I relive the trauma of my son being injured while rockets now fall around me.
Everyone is crowded in shelters; I find that I begin to live that horrible day again.
With every emergency alarm, my body shakes, my breathing stops and becomes stilted, the lives of my children seem to be standing in an abyss. It feels like they are going to be taken. It is as if everything is crumbling in my hands.
We’ve been bombarded for the past few weeks with rockets – but now, there are no pauses – day chases night and night chases day. We and the children are at home for 24 hours straight. We’re going crazy. And I flash back and see Osher being thrown against the wall again and again, I see my husband Yuval white and pale with shock, lying in a hospital bed. And I have no strength.
I have no strength to bear the weight, to hold on, to run and run and run into the protected space. To wipe the sweat and escape the screams of terror.
The images from two years ago come back and hit me. Again and again and again. There is no break. No rest. Every moment is a moment of anxiety. If only I could go back, put the pavement beneath my feet and return the feeling of security to my family.
My son falls asleep at night but he wakes up from every small noise, screaming, “Mommy!” … screams that my baby cried on that day – when he was blown onto the wall by the force of the blast. Since then he has been in treatment – and has suffered from persistent epileptic seizures – that have no clear end.
Every time one of us goes to shower, someone stands behind the open door with a towel so that if there is another rocket alert, he can run naked to a secure area. I’m embarrassed to say that we shower less.
The fear is paralyzing. Fear of death. I have no strength. I’m waiting for this war to end. But this time forever.
For the emergency alarm to be silent in the South and in my mind.