Kicking Off the New Year with the Wrong Kind of Fireworks

It is officially the new year. The kiddos, or at least the two that are living at home, begged me to stay up until midnight. One even asked if there were fireworks in Israel. We all laughed and laughed. All we need to do is wait for Hamas to launch rockets into Israel and then watch the Iron Dome blast them out of the sky. That is more than enough fireworks for the rest of my life. 

It was like Hamas heard the plea for an eventful kickoff to the new year and launched a barrage of rockets toward us at 11:59 PM.

We were watching Blacklist (not with the kids), and I started hearing strange background noises. It has been over a week since our last siren, which is a lifetime ago. I muted the program and heard the unmistakable booms of the Iron Dome. The Iron Dome sounds like actual rockets, which makes sense since it blasts rockets out of the sky. It is the good rocket launcher. Conditioned, I gathered my phone and Doobie dog, and we went downstairs to wake up the kids. It was nearly impossible to wake them. Despite their insistence on welcoming in the new year, in reality, they had been asleep for the last three hours. Once we accomplished the impossible, we all scurried two floors lower into the bomb shelter.

Since it has been over a week since we last sat in the bomb shelter, things are not organized. We had an electricity blackout yesterday, so I brought all the flashlights upstairs to attend class, looking like a Jack-o-Lantern at night. The water bottles have been picked apart, and some of the medicine has returned to over the fridge. The once popular cup of noodles are long gone and devoured, and the rest of our meticulously stored emergency rations have disappeared. We only had a few light blankets and a sleeping bag left to keep us warm. No one would dare open the sleeping bag unless we were desperate because squeezing it back into its sack is nearly impossible.

I was nervous. Even though I didn’t hear a siren, I thought it was only a matter of minutes for more sirens. I know how Hamas works. They start with a barrage of rockets in our area and then continue until who knows what makes them stop. How they can even launch rockets at this point is beyond my imagination. Maybe the rockets are on a timer? 

My knees wouldn’t stop shaking. I claimed I was cold so I could appear less stressed. It is critical that I am strong and calm for my kids. Their cues are from me (and my husband), and since the effects of war are lingering, it is so important to keep it as steady as possible. There is no denying that my nerves are quietly shot after 80 days of war. Especially as I text my other kiddo, who is at boarding school a few towns over. He is also sitting in the bomb shelter; his New Year's Eve party crashed by the anticipation of rockets, and he is hoping we are ok. It is torture being apart. 

I threw one of the thin blankets over my legs and waited. Waited for more rockets. A siren. Waited for calm and a chance to emerge from the bomb shelter. I also waited for a better year, for the hostages to be returned. Soldiers to go home and sleep in their beds. Hamas to pack their bags and leave. Families to be reunited. But, nothing. None of my wishes came true except for silence, which, given the circumstances, is the best I can expect. So after four minutes, and with a glimmer of hope and resolve, we went back to bed, adrenaline still coursing through my veins. My husband said, “You handled that so much better this time.” I couldn’t believe he said that, and I told him about my shaky legs. “Yes, even with your shaky legs.”