one would end the threat. They all passed, and the next one came, and it too was going to be the last.
Announcing it was the last one gave us permission to fight it. If we had admitted we were just fighting another war in a long line of wars with no end in sight, we would have had to look at the fact that we were addicted. So we told ourselves a story that made each war possible, without looking at the fact that we were smoking packs of wars.
The wars gave us a few years of something that felt like peace in a collective nervous system that could not sit still, enough to function, to keep moving, and to avoid the discomfort with ourselves that was hiding under the surface. The war didn’t help us process our pain, it helped us avoid it. And when we avoided it, it grew.
Over time, the interval between wars shrank because the discomfort came back faster and harder. Eventually we were not getting any relief at all, we were just trying to stop the withdrawal from the one before, endlessly trying to avoid confronting the reality underneath.
What Israel believes is “peace” is really just the moment between wars that the society cannot tolerate, because that is when the reality that has been in denial surfaces again. It needs to keep fighting, because the quiet between wars is where the grief, guilt, and existential dread of what was done and what is being done live.
The next last war, like my last cigarette, keeps reality from landing.
ייסורים
آلام
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Great comparison! The "last one" could go on forever --- unless one wills it to be that.
Thank you.
Insightful metaphor! You are an excellent writer, Daniel!