A visitor (of which there are very few these days) might comment on how relatively normal life looks in Israel, even after a year of war. The beaches are full on Saturday afternoons, coffee shops are bustling each morning, and children shriek with joy on the swings at the park.
If you live here, you know things aren’t as they seem. Despite the sunny skies and vibrant streets, there is a thread of anxiety strung through us all. Beachgoers pause as an accelerating motorcycle hits that same opening note as the air raid siren, wondering if they need to run. If you listen in at the coffee shops, you’ll hear every conversation end up at the War. The kids enjoying the park are accompanied by a parent making a mental note of where the nearest shelter is, should they need to go.
Needing to rush to a shelter, even in central Israel far from the two fronts, is not all that unlikely these days. In the past week, we’ve been in our shelter four or five times. Most of these were in the middle of the night, the result of Houthi missiles in the air and one Iraq-sent drone that exploded in the suburb south of us.
Nighttime sirens take a few seconds to seep into your dreams before your body is triggered into action. Is that what I think it is? Your sleepy mind wonders. Then, without wondering, your body leaps out of bed, scrambling for pants, glasses, and shoes. Pick up the baby. Go. With siren-induced adrenaline and muscle memory, you can accomplish all that in around 8 seconds.
Israelis have become accustomed to instability and sudden changes in plans. Last Tuesday, every person in the country received a message on their phones from the Home Front Command in big red letters:
“STAY CLOSE TO A PROTECTED SPACE
Minimize movements, Avoid gatherings”
And then to reiterate:
“It is required to stay next to the protected space.”
The message came around 6:30 pm. I went home from the park. Around 7, there were reports of a terrorist attack in Jaffa. Around 7:15, missile sirens began wailing. We were in the shelter for around 45 minutes as Iranian missiles exploded overhead. Not sure if the terrorists had been caught, Tamir and another neighbor, both armed with handguns, stood guard by two entrances to the shelter.
The stint in the shelter was jarring, but the terror attack was devastating. Seven dead. 16 wounded. It happened at a light rail stop a few minutes from my house, next to my supermarket. Two of the victims were mothers from the neighborhood. We were in some of the same mom Whatsapp groups, which were now collectively grieving and rallying to organize donated milk and support for these newly motherless kids.
Nadia had been with her five-year-old daughter when she was killed. Inbar was wearing her baby, just a couple of months older than Romi, in a front pack. She turned to protect him and was shot to death. Another train passenger who survived the spray of bullets pulled Ari out of the carrier and ran with him until she found a police car to take him to a hospital. Inbar was well known in the local mom community because she led mommy and me fitness classes, usually with Ari tucked against her chest.
How many times have I been at that same stop, with my baby strapped to my chest, taking the train home after a long day? Countless.
The next day was Rosh Hashanah, but we didn’t go anywhere.
I didn’t hear anyone wish anyone else a “Shana Tova” this year. I heard people wish for a quiet year. A better year. A safe year.
A year in, and really, nothing is better. We have more worries, not less. More uncertainty, not less. We each have a map of shelters running in the background of our minds. Radio alerts of rockets interrupt every song, but we don’t miss a beat. We are weary, we are depressed. The little optimism we have we’re not really sure we believe in, like waking up with a sore throat you hope will go away but know it probably won’t. What can we do besides drink our coffee, go to the beach, and keep slogging through the mud of war, day after day.
This Rosh Hashanah, no one dares to wish for a good year. We know it won’t be good. But if we’ve learned one thing this year, it’s that time is a gift and one not everyone receives. So we simply wish for another year. That might have to be enough for now.
