At the time of writing, my family and I have been in our safe room 86 times in the last 19 days – according to the Home Front Command app.

Eighty-five of those were because of ballistic missiles – often with cluster heads – fired in our direction. One was a drone infiltration, where there was no early warning – just a siren and the instinct to run.

There have been other moments too: early warnings that didn’t lead to sirens, distant explosions that arrive without explanation, seconds where you have to decide whether to trust the system or your instincts. The rhythm of life becomes shaped by alerts, by sounds, by the space between uncertainty and action.

I am writing this not just as someone living through it, but as the Executive Director of FZY, a Zionist youth movement. My role is about leadership, education, and helping young people build a relationship with Israel that is real, meaningful, and resilient.

And so, like many others here, I am not observing this from a distance. I am living it – while also carrying the responsibility of helping others make sense of it.

And yet, within all of this, I keep coming back to the same, deeply uncomfortable thought: I am lucky.

I am lucky because I have a safe room in my home. Many don’t. For them, every siren means leaving their home – sometimes their building – to find safety.

I am lucky because of where I........

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