Sirens are my new normal

In 2021, I spent the night in a bomb shelter with my kids. I wrote about spending the night in a bomb shelter with my kids. At the time, the experience felt extraordinary. Alarming. A break from everyday life. Something I hoped we wouldn’t have to repeat.

I remember how my son clutched his stuffed animal, how we played games to distract from the explosions in the distance. I remember trying to keep my voice steady, telling them it was all fine and that it would be over soon. And I remember thinking, ‘This has to be a one-time thing.’

But it wasn’t.

A lot has changed since then, especially in this past year.

When we moved to Modi’in, one of the things I told myself was that it was “safe.” Sirens were rare. I thought we were generally out of range — close enough to the center of the country for convenience, far enough from the borders to feel insulated. I wasn’t naïve, just hopeful.

That hope was tested this past summer, before 6:30 a.m., when a Houthi missile launched from Yemen triggered a siren — the first of its kind here. I happened to be alone in Park Anabe. I’d gone out early for a walk, thinking the only thing I might need to worry about was the possibility of bumping into a wild animal. (The only hesitation I generally have about walking alone in Modiin) Sirens weren’t even on my radar.

There was no shelter in sight. No roof, no concrete wall. Just wide open space. Nobody to follow. Seemingly nowhere to go. 

I was on the phone with a friend and begged her to stay on the phone with me while I panicked. I laid flat on the ground. Then I thought — this is insane. How is this supposed to protect me? If a missile or shrapnel lands, being a couple of feet lower will not really matter much. 

So I ran.

Because we’re told that in moments of danger, we might summon superhuman strength. I figured, why not superhuman speed? At least I was doing something rather than just laying there helpless. 

I sprinted until the 90 seconds of the siren passed, and then curled up next to a large flower pot. That was the best “shelter” available. And then — that was that. I debated what I could have done differently, but life went on. I went on.

After that, I shifted into what I call “high-alert mode.” That was a short-lived normal that I had become accustomed to in 2021. For a week or so in 2021, I stopped walking in open areas. I started staying close to buildings where I knew I could find shelter. I began timing errands, planning every outing, having in mind where I would seek shelter if a siren went off. 

Before the Houthi threat, sirens were rare and predictable. If tensions rose, I’d prepare. But now? There’s no rhythm. They just… happen. Sirens are my new normal. 

I remember years ago hearing and seeing how residents of Sderot lived. I remember wondering how people could live like that — always expecting a siren, always calculating the distance to the nearest shelter. I couldn’t imagine it.

Now, I don’t have to imagine.

Since that first siren, I’ve lost count of how many I’ve been through. I’m not quite sure how many times I’ve called my kids, my husband, and my parents too many times to count, just to check if everyone’s okay. Sometimes I’ve been at work. Sometimes out in public. Sometimes it has been on Shabbat. Sometimes I’ve hustled. Sometimes I’ve just… strolled.

There are moments I’ll never forget — like crouching against a wall with my older son because we couldn’t make it to a shelter, both my husband and I covering his body with ours to protect him, literally ready to take the hit for him, while my younger son was home alone calling us to make sure that we were okay. Or the night Iran attacked, and the sirens came one after another after another, and we were told just to stay put until further notice. It felt endless.

But mostly, the sirens have become routine.

My heart rate doesn’t spike anymore. My body doesn’t tremble. There’s even a pre-warning now, which we joke is “so convenient.”

And that little boy from my 2021 piece? This past fall, I remember asking him if he wanted to come to the grocery store with me. He said no. I asked, “What if there’s a siren?” Without missing a beat, he shrugged and said, “I’ll just shut the door to the mamad.”

It’s just normal now.

And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I do know that this isn’t how things were a year ago. I know we’ve all learned to live with this new version of normal. I also know that writing this, I feel conflicted, because it’s a privilege to have a private bomb shelter in my home. Many don’t. But what a sad reality. 

And I know what I pray for.

I pray for a day when the hostages are home.
When all people in this region are safe.
When life is valued above all else.
When sirens and shelters are no longer a part of anyone’s daily routine.

Until then, we live. We adapt. And sometimes, we write it down — because even the “normal” deserves to be seen.