We look out the window which faces south and see trails of the Iron Dome, followed by puffs of smoke at the point of impact. And that's it, we're in the zone called war
(Photo: Flash90)
As soon as we hear about things heating up down South, a funny thing happens to us dwellers of Ashdod. It’s as though we enter an alternate stream of consciousness. It’s automatic. When you leave the house, you think twice — should you? shouldn’t you? Maybe you should wait till next week to return that dress? You debate whether Moishy should go to play with his friend after cheder, if you should take your kids down to the park. Is this going to last a while or is it a small hiccup in routine?
On Sunday night I was about to go on my daily walk when we heard that two missiles had been fired in the direction of Ashkelon. Ashdod is generally the next stop for Gazan “gifts.” (Random piece of useless info: Gift in German means poison.) My husband and I debated the wisdom of me going out, news sources weren’t reporting any unusual activity, so I went.
On Monday afternoon, we heard that the restlessness was gaining traction. We had been hearing distant rumbles all day — one Iron Dome battery is situated not far away from us.
At five forty p.m., my teenaged daughter Faigy called to say that Hamas were threatening action at six. That’s when we moved into action. In this heightened state of awareness all you’re doing is endless accounting for your kids — and scanning for the nearest building. Faigy — pick up five-year-old Suri from her playdate. Husband — call ten-year-old Moishy and tell him to come home, umm, should we say quickly? No panic, please, the last thing we need is hysterics. Baby is here, special needs teen Tova is getting off her school ride at five fifty. That should give us all time.
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