It was one of those nights where the most pressing concerns revolved around whether to indulge in another helping of strawberry ice cream (we did), if we could squeeze in another game of Go Fish before bedtime (we could), and which story to choose between King Bidgood’s in the Bathtub and Where the Wild Things Are (we opted for both).
Their hair was still damp from the shower, eyelids growing heavy when the siren blared.
No. This is not a drill. This is not a drill. This is not a drill.
Living in Israel means constant vigilance, especially with a terrorist organization positioned just an hour away; an organization that has spent the last decade targeting our country. Everyone here—regardless of their background as Muslim, Christian, or Jew—becomes a potential target.
What’s astonishing is that just as I learned to “Stop, Drop, and Roll” during my childhood in California, my children immediately know how to react when the sirens wail through the night. They sprint to their flip-flops neatly placed by the door—thankfully, for inexpensive slip-ons. My daughter struggled to put hers on, so I scooped her up while my son and I hurried out of our home, past the purple scarecrow built by my children “to keep the rockets away, Mama, so they don’t hurt us when we sleep,” navigating over rocky terrain to a public bomb shelter.
Yes, you read that right. We have a public bomb shelter.
Like everyone else in Israel, bomb shelters are commonplace. The air raid sirens, the Iron Dome system designed to intercept incoming rockets before they reach civilians, and safe rooms—they all form part of our daily lives. Just as we approached the shelter, the ground shook. Literally.
STOP. DROP. AND ROLL.
No, keep running until we reach safety.
“Red Alert, Red Alert,” sang my children. “Hurry hurry hurry because now it’s dangerous. Hurry hurry hurry, to a safe area.”
While I learned nursery rhymes like “The Wheels on the Bus,” my kids are familiar with songs that instruct them on what to do during a rocket attack.
“Breathe deep, it’s ok to laugh!” they chanted as we entered the shelter, joining other families.
The blast rattled us, and my daughter screamed—a horror movie kind of scream, the type you’d expect when a monster emerges from under the bed. These rockets represent our true monsters, aiming for direct hits.
Inside the shelter, what could we do?
We munched on Pringles and drank chocolate milk. We played Go Fish with our neighbors and prayed.
In Judaism, we have a saying: When life becomes overwhelming, you first cry. Then you get angry. Finally, you laugh. And with wide smiles and laughter, we navigated through the chaos.
As news spread via WhatsApp that a rocket had struck less than a five-minute walk from where we had just been enjoying strawberry ice cream, we bypassed tears, skipped over anger, and went straight to laughter.
There really is no alternative.
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In summary, navigating motherhood in Israel involves a unique set of challenges, particularly in times of conflict. The ability to adapt and find humor amidst fear is a vital skill for families living in such environments.
Keyphrase: Motherhood in Israel
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