In one Beit Shemesh classroom supported by JOIN Israel, an elementary school student tried to explain what the war years had felt like.

“There was a war,” he said softly. “And I got scared… a little bit. It was hard. And frightening. And there were a number of sirens… one after the other.”

Later, reflecting on those months, he added quietly: “My friends were all sometimes sad too, I think.”

The children interviewed for this article were in first through fourth grades at a Beit Shemesh school whose educational and emotional-support programs are supported by JOIN Israel. Some had lived through months of repeated missile sirens. Two had lost their homes and were living in small rentals.

Elroy, six years old, was living in the town of Eshtaol when a missile struck. His family had left to go to a park, “I convinced them to go,” he said. When the siren came they found a bomb shelter, but Elroy saw the missile strike his home. The house he had left was destroyed.

“It’s scary, those bombs,” he said quietly.

Another 4th grader, David’s family had been shopping when a missile struck next door to their home in Beit Shemesh. Nine people were killed in the very bomb shelter that was normally their place of safety. The school sat one street away. Windows shattered. The force of the blast blew open the school’s main entrance door.

A third child, Avi, whose older brother serves as an army officer, described the morning of October 7 with the matter-of-fact directness children sometimes use for things they have not fully processed. His brother was at home when the sirens began. By that evening, he was called up to many months of service.

“He’s been in the bunker most of the time,” the boy said. “There could be a war, but right now there’s a ceasefire, I think.”

Avi is 9. He was describing this as ordinary life.

What stood out most across these conversations was not dramatic expressions of trauma. The children spoke quietly, sometimes hesitantly, often with the matter-of-fact directness of people who have absorbed a reality they did not choose. They talked less about politics or the war itself and more about what had helped them continue feeling safe.

“What made you feel better?” one child, Kira, was asked.

“Being with my friends and with my family.”

Eden described the long stretches spent mostly indoors during waves of sirens and school disruptions: “We stayed home. Just with family.”

Asked what helps children feel safe Nadav answered: “Being with their friends and family… and being with their pets.” He then described a siren during which he had found himself alone in the house.

“Oreo, my dog, helped me feel safe.”

Avi put it differently. He had been alone at home when a siren sounded. Asked how it felt, he paused.

“When there are people, everyone is talking, and you can’t hear the things,” he said. “When you’re alone, you hear — and your heart stops.”

Children rarely described their experiences in clinical or psychological language. Instead they spoke through fragments of ordinary childhood: boredom, missed friends, books, games, safe rooms, the presence of........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)