October 7th

It's a sunny Saturday morning, and there's a siren. I think I must be imagining it, wake my husband. Yes, it's a siren. We don't have a plan for how to get three kids to the bomb shelter, two floors down. The baby is only six months old. "I'll grab her," I say, "you get them."

He goes to wake the big kids, urging them out the door, to safety. 

We have no idea what's happening. Which is weird, because there are always warnings before rockets. Always. We get water ready, leave shoes by the door. Not this time.

A quick text to a friend tells me her husband is home--that never happens when there are rockets. Something is up.

We let the kids watch tv, hoping to buy some precious time to figure out what the hell is happening. Thank God for Nexflix.

The news is coming in, through texts from friends and groups.

The white truck, rolling through the south. Through Sderot. Men with guns. Terrorists, roaming an Israeli street.

OH GOD, I realize. My 18 year old host sister--she's in Sderot for the year. Maybe she went home for the weekend. The three minutes until I find out she's home in Haifa, safe, I barely breathe. 

The news feels fake. I flash back to 9/11, when I was a senior in high school, watching the second tower go down in real time. Is this another of those moments where the world splits into the before and the after?

Another siren. Down to the shelter. Remember to bring a yoga mat this time, so the kids can sit somewhere. The shelter is gross, smelly and unfinished. 

The baby is fussy. I sing to her, as I have for the last few weeks, over and over again "you are safe, you are loved, you are safe and you are loved." Did I bring this upon us by promising safety? Can I keep her safe? I have never since sung her that song.

"Yes, you can watch another show. Yes, you can have sugary cereal for lunch. And a snack."

And the horror starts, for real. Someone is dead. DEAD, we think? DEAD? How can someone be dead?

Siren. "Can we just stay in the stairwell? Do we have to go down to the shelter?" We go down, baby at my breast.

The numbers start to climb. By the time we have hit double digits, we are in shock. How can it be? 9 dead? 15? With no warning? We didn't know this was coming?

And the rumors pick up speed. Are they rumors, or is this news? Families are being burned alive in their homes. Families. Are being Burned. Alive. In. Their. Homes. No one is arriving to help them.

Some of the terrorists have taken their victims' cars, and are headed north. We live less than 50 miles from Gaza, less than a half mile from the highway, in a building with no security guard. Should we lock the front door? If they try to infiltrate and there's a siren, are we safer in our home with the door locked, or in the basement bomb shelter, accessible to anyone who gets into the building? What is the least bad choice? Entire families are being murdered in their homes. How do I keep my babies safe?

Where is the government? We can't stand Bibi, protest him with our kids every week. But surely, he will step up and lead. George W. Bush did after 9/11. Where is Bibi? Patriotism trumps everything right now, right? We're in this together?

We change diapers, check texts, try to go about our day. We can't really see straight. We don't know what is happening. We play at normal for our kids.

The kids ask to play outside with friends from the building. We consult the other parents, and together determine it's not safe for them to be outside, 50 feet from our building. I want to throw up.

By the afternoon, my husband learns that the reservists and soldiers are amassing at the main train station, also half a mile from our home. They're in uniform, guns ready, waiting for the trains that will surely come and take them to the south to fight. We're in this together. 

But no trains come. And we hear they're thirsty, hungry. It's a sunny, hot day. We can't have that. So we debate how much water to bring, and find the plastic cups, and throw in some snacks, just in case. Is it better to drive or walk? What's less dangerous? I say goodbye to my husband, try not to think too hard. He's not in uniform--he's just dropping off water. 

He comes back with stories of absurd surpluses of water and food. We aren't the only ones worried about our soldiers. Israelis always step up. 

There are no trains. There is no statement from the government. Where is our government? Why is the news only getting worse? WHERE IS BIBI?

People are missing. Missing? They've been taken. Alive. Into Gaza. By terrorists. 

The words don't make sense. Israelis in Gaza? Babies taken? Families being burned? Casualties don't number four, or six anymore. There's talk of hundreds. The deadliest day since the Holocaust. The Holocaust? But it's 2023. Jews are safe now. Right?

Another siren, but my kids are asleep now. They are cranky to be woken, and to have to sit in the overly lit, smelly shelter. There are three of them, and only two of us to hold them. Everyone wants to sit on my lap. I want everyone on my lap, as if my lap is a magical land where I can protect them.

A text from a friend: another friend's son. He's been taken. No, not taken. He's dead. Maybe he's been taken? 

Do I text her? What the fuck do you say to someone whose son is either kidnapped by terrorists or murdered by them? Days later, I will attend his funeral with friends and try to figure that out. There is no right answer.

I thank the universe my Dad is dead. This is unreal. As the news continues, I realize every single story would have destroyed his gentle heart.

I feel like I did when he died. I'm in shock. I can barely eat, drink, make sure my children do. 

The next day, when I go to the grocery store quickly for essentials, promising my children that I'll go to the one that has a shelter, everyone looks the same. No one talks, smiles. The world has shifted, and we all know it.