My Hebrew is functional. It is not pretty. It gets the job done the way a duct-taped suitcase gets the job done — it holds…

For years, the words I didn’t know were inconveniences. I’d blank on the Hebrew for “invoice.” I’d Google “mold” while texting my landlord. I’d nod along when someone used slang I didn’t recognize and piece it together from context, the way immigrants do — always three seconds behind, always pretending otherwise.

Then came October 7th, and the wars that followed, and suddenly the words I didn’t know were the sounds of the country trying to stay alive.

**אזעקה** (*az’aka*) — siren. You learn it with your body before your brain. Ten seconds to find shelter. My dog has no idea what’s happening. I grab her, I grab my phone, I close the steel door of the **ממ״ד** (*mamad*) — the reinforced room — and realize I forgot my glasses and sometimes, my pants.

Not everyone has a *mamad*. That’s the........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)