There is a very specific sound to déjà vu in Israel.

It is not memory. It is not trauma. It is not even fear, exactly.

Yesterday morning, Iran was attacking Israel in retaliation for our attack, which is how these things are now phrased, as if missiles have feelings and require narrative symmetry. This was the official context. The lived context was simpler: my phone screamed, the Home Front Command lost its mind, and the stairwell filled like a fire drill designed by Kafka.

By lunchtime, I had completed what can only be described as an elite athletic training programme. Up. Down. Up. Down. Shelter. Apartment. Shelter. Apartment. If Peloton doesn’t steal this concept, they’re idiots. “Welcome back, team. Today, we’re doing reactive cardio under existential threat.”

It is disruptive to routine, which sounds like a grotesquely privileged complaint while missiles are being lobbed overhead. But routine is not a luxury. Routine is scaffolding. Routine is the only thing stopping the brain from unplugging itself and wandering into traffic.

Routine is how you remember that you are a person, not just a target.

I was supposed to finish Sheba’s Children yesterday. I had been dragging it around for weeks, waiting for that mythical uninterrupted quiet that never arrives unless you are either wealthy or dead. Turns out bomb shelters are outstanding reading spaces. Concrete walls. Fluorescent lighting. The gentle hum of collective dread.

Really sharpens the focus.

Perfect book club vibes, minus the wine and the will to live.

My cats, bless their small furry delusions, believe me when I say calmly, “Okay, babies,........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)