I am sitting on my balcony in Jerusalem overlooking the street and the trees in one of Jerusalem’s leafiest and loveliest neighbourhoods. The sky is blue, there is a gentle breeze, the stores are open downstairs, the buses are running and I’m watching a father with his sons walking the dog.
It is Sunday afternoon, 22 June 2025 and one could think it’s an idyllic day here.
This is actually a welcome reprieve, but not a given. The reality surrounding us is far from idyllic.
Everyone is tired and our fatigue only increases with each additional night of broken sleep caused by ballistic missiles raining down from Iran.
We are glued to many news sources. We are trying to understand every possible angle. We want to be convinced that after the Israeli attacks on Iran, the world is now more secure for our children and grandchildren.
We are reduced to staying close to home or seeking refuge in shelters. We feel cut off from our grown children, just an hour away in Tel Aviv.
Hearing their voices sometimes makes the heart ache.
Venturing out to visit them means being unprotected in the event of a siren signalling another missile attack.
Everyone is trying to get on with some semblance of normal life. Everyone is unsettled.
The behaviour, both in and out of the shelters, is both considerate and calm.
Outwardly we are calm. However, one day I find myself nauseous with a headache and extreme exhaustion that means most of a day curled up in bed under my doona.
A friend confides in me that she had a similar day. Another describes her panic attack during the night. These are strong and non-melodramatic women. It seems no one is immune.
Another morning at 5:30am, I jump out of bed in response to the alarm and the repeated buzzing at my front door. My loving neighbours must be checking that I have heard the siren. I run to the door. No one is there. I run to the balcony that looks out onto the street. All is quiet and peaceful, I am confused.
I wake up enough to realise the alarm and buzzing have vividly infiltrated my dreams. I was so sure I was riding through this steadily and calmly. It seems my subconscious has other ideas.
I feel washed out and return to bed for a couple of early morning hours of sleep.
Still, there are plenty of actual alarms and sirens and missiles. Then we have about ten minutes to get to the shelters.
We are prepared. We tumble out of bed immediately. I pull on some prechosen items of clothing left easily accessible, grab my prepacked bag with documents, valuables, water, a shawl and any other of the recommended items that I can manage to carry. What do I need to take in case when I return from the shelter, my apartment is destroyed by a ballistic missile?
I slip on the shoes I have left by the front door and stumble outside, down the stairs and into the night. Figures appear in the dark from surrounding apartment blocks, converging on the public shelter further along the street. Young families, couples with babies, owners with their dogs, older people. Compared to them, I have it easy.
And yet, a week in, and my precise drill begins to unravel. I find myself fumbling with clothing items put on the wrong way; I trip getting out the front door to rush down the stairs and whereas on the first night or two I was fully alert, by now I’m less likely to greet the neighbours or anyone else. I am still half asleep. The tiredness is cumulative.
There are hundreds of us in the same shelter which is used for children’s activities in more sane times. There are scattered chairs, a few old beanbags, a couple of foam mattresses and the floor of course. When this all first began, there was some sort of novelty energy, chatting and even some light joking that might have diffused the situation.
But now, the shelter has become increasingly quiet. Less chatting. Less joking.
In their pyjamas, bleary eyed and just managing to sit quietly, some on chairs strewn through the 2 rooms, some on the floor and some sprawled on the old beanbags and thin mats, it’s enough to keep the children distracted and calm.
It is clear most people just need to sleep. We are weary. How can anyone function productively when morning comes? I’m trying to rest my eyes until it’s over.
The only active thing I manage is to try and contact my children living in Tel Aviv. The Tel Aviv area has been targeted and hit repeatedly by missiles. Buildings have been destroyed, businesses are closed, and the mood is more sober. It is real. It is terrifying. All nerves are fraught.
I can breathe again when I hear their voices after a missile attack. Each is being tested differently. One daughter is alone as her husband is again on reserve duty in Gaza. Is he safe? Is she managing? They are separated and both worried about the other. Luckily, she is now supported by one of my sons, who has moved in with her. They have each other for now. Another daughter and her husband are in their safe room, which doubles as their bedroom; luxury considering the current scenario.
Two more sons happen to have been out of the country when this began. While I feel some relief for them that they are not subject to the sirens and the attacks, they feel pulled to be with their people. For now, they will have to wait.
The airport was closed when this war began. And just as flights were resuming to bring stranded Israelis home, last night’s US bombing closed the airport again. Yes, we are in a war zone, but Israelis stranded abroad just want to come home They too will have to wait.
Visitors to Israel spend hours trying to salvage flights and change flights. Many are discussing creative ways to make it out of the country.
That is not my plan.
For all the danger and all the tension, I won’t leave until something has settled here and my children can get back to some sort of normality.
I won’t leave until I can hug them and know they are able to have a peaceful night of sleep.
I won’t leave while there is a chance one of them will want to be cared for, here in Jerusalem.
I won’t leave until my children are once again a simple and safe one-hour train and bus ride away from Jerusalem.
Wednesday 25th June. Postscript.
It’s only three days since I wrote about my reactions to the Israel/Iran war and a ceasefire is now in place.
There has been devastation and tragic loss of life. Many will need help to carry their enormous burdens. Still, schools already have their students back, cafes and restaurants are full, businesses are open and as always, this country seems to jump right back into the fierce flow of life.
Only time will make clear what the new reality is in this crazy Middle East and beyond.
For me, for now, it means that my children are only an hour away.
