Raw Wartime Confessions From An Israeli Mother

I’m standing in my kitchen, half-listening to the kids shrieking outside in the park, where water fights are in full swing. It’s Friday, and our neighborhood is alive with the chaos of a weekend, cars jammed everywhere, no parking because everyone’s home.

Some American expat dad is out there umpiring a baseball game for his kids, their laughter cutting through the humid air. My own kids are glued to their screens, scarfing down chips and way too much Coke. Then, at 3:37 PM, the siren screams—beeeeeeeeeep—and my heart drops.

Iran’s launched another 20 missiles at us, hitting Haifa, Be’er Sheva, Gush Dan. Twelve people are wounded in Haifa, two seriously, including a 16-year-old kid with shrapnel tearing through his body.

The Siren Changes Everything

That siren—it’s a sound you never get used to. It blares, and suddenly the park’s joy feels like a cruel joke. I’m yelling at my kids to drop everything and get to the mamad, our reinforced safe room. My hands shake as I grab my phone, refreshing the news for updates: missiles from Iran, some from Yemen, four impact sites, three lightly injured, one person in Be’er Sheva treated for shock. My mind races, my oldest son is in Gaza, serving in the IDF. He’s 20, and I’m proud, but every siren makes me sick with worry. Is he okay? Are we? Iran’s Supreme Leader Khamenei is tweeting, gloating, “The Zionist enemy is receiving its punishment." It’s 4:08 PM, and missiles are still falling. I want to scream back at him, but instead, I’m herding my younger kids into a concrete box, telling them it’ll be okay.

Life in a War Zone

This war, it’s not just headlines. It’s our life. My kids are home from school, their days a blur of too much screentime and junk food. We’ve got stacks of snacks—comfort for the chaos. I’m chugging Coke like it’s water, trying to stay calm. Every decision feels heavy. Do I run to the store for milk? What if a siren goes off while I’m out? I’ve drilled my kids on what to do if we’re driving: pull over, find cover, and lie flat with your hands covering your head. “Don’t be a hero,” I tell my 15-year-old, who thinks he’s invincible. “Get to the mamad.” At 2 AM, when the early warning siren wake us, I’m torn, do I drag my sleeping 10-year-old out of bed, or hope it’s not our neighborhood? The Home Front Command gave a partial all-clear at 4:05 PM today, but I’m still on edge, waiting for the next alert.

The Weight of It All

In the mamad, we talk, sometimes about dumb stuff, like what snacks we want, sometimes about the big stuff: “When will it be over?” my son asks. I don’t have an answer. We’re safe, then we’re not, then we’re safe again. The baseball game outside restarts when the sirens stop, like nothing happened. But it’s not nothing. It’s a 16-year-old in Haifa fighting for his life, a 54-year-old with shrapnel in his legs. It’s my son in Gaza, where I can’t protect him. It’s me, telling my kids to live normally but always know where your nearest shelter is and always be ready to run.

Living in Israel now is this brutal mix of fear and defiance. We’re terrified, but we keep going. The park fills up again, kids laughing, water balloons flying. I’m proud to be here, but I’m tired, tired of sirens, of news, of wondering if I’ll lose someone I love.