“What did you eat for lunch?”
“Beans and pasta!”
“And shnitzel. Shnitzel shnitzel shnitzel.”
“What else happened in gan today?”
The thing about pretending everything is fine, that we have to keep acting ‘normal’ so the terrorists don’t win, is that when you do hear the air raid siren – aza’aka, or tzeva adom, code red – it means you’re at work. Your partner is at work. And your kids… your kids are in kindergarten.
“Hey – what else happened in gan today? A siren?”
“Yeah, a big siren.”
“What did you do?”
“We heard the siren and so we were running.”
“Yeah, running, so fast. The ganenet said to.”
Despite the relative lessening of rockets yesterday and today – that’s very relative – I think this morning I just… broke. It’s exhaustion. This is tiring. And I’m not even in the south. Every time the Galgalatz radio announcer has to interrupt a song to announce another red alert somewhere – sometimes 3 or 4 times during a song – I just can’t.
“Let’s go home and have a special snack. Who wants a special snack?”
“Yay! And if we hear the siren, we run upstairs fast. And you don’t take your snack with you, just leave it on the table and run.”
My boy is three. My boy is Israeli. My boy and his peers are growing up like this.
There are millions of other boys and girls growing up like this… and worse. Here in this border, there on that border.
Who is going to fix this? Are we? For our kids? For their kids?