Anav Silverman Peretz
My three kids have been building bomb shelters for their stuffed animals out of magnetic blocks at least once a day during the recent Iran war. They’ve also built bomb shelters for the ants outside in our yard. Sometimes, they’ll imitate the siren sounds and immediately put all their toys in the structures they built. They talk about how they wish our entire house were a bomb shelter so it would be safe to play everywhere and not just in the safe room when the rocket alerts sound.
My husband took the time to teach our kids some regional geography from a set of old Oxford encyclopedias written for children. My six-year-old daughter, Carmel, now knows that the flag of Iran is red, green, and white, while the flag of Israel is white and blue. She explains this to her younger brothers in a conversation at the playground.
My kids often ask me who are the good guys and bad guys in this conflict. My eldest daughter is especially interested. I explain that there are good people in Iran, in Gaza, and Lebanon, but the governments are bad and aim to hurt us. A good friend of mine, Buthaina, a Christian Arab from Nazareth, texts me Passover greetings, wishing days of calm and hope to my family.
We’ve been spending a lot of time at playgrounds. There are two “big” playgrounds in our community, which parents of young kids alternate between each day. It’s not safe to travel too far, so the playgrounds and local grocery store are the major attractions. Also, short hikes in the desert across the street to see the flowers blossoming in ferocious colors.
We are very lucky compared to much of the country. More families fleeing central Israel arrive here every day. Our slice of the Negev got relatively few sirens and rocket alerts, unlike the bigger cities of the south or center. But there were a couple of Iranian rockets that struck our region, and of course, daycare and schools were closed for nearly six weeks. Very few actually went to work. It felt like the Corona pandemic, but without the masks.
I work as a teacher teaching English as a second language in our local middle school. We’ve been doing Zoom lessons during the war. However, there was a day when it was decided that the students could return to school, as there had been relatively few sirens. We had a staff meeting on Zoom in the event of a rocket alarm and reviewed how to disperse 300 students from first to eighth grade to the school’s bomb shelters. We were so anxious that day, shouldering the responsibility of the lives of all these children. Every single teacher breathed a sigh of relief when the last bell rang.
Right before Passover, we had to decide where to do grocery shopping — either in Dimona or Beer Sheva, where ballistic missiles had both fallen. I told my husband that we should shop in Beer Sheva, but he thought Dimona was safer. Both cities are around 40 minutes away. We brought a babysitter to stay at home with the kids. As we shopped, a siren sounded. We left our cart full of groceries and ran to take cover along with at least 100 other customers. The babysitter texted me that the kids were in the safe room and not to worry. The ballistic missile ended up hitting a chemical plant right outside of Beer Sheva, shutting down traffic.
The day that the ceasefire was announced, I felt for a fleeting second a surge of happiness. That cloud of fear that engulfed me for so long evaporated into the air. I could look at the blue sky without the fear of ballistic missiles hurtling down. A clear, blue, pure sky. My youngest son, Golan, 3, would often say to me, “Mom, what will happen if a rocket falls on me?” as he’d run to our family’s safe room when an alert sounded. He was especially frightened of the alerts and sirens and would cry if one caught us at the playground or at the park, and sometimes, even at home.
My kids have now learned a new word: ceasefire. Carmel and her friends in kindergarten are counting down the days. She comes back home every day and tells me how many days are left until the ceasefire ends. “I’m scared, Mom,” she told me last night before falling asleep.
One of the themes of the Passover seder is the role that faith played in guiding the Jewish people’s exodus to the land of Israel. I feel that journey still continues to this day. We are still journeying to the unknown, holding onto our faith amid the Iranian and Hezbollah missiles. The most unnerving part of this war has been the uncertainty of not knowing what will happen and when. But we have to believe in our promised land as we hold onto our children, with eyes wide open.
The writer grew up in Calais, Maine, and lives in Israel with her family in Ramat Hanegev, where she works as an English teacher and writer.
