It was one of those delightful evenings when the biggest dilemmas with my kids were whether we should have another round of strawberry ice cream (we absolutely did), if we could squeeze in one more game of Go Fish before bedtime (we could), and which story to read—King Bidgood’s in the Bathtub or Where the Wild Things Are (we chose both). Their hair was still damp from the shower, and their eyelids were beginning to droop when the sirens blared.
No, this is not a drill. This is not a drill. This is not a drill.
Living in Israel means that we are in a constant state of vigilance, with a terrorist organization just an hour away, one that has been launching rockets at us for the last decade. It doesn’t matter if you’re Muslim, Christian, or Jew; we all share the same risk.
And here’s the wild part: just like I learned “Stop, Drop, and Roll” as a child growing up in Los Angeles, my kids know exactly what to do when the sirens pierce the night. They dart for their flip-flops lined up by the door—thank goodness for those inexpensive slip-on shoes! My daughter struggled with hers, so I scooped her up while my son and I rushed past the homemade purple scarecrow the kids built to “keep the rockets away, Mama, so they don’t hurt us when we sleep,” navigating rocky terrain toward a public bomb shelter.
Yes, you heard that right: we have a public bomb shelter. Just like everyone else in Israel.
Air raid sirens, the Iron Dome (which intercepts rockets before they can strike), bomb shelters, and safe rooms have become an integral part of our everyday lives. And thank goodness for them, because just as we approached the shelter, the ground quaked—actually quaked.
STOP. DROP. AND ROLL? No, we kept running until we were safely inside.
“Red Alert, Red Alert,” my children sang, “Hurry hurry hurry because now it’s dangerous. Hurry hurry hurry, to a safe area.”
While I grew up with “The Wheels on the Bus,” my kids have a catchy tune about what to do during a rocket attack.
“Breathe deep, it’s ok to laugh!” they chanted as we entered the shelter alongside other families.
We felt the shockwave, and my daughter let out a scream that could rival a horror movie—one you might hear when the monster emerges from beneath the bed. These are our monsters: the rockets that threaten our safety.
Inside the shelter, what do we do? We munched on Pringles and enjoyed chocolate milk. We played Go Fish with our neighbors and prayed.
In Judaism, we have a saying: when things get tough, first you cry, then you get mad, and finally, you laugh. With wide smiles and teeth showing, we laughed as our bodies shook from the blast.
When news broke via Whatsapp that a rocket had landed just a five-minute walk from where we were enjoying our ice cream moments before, we skipped the tears, bypassed the anger, and went straight to laughter.
Really, what other option do we have?