‘I’m sleeping in my clothes tonight’
I was explaining what is going on in the Druze community in Syria to my 10-year-old daughter, as I was flipping pancakes for her breakfast.
She listened attentively while I tried to distill a horrible massacre into something her heart could hold without cracking any more than it has since October 7.
I told her about the Druze — how they’re being hunted, how they’re part of our story. I told her how many Druze Israelis died defending Israel, how they are a part of who we are, part of the threads that weave the tapestry in this complicated, beautiful country. I told her that Israel stepped in, that we tried to stop the bad guys, that we bombed Damascus, and that defending the Druze in Syria is doing the right thing, that we have a brotherhood with the Druze community in Israel that crosses borders.
She didn’t flinch as I told her we couldn’t stand by as a hospital was raided and the Druze staff and patients were massacred. She listened and noted that she remembers how sad we were when the 12 Druze children were killed by a Hezbollah rocket last year.
And then she said, “So, I’m sleeping in clothing tonight.”
It seemed so out of place.
“Why?” I asked, honestly confused.
“Because we bombed Syria,” she said matter-of-factly. “So I need to sleep dressed tonight. To be ready. But it’s worth it.”
To be ready.
Because when you grow up in a country that’s been at war for close to two years, you learn how to read the signs. You know that if we strike, there’s a chance they strike back. That if we hit them, maybe we’ll have to run for safety. That if the red alert sounds at 3 a.m., it’s better not to be scrambling into clothes while half asleep. Better to already be dressed. Clothing as armor. As a plan. As a given.
She’s 10.
This is what it means to be 10 here. Not just sleepovers and reading Harry Potter and begging for one more episode. But calculating risk before bed. Choosing clothing over pajamas so you’re not exposed if a rocket falls. Keeping your shoes near the door, because you ended your school year at war, as opposed to at the pool.
My daughter is brave. She’s pragmatic. She’s so damn resilient. And it breaks my heart that she has to be.
And that’s what sits heavy on my chest — heavier than the geopolitical commentary or the twisted headlines. Heavier than all the “but what abouts” and “on the other hands.”
This is what war looks like from the kitchen table. Not just in numbers or headlines or foreign ministry tweets. But her favorite tank top and shorts, soft and a bit worn, laid out before bed.
Just in case.
