Last night as I was falling asleep, Josh walked into our room and told me that Gan was cancelled for today. I asked why, expecting it to be due to the 16th vacation day taken by the Ganenet this month. Instead, I was told that it was because of the Home Front Command guidelines. My first thought? Not ANOTHER war with Iran! 

So we headed into a day with no gan and nowhere to go, during peak summer-time madness when it’s too hot to go outside. Instead of my kids being cooped up for a few hours, they were going to be cooped up all day. Granted, the guidelines were only extended for one day and we only had a single siren (before 6am because those jerks hate to let us sleep), but with Iran, you never know. 

So this morning I woke up to the sound of a beeping refrigerator that had been left open too long, a toddler desperate for her morning yogurt and the trill of the siren going up and down while said toddler screamed in shock. The baby’s cries harmonized with the screaming while I slowly got out of bed to close the refrigerator door before comforting the upset toddler who had run into her room, the safe room (or mamad), still screaming. With the baby secured, Josh securely closed the door with the handle all the way up and we listened to the rest of the siren and awaited the booms. Not so loud, which means an interception. I gave quiet thanks to God and we wondered if we should wait the usual ten minutes or until we receive the all clear “the event has ended” notification. At exactly ten minutes, we received the all clear, so I guess it was both. Our toddler announced that there would not be gan today because it was going to be a day full of sirens. To which we responded saying that we hope it’s just the one. 

I went back to sleep and we resumed our normal routine. But the day wasn’t exactly normal. I mean, there was no gan, for one. I walked outside and it was eerily quiet, with tension in the air, but because it’s Israel, there is always more. You go grocery shopping and everyone and their cousin shows up with the kids, prying them with snacks and vying for that last carton of milk. Aisles are filled with regular people bumping into their friends, offering to give rides home, and texting their friends to let them know that all the carrots are out of stock. Prayers are said and arrangements are quietly made to support those fighting for our country and the families waiting for them at home. And still, ordinary life continues and the whatsapp groups continue their normal chatter about cleaning companies, school projects, birthday parties, and whether or not there is traffic on the way to Jerusalem. 

This is our reality. At the drop of a hat we go from regular life to watching, waiting, and staying near the protected space. The collective tension in hearing the chorus of early warnings go off throughout the grocery store and the sighs of relief as the whatsapp groups confirm the all clear. But within the chaos, the craziness, the sleepless nights and the screams of children who are scared of the siren, there is something that runs deeper. An instinct to take care of one another. All over the country husbands are kissing their families goodbye, leaving families needing meals, babysitting, cleaning and even just a kind word. The days are filled with volunteering, working, caring for the kids, and answering the whatsapp groups when someone asks “was that siren for us” with “no harm in going into the mamad”.