“Ma koreh?” the teenager with the green hair at the pizza place asked as I came in to pick up yet another round of pizzas for dinner. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve visited over the past few weeks, grabbing food for my family while we hunker down at home.

“Meh,” I shrugged. “Like everyone else right now, I guess,” I answered in Hebrew, my thick American accent giving me away.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “But we are Israeli. We are resilient!” He tried to sound enthusiastic, though his eyes betrayed a deeper weariness.

I sighed heavily. “I’m sick of being resilient. I just want to be normal again.”

He gave me a small, sad smile. “You’re right.” 

He handed me my pizzas, and I walked home in silence.

It’s been almost four weeks since the outbreak of this latest war with Iran, and you can feel the exhaustion everywhere. While my friends in the US are posting about spring break trips and family vacations, I’ve barely left the house except for quick runs to the grocery store or the playground — and even those mundane errands are often interrupted by the wail of sirens sending us scrambling to the shelter.

We missed Purim this year. What’s usually a loud, joyful holiday turned into something quiet in our living room. And now we’re getting the kids ready for yet another round of virtual Passover seders with their classmates, trying to keep things feeling as normal as possible.

Between COVID lockdowns, October 7th, and now this war with Iran, it’s been six years of living like this. Somewhere between routine and disruption, between the life we once knew and whatever this new abnormal is. Parents are juggling work, childcare, and ever-present anxiety in ways that don’t feel sustainable. Kids are absorbing more than we think, even when we try our best to shield them. 

It’s not just the sirens. It’s everything else piling on. Hiring has slowed to a trickle. Projects are stalled. Tourism has ground to a halt. Everyone is just… waiting. Friends in tech who were already laid off are now even more stuck — getting by or bracing for the next round of cuts.

And then there’s reserve duty. Friends, neighbors, husbands. Their spouses are suddenly doing everything alone — work, kids, bedtime, all of it — while trying not to spiral. The uncertainty is constant. Since October 7th, I know too many people who’ve ended up on anxiety meds just to get through the day.

My kids have their Barbies taking shelter in a miniature safe room they’ve built inside the Barbie house, complete with siren sound effects. Every time we leave the house, the first thing they ask is, “Where is the safe room?”

Families are doing everything they can to hold onto some version of normal, even as it keeps slipping through our fingers.

And still, I know I’m one of the lucky ones. We have a safe room. Our home is intact. Everyone I love is alive. Not everyone can say that. Some people can’t reach a shelter in time. Others are sleeping in shared bomb shelters with their kids, just to avoid the panic of running in the middle of the night.

Then there’s Bibi, on TV last week, looking, as usual, like someone had gone a bit heavy on the makeup, assuring us he’s still alive and encouraging us to “go out, get some coffee, and take a breather” — as though this is just another minor inconvenience.

As if a simple coffee can cancel out the accumulated stress of years spent in this state of perpetual uncertainty. As if “taking a breather” is the solution when your children have been sleeping on the floor of the safe room for weeks on end. As if this is just another passing period of difficulty, not an endless cycle of instability that has become our new normal.

Everyone is struggling. Too much TV, too much Zoom, too much bickering, too much stress. Not enough sleep. We are resilient, sure. It’s in our DNA as Israelis. But we are also utterly jaded. And I don’t know how much more resilience we’re supposed to have left.

When will we get to be “normal” again?

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)