There is no more jarring oxymoron than the phrase “emergency routine”—the collision between what defines normal life and a state of constant crisis. Normal life means leaving safely for school and work each morning, peaceful afternoons with family, taking children to the playground, evening gatherings with friends, and above all, sleeping through the night undisturbed.
Israeli reality for the past two and a half years has been anything but normal. In these last two and a half weeks, since the war with Iran began, the constant sense of emergency, the gut-wrenching fear at every siren, the anxiety of being far from protected spaces, and the sleepless nights have become our routine—our emergency routine. In this new reality, a bride on the way to her recent wedding had to get out of the limo to seek shelter when the sirens went off.
I’m not sure readers of this blog can truly understand what it means to live the Israeli reality right now. Since Saturday, February 28, sirens have sounded nearly 100 times in our home in central Israel. Day and night, sometimes multiple times in a single night, at the harsh, threatening wail of the siren, we immediately stop whatever we’re doing—showers, cooking, everything—and run to reach the safe room within 90 seconds.
Last night, Yaron and Ilana Moshe, a couple in their 70s from Israel’s center, woke to the piercing sound of the siren and rushed, like millions of others across Israel, toward their apartment’s safe room. Ilana helped Yaron with the walker he depends on, trying to make it within the minute and a half we have from the moment the siren sounds. But they didn’t make it in time. Just meters from the safe room, an Iranian missile struck their home, and the couple was killed instantly.
Those who don’t live this reality often misunderstand what they see and hear. When the Israeli economy returns to partial function, schools in less-exposed cities will reopen under strict conditions, and shopping malls will unlock their doors. Outsiders may mistakenly interpret this as just another round of conflict—business as usual, that famous Israeli resilience kicking in once again. They assume we’ve adapted—as we always do. That’s far from the truth and certainly not our experience. While it may look like we’re getting used to this new reality, it isn’t how we have actually experienced life here since February 28. All of us, even those on the roads, going shopping, trying to maintain some semblance of normal life, are gripped with dread at every siren. We’re constantly searching for the nearest shelter, mentally calculating how long it will take to reach safety, or if we’re driving, figuring out the safest place to pull over when the next siren comes.
Can you imagine a reality in which, on a beautiful sunny morning, you take your children to the playground—as a respite, a fresh air break to let them burn off some energy—and suddenly, without warning, you look up and first see, then hear, a ballistic missile being intercepted right above your head? I lived this moment of terror just days ago, with two babies beside me, and the surreal feeling has stayed with me since.
The thunderous explosions we hear carry a double meaning—they’re proof of Israel’s might and precision in intercepting missiles, but they also mean that somewhere nearby, in a neighboring town or street, homes have been destroyed, public buildings damaged, people hurt or killed.
In the safe room, the first minutes are filled with fear—will the missiles or the debris hit us? After a few minutes, fear turns to relief—thank God, we survived. But what about our family members scattered across the country? And finally, the sadness when the news confirms that yes, once again, there have been strikes, casualties, widespread destruction. Emergency routine.
Every ballistic missile Iran launches at us has one purpose—to kill as many civilians as possible. Recently, Iran began launching missiles with cluster warheads—weapons that break apart into dozens of smaller bombs scattered over a wide area, dramatically increasing the number and severity of the impacts.
In our emergency routine, we go to bed knowing the sirens will wake us during the night, sending us running to safe rooms. We know that those less fortunate must run outside to neighborhood shelters in their pajamas, carrying children, trying desperately to do the impossible in 90 seconds.
We return to bed exhausted, trying and usually failing to return to sleep—until the next time. Meanwhile, overhead, the constant roar of Israeli Air Force jets on their way to strike more launchers and military targets in Iran fills the night sky like a protective blanket—oppressive and comforting at the same time. Emergency routine.
We worry constantly about family members, pilots flying missions over Iranian airspace, those fighting Hezbollah in Lebanon, and the peacekeepers in Gaza, Judea, and Samaria—all risking their lives repeatedly for those of us living our emergency routine.
Spring is in the air. Dusty desert winds and spectacular flowers blooming in a rainbow of colors announce its coming. But we are interested in only one thing: Will this Pesach, the holiday of freedom that marks our exodus from slavery in Egypt and our journey to sovereign peoplehood, be celebrated under missile threats at Seder tables missing fathers and partners who have been called back to reserve duty? Or will the mission be completed by then, the Iranian threat removed, so that not only can we celebrate in safety, but the Iranian people too can be free from tyranny?
As we await Pesach and the springtime, we hope that neither they nor we ever become accustomed to emergency routine.
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Register now for a special briefing, “Regional Conflict Update: Iran’s Second War and the Hezbollah Front,” on Wednesday, March 25, at 1:30 p.m. ET with Lieutenant Colonel (Res.) Sarit Zehavi. She is the founder and president of the nonprofit Alma, an independent research and education center specializing in Israel’s security challenges on its northern border. She served for 15 years in the Israeli Defense Forces, specializing in military intelligence; earned a master’s degree in Middle East studies from Ben-Gurion University; and works to promote equal representation of women in key decision-making positions in national security and foreign policy. In 2021, the Jerusalem Post selected Zehavi as one of its 50 Most Influential Jews.
Leah Garber is a senior vice president of JCC Association of North America and director of its Center for Israel Engagement in Jerusalem.