This time it is different.

I don’t break a little inside every time I hear the planes flying over. In fact, and even more so this morning after seeing the celebrations on the streets of London, I send blessings with the planes, to encourage the Iranians to revolt and to organise themselves into a new leadership and a new era.

But still, there’s the reality. Just after 8 a.m. on Saturday morning, when I was ready to go on my bike ride so I’d be back in time to go with my family to watch the circus in the next village, the siren went off. First of all, no matter how much you have been following the news and know in your heart that a war is possible, and most probably, imminent, nothing prepares you for that god awful sound that permeates your phone as though the phone itself is petrified. And an added complication: I was on the toilet.

Perhaps you have never experienced this, and I pray you never will, but there are certain activities in a war zone that contribute to extra stress. Being on the toilet and being in the shower. I have indeed run into a public shelter in a towel and little else. My husband thought it was funny. I was not so amused.

And so, I hurriedly finish and we run into the nearest public shelter, which unfortunately is in the neighbours’ garden, and because it was not in use for so many years, they have developed the idea it really belongs to them. In the last war, our son was told he was not able to use the wi-fi there, because they pay for it. A fair enough statement, if it hadn’t been in response to us bringing our dog over each time, the mother being absolutely terrified of dogs, and therefore every single time screaming at us to leave her outside. I told her, very calmly this Saturday (sometimes you have to be extra calm with some Israelis, because it’s something they’re so not used to) that under no circumstances would we leave Lucy, our dog, outside when missiles are falling all around us and she’s scared stiff. I told, her, it would be like you leaving your baby outside. She didn’t get it. Dog haters never do.

Fortunately for us, and for Lucy, we have a safe room within a few minutes running distance, where we can even sleep. Our closest friends (our son calls them grandma and grandpa) used to live in this house, and in the last Iranian war we lived with them there for two weeks. Now, they have moved house, but the house stands empty and the landlady has kindly allowed us to be there.

Once the door is closed, and you know you are safe, that’s when the thoughts begin. You see, it’s not that we feel unsafe here, or we are scared. We have alerts which tell us to be prepared to get into a protected space, and sirens to tell us there will be an attack in under a minute. The safe room is what it says on the tin, safe, and we trust our country and our defences to not only look after us, but also to get the job done.

No, it’s something different than that. It’s that life must stop. Let me explain.

Last week, our son and I went shopping for his Purim costume. We put quite a bit of thought into it, and then I too, had to spend time preparing mine. Dressing up for Purim is something we Israelis take very seriously indeed. I was going to be a clown, and my school had even booked a clown workshop for us teachers (supposed to be happening as I write this) for us to learn how to perfect the role. I was excited. As a student, and even as a teacher, I’ve always clowned around in class, but I have never done it professionally. Here was my chance. I spent time gathering the right parts together – this colourful jacket, this tutu skirt, these crazy big- on-me shoes, some vegan face paints for sensitive skin… you name it, I had it. I was even more on the case than usual, having purposely missed the last two years of Purim because the war with Gaza left me empty of reasons to celebrate.

It’s just one holiday, of course. One holiday that has to be cancelled. We can cope with that. But then there’s also my birthday, this week, for which we had planned and booked a holiday in the mountains in a wooden Yurt with a tiny pool overlooking the mountains.

Then there’s the final play my students have been working on in their last year of school. The first performance date is the 18th March. And they’ll be losing a whole week of rehearsals, if not more. Is it still possible to salvage? And what about the time it has taken to get to this point, the writing, editing, learning of lines, the set, the props, the costumes, the energy. All to be cancelled? Currently, it’s suspended in mid-air.

It’s not as bad as the last war with Iran. In that one, two of our closest friends had to completely change the nature of their wedding near Jerusalem. The venue and the after wedding party in the forest were booked for the 13th June. Suddenly, in one night (we knew from the siren that woke us at 3am, just to announce we were at war, a thoughtful but slightly irritating move) everything had changed. And we, who live two hours away from them, could not go to their improvised wedding.

For that I remember I had been agonising over which earrings to match with the dress I was going to wear. Just like this time. Too much focus on the clown costume. Perhaps both wars have also helped to teach me something about vanity.

Certainly, what wars do teach us, is how to be in the moment, because we have nothing else. All future plans may be cancelled. All present plans are cancelled. Everything is cancelled. You can only be you, who you are, and it helps to be without panic and worry, for those emotions are totally useless.

So how does it feel to be in a war? It’s frustrating. It’s annoying. It involves a lot of running if you don’t have a safe room at home.  It’s not easy with the sleepless nights and the noise. It’s horrific – every so often a rocket does get through and kills and injures people. Will those people be my family? My friends? And what does that matter? It is still absolutely tragic that anyone need lose their life because of a cruel dictatorship in another country.

I heard an interesting take on it, yesterday. A BBC correspondent who was unable to understand why we had attacked. After all, we were not provoked. Much easier for someone to say who lives three thousand miles away and doesn’t have the shadow of nuclear war, or simply, war, looming over his shoulder like an extremely large and ravenous wolf.

And having seen the celebrations of Iranians and Jews together in London, I feel hopeful this time. I know this war won’t be forever. I know at some point we will be able to make plans again. And if it means, even if it takes some time, that an evil regime cannot continue to slaughter its innocent citizens, then all these weird experiences I have described will certainly have been worth it.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)