A New Day in Israel

I’m sitting on a bench outside Nili School. My usual spot.

I see two huge Israeli flags. Children are outside playing. Laughing.

A breeze moves through the thick, humid air..

Life continues.

It’s a break between my classes,

after 12 days away from school.

We were instructed to return today,

after the war that began so suddenly—at 3 a.m. on June 13.

I walked into my classroom this morning. It was just as I had left it.

The same notes still on the dry-erase board.

Sitting on the bench, I check Tzofar—the app that warns of incoming sirens.

It’s become a reflex now.

A habit formed during this war.

And the last one.

And maybe the one that still hasn’t ended.

No alerts today.

But just yesterday, the app was filled.

It’s only been one day.

One sleep

since the morning was filled with a cadence of chaos.

Not always a siren, sometimes just a warning that one may come.

Deciding whether to run to the bathroom before heading to the safe room.

Usually, I was home.

Twice I was out

and had to rush into a public shelter with my kids.

Was I shaken?

All the breathwork and meditation

I’ve practiced over the last few years—

it came in handy.

I would close my eyes

and quietly say the verses of Tehillim I had memorized.

That was the best source of calm for me.

I got sort of used to the 5 a.m. wake-up calls, then seeing the sun start to rise as I came out of the mamad. A surreal contrast.

Twelve days of war—

I hesitate to say it aloud.

Because naming it makes it real.

And part of me wants to pretend it didn’t happen.

But my body remembers.

Every alert.

Every sound.

So ominous. So invasive.

The siren slicing through the thick summer air.

My chest tightens,

my heart races.

Even when my mind clings to faith,

my body responds like it’s still under attack.

It feels like a skunk—spraying its stink—

uninvited, unavoidable.

(Here’s what’s really happening:)

When the brain senses danger, the amygdala sends out a distress signal.

The hypothalamus relays that signal to the adrenal glands,

perched on top of the kidneys.

They respond instantly, releasing cortisol and adrenaline.

I feel it in my chest first.

Then it floods down my arms.

My brain drowns in stress chemicals.

The prefrontal cortex—my logic center—goes offline.

I can’t reason.

I can’t process.

I can only survive.

Fight.

Flight.

Freeze.

Fawn.

And then—fatigue.

After the adrenaline burns out,

all I can do is rest.

And that’s okay.

Now, I sit on this bench.

Children are playing.

Laughing.

Cars drive by.

Life pulses forward.

A new day.

Yesterday, there was war.

Today, there is peace.

And so I whisper:

מודה אני לפניך מלך חי וקים

שהחזרת בי נשמתי בחמלה,

רבה אמונתך.

Modeh ani lefanecha, Melech chai v’kayam,

shehechezarta bi nishmati b’chemlah—

rabbah emunatecha.

I offer thanks before You,

Living and Eternal King,

for You have mercifully restored my soul within me;

Your faithfulness is great.

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