First Week of War: Finding an Emergency Routine

The attacks started Saturday morning at 8. Everyone was sleeping.

For weeks people had been saying: “Tonight is the night.” Most of us assumed that if it happened, it would start at night.

The first reaction in our house was: “Oh nice, they let us sleep.” Humor has always been one of the ways Israelis cope. Even when something serious begins, someone will find a way to make a small joke that releases the tension for a moment.

We were at my parents-in-law’s house for Shabbat with our two youngest children. Our family is Shabbat observant, so normally our phones stay off until Saturday night. But when the alerts began, we reached for them immediately to understand what was happening and to check on the rest of the family.

Our older children were with friends in different cities. Throughout the day we checked in with everyone as information slowly became clearer.

By the time Shabbat ended and we returned home, most of the family had regrouped.

That night, there were six of us sleeping in the mamad (protected space). Not because we had to every minute, but because no one wanted to run there half asleep if the siren started. Blankets, pillows, phones, chargers — we slowly turned the reinforced room into a temporary dorm room.

Like many people here, I find myself living several roles at once right now:

• A mother trying to keep four children calm when the siren sounds,
• An employer trying to figure out what expectations are reasonable in a week like this,
• Someone working in mental health who knows that what many people are feeling right now actually has a name.

The hardest moment for me remains the sound of the alert itself. Anyone who has heard it knows how harsh it is. It is designed to wake you instantly and push you into action. When my six-year-old wakes up frightened by that sound, disoriented and not fully understanding what is happening, it breaks my heart every time.

Within days, people were already sharing alternative “siren songs” on WhatsApp — recordings that turn the official alert messages into melodies. None of them will replace the real siren, of course. But the instinct says something about how people here cope. When something frightening becomes part of daily life, someone will try to make it a little more human.

I tried to work from the first day. I needed to send out a proposal and hoped to continue working on the report from ICAR Collective’s recent summit. In reality, progress was slow. I was tired, distracted, and surrounded by children who were also trying to figure out their new routines.

My 17-year-old divides his time between our house and his girlfriend’s. Her father was called up for reserve duty, like tens of thousands of others across the country. Israel mobilized 70,000 reservists in the first days of the war, and families everywhere are once again adjusting to sudden absences.

My oldest daughter is 21 and married. She works in a store that is considered essential, so she continued going to work every day. Her husband is serving in the army. On Thursday, his officer lost both of his legs when a suicide drone fell on their unit.

Moments like that remind you how close the war is to so many families. Very close.

And they also shape how we think about our work. At ICAR Collective, the question we have been asking ourselves this week is simple: how can we help right now?

Our role is not to provide services directly. What we try to do instead is connect people, knowledge, and systems so communities can respond faster.

Throughout the week we have been thinking about the municipalities that are most affected and how to help them access knowledge from other communities that have lived through similar situations. Many towns in Israel have unfortunately accumulated experience in helping residents cope with prolonged stress and uncertainty. One of the most valuable things we can do is help that knowledge move quickly between places that need it.

But even inside our own organization, the questions quickly became practical. Do we ask people to work?

Work can help. Having something to focus on can restore a sense of normalcy and control. But many people are dealing with children at home, sleepless nights, constant alerts, or family members serving in the army.

Two days into the war, we decided to hold a team meeting. Not a work meeting. Just a check-in. No agenda. No expectations. Just one question: How is everyone?

Five minutes into the call, the siren sounded. The meeting ended immediately.

In some ways, that moment captured the reality of this week better than anything else.

As the week unfolded, life slowly began reorganizing itself.

Schools reopened on Zoom. For older students it provides some structure. For younger children it often means parents sitting beside them, helping them connect and follow the lesson while also trying to work.

My 12-year-old has been trying to attend classes online. He is also trying to see friends and play soccer when possible. But every alert sends him running back home, so in the end he spends far more time on screens than anyone would like.

One employee on our team has a baby and must go down to the building shelter every time there is an alert. His wife is a teacher now running Zoom classes. So they take turns caring for the baby. If she stops teaching, dozens of children miss class. Very quickly you see how these disruptions ripple through families, schools, and workplaces.

None of this means things are normal. They are not.

But in Israel people quickly learn how to move into what we call שגרת חירום — an emergency routine.

Children return to some version of school. Work resumes slowly. People begin figuring out how to help one another keep life moving.

Not because the situation has become easy.

But because life here has always had a stubborn habit of continuing.