And the winners are…

The Black October by Ori Rum Zemet

A siren slices through my dream. I open my eyes.
“Girls, come downstairs now!” Mom shouts.
Climbing out of bed, bounding down the stairs, my eyes are heavy with sleep. I know what to do; everyone in Israel does – it’s ingrained into our brains from the moment we’re old enough to process information. Whenever a missile is launched towards us, there’s a siren. We have 90 seconds to find shelter. Closer to the border, there’s less time. Israelis face situations like this regularly. Strength and resilience are in our DNA.

As a one-year-old, I first heard a siren; Mom and I hid under the bed and I laughed, thinking we were playing a game. My vision is blurry as I reach the residential secure space (mamad). It’s a concrete room, designed to absorb the impact of a missile or bomb. Some people, like us, who don’t have a shelter close enough, have one. Mom locks the heavy door but struggles with the window. Dad rushes over to help. My entire body shakes, my heart pounding loudly over the nauseating siren. Although there are sirens all the time in the south of Israel, here in Jerusalem it’s rare.

“What time is it?” my little sister, Daniella, asks tiredly.
“About 8:15 am,” Dad answers.
My eyes droop, sleep threatening to claim me.
“When can we leave? I’m exhausted and forgot my glasses.”
“After the siren stops, we have to wait ten minutes; then we can go,” Mom answers. Just then… “BOOM!” The room shakes; I forget to breathe.
“What’s that?” I whisper.
“The missile’s been intercepted; we’re safe,” Mom replies.
“Can we go?” Daniella hesitantly asks.
“In a few minutes,” Mom says, stroking my sister’s hair.
After an eternity, we finally leave. Grabbing my glasses, everything comes into focus.

Beginning to relax, I crawl into bed, intending to sleep Saturday away. A few minutes into my slumber, another interruption comes. The siren’s wail escorts me to the mamad. An uneasy feeling settles into my gut. More sirens follow, making it impossible to tell when one ends and another begins. I refuse to leave, even during a rare, silent moment when the others rush out. “Zohar, you can come out,” Mom reassures me when no sirens sound.

I don’t know how long has passed when Mom and Daniella come into the mamad with a plate of eggs. Mom says, “I must tell you something. There’s a war. We can’t go to your grandparents’ for Simchat Torah.”

Those words are a punch to my gut. Today’s supposed to be a celebration. What about my upcoming Bat Mitzvah?

“A war?” My mouth is bitter. “Impossible…” Just yesterday I watched TV until 2 am. Everything was so normal. Reassuring myself, I repeat mentally: It’ll be over in two weeks, maximum. I’ve been through this before.
“We have to be strong,” Mom tells me and my sister.
“Will it be over soon?” Daniella asks.
Mom answers, “I don’t know.”