I’m eating watermelon, nursing a beer, dog by my side. A warm summer-night breeze tickles my neck. The World Cup final is projected onto a large screen in the Israeli beachside cafe and everyone’s cheering. Platters of watermelon, hummous, chips are flowing.
On the top right of the screen, updates flash. They’re not about the soccer, but warnings of missile attacks from Gaza and subsequent hits across the country.
I hold my husband’s hand, and look at the night sky, three quarter moon, a scatter of twinkly stars and take a sip of beer. Half my stress has dissipated but the other half I keep hold of, there’s a good chance a siren will go off and the adrenalin will help me run.
It’s been a tense day.
In the morning, my twin seven-year-old old boys went to summer camp at their special-needs school. It’s in Tel Aviv, 20 mins south from our home. Mid-morning I got a message – a siren sounded. The kids, all of them wheel-chair bound and non-verbal were rushed to the safe room.