It was Monday June 23rd, the day before my due date, when I went into labor. Prior to this day were nearly two weeks of climbing up and down the stairs 4-5 times a day (often at night) with a 2-year-old in my arms, in order to reach the bomb shelter within 90 seconds.

We used to go to the floor below us when there were “regular” missiles, but now they were ballistic missiles from Iran so we preferred climbing all the way down the 4 staircases.

Every day I had been praying not to fall in the stairs nor to have my water break in a moldy bomb shelter with 40 people, some of whom are complete strangers (and none having any medical skills). This, along with the “normal” reasons for feeling anxiety and praying.

That morning, towards 11am I was about to tell my husband that we should go check that everything is okay, since I had been feeling the baby’s movements less and less. As I started speaking, another loud, hateful, stress-driving siren went off. Ironically, we felt almost good about leaving straight afterwards because now we could at least drive “safely” assuming that there would be a few hours gap before the next one.

At the clinic they told me that the baby’s heartbeat is low. They rushed us to the nearby hospital, one of the most popular ones in the center of the country, to find it had turned into a field hospital: cheap paper sign taped to the door saying “labor room”, in the place of the nursery which had now moved to the cardiology clinic for all to be located in secured spaces.

At the “labor room” which is normally comfortable and for a sole mother, were 8 of us between thin curtains – each one allowed one partner to escort them, while listening to each other’s screaming, fear, drama and also most exciting and intimate moments that are usually shared only with our loved ones.

After 10 hours in this least expected (or desirable) birth environment, they took me for a C-section that became complicated.

Waking up, I discovered that my baby came out in a cosmic momentum, 2 minutes only before Trump’s declaration of a ceasefire. Furthermore, I was informed that she was in the NICU, connected to a brain monitor as a result of how the birth went.

My husband and I arrived at the maternity ward exactly when the Iranian “grand finale” took place with another 4 rounds of ballistic missile attacks. The recovery bed could not fit into the secured area so the staff had to leave us lying there unprotected, only 1 km away from the most targeted location in the country.

At this point we were praying, somewhat almost laughing from how crazy and uncontrollable the situation was, yet thankful that at least our children were both in secured rooms.

Meeting my baby only 11 hours after the birth, thank G-d now healthy and safe, we decided upon registration adding her the second name Arielle – “God’s Lion” in Hebrew, to symbolize both her personal strength and the national resistance.

Writing these words today again in the shelter, 8 months after that time but now lying next to my baby girl, I feel hopeful and willing to also bear this for the women of Iran. Women, who as a teenager I watched being stoned for wearing jeans and promised myself to never forget.

Your freedom is closer than ever.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)