I had the television news on this afternoon, but only for a little while. With my face buried in my computer screen and my ears picking up bits and pieces of the ongoing live reporting as I typed, every time I heard a siren, I jumped a little, momentarily startled and wondering for just a sliver of a second if it was coming from outside instead of the news report. We live far away from the rockets and missiles being fired at the south and now the center of the country, but in Israel, “far” is merely a relative term. Tel Aviv is just under an hour away by car, and Kiryat Malachi, the town where three people were killed by rocket fire on Thursday (and also the town where my husband is from and one of his brothers still lives), is just over an hour away if we take the Trans-Israel highway (known locally as Road 6), the country’s only toll road.
Rocket aftermath. Ashdod. Photo courtesy of Stephanie Freid.
It’s sadly amazing to me how we always manage to seamlessly slip back into the jargon of war. My Facebook feed is filling up with words like rockets/missiles, sirens and booms, and people in “safer” parts of the country are letting friends and family know that they’ve got room for guests if anyone feels the need to get away. The “situation”, as times like these are always referred to, is discussed over cocktails and hors d’oeuvres at a bat-mitzvah in a resigned, almost casual manner, simply because over the years, we have grown so used to periodically doing so.
Between songs on the radio, the deejays remind listeners what to do if they find themselves in an area without shelter when the early warning siren sounds. As far as I know, the area where we live is out of range for rockets fire from Gaza, so while my stress levels are definitely higher than usual, I’m not worried about my own physical safety. Instead, I worry about friends and family who live in the cities and towns within range, an area that seem to be growing as I type. I hate the thought of my friends and loved ones having just a few moments to run to the nearest “safe” location (bomb shelters if they’re lucky, inside stairwells if they’re not as lucky…), worried that they won’t get there before a missile hits. I texted one of my closest friends on Thursday when he didn’t show up online as expected and received a terse response hours later, letting me know that he’d been called up for military service. Another close friend in the Jerusalem area texted me last night to let me know that she’d heard a siren followed by a boom, and was worried that her husband would be called up for service as well. Throughout the day, news trickles in of friends and husbands getting similar call-ups, and I wonder how many of my work colleagues will be out absent from the office in the coming days for the same reason.
Because there is, of course, no reason why I won’t be going into work tomorrow. Life in areas outside of rocket range continues normally. Come tomorrow morning, I will undoubtedly be complaining about the slow drivers in the left lane, cursing loudly over the music on my carefully selected “car” playlist as I flash my brights with impatience. Sure, certain aspects may be different. Some coworkers will undoubtedly be missing, and I may have to drive a few school carpools this week to cover for the father who was called up early yesterday morning and reported to a location down south shortly thereafter. News sites will be checked more frequently than usual throughout the day, and most idle talk will be about “the situation”. We’ll bitch about our lunch options and the parking and slip into the temporary new normal. I, inevitably, will also be keeping an eye on my Facebook feed, posting and sharing updates and images, pretending to ignore the fact that one of my best friends isn’t around to provide his usual commentary and trying not to worry too much.
