Few sounds are more haunting than the wail of a siren signaling an impending missile attack. Every passing motorcycle becomes a jolt to the heart. More chilling still is the explosion that follows.
I awoke to a siren at 6:29 a.m. on Oct. 7 in my home in central Israel, marking the beginning of Hamas’s murderous attack. I scooped up my 2-year-old daughter, Ori, from bed, and we sought refuge in a bomb shelter, her eyes betraying a profound fear.
Israel’s promise has been that we would be protected, that it is the safest place for our children. Life here has always been challenging, with soaring living costs, societal divides and periodic wars. Yet the foundational promise has been “Never again”. Never again would Jewish mothers hush their babies in fear of murderers outside. Never again would families cower in closets.
Oct. 7 changed everything. What many outside Israel perhaps do not understand is that since the first murderous onslaught, rocket attacks from Gaza have continued to terrorize Israeli citizens.
Many Israelis view the Oct. 7 events as a prelude — a proof of concept for a much larger catastrophe. This perception is fueled by the actions of Iranian-backed militias in the Middle East, including the exchanges of fire with Hezbollah in Lebanon, and the threat of a nuclear Iran openly committed to Israel’s destruction.
This fractured sense of security, the feeling that nowhere is safe, resonates with many Israelis who are parents of small children.
Below is what some of them had to say.
“The light of my life was turned off”
On the morning of the attack, as explosions echoed inside their home in Kfar Aza, near Gaza, Shaylee Atary, her husband, Yahav, and their infant, Shaya, sought refuge in the safe room. When a Hamas terrorist tried to enter through the window, Yahav pushed the window back, allowing a few seconds for Shaylee to escape with Shaya. The two were saved. Yahav was murdered.
Now living in a temporary Tel Aviv apartment, Shaylee and Shaya find solace in constant visits from family and friends.
Shaylee: I feel terrible. The light of my life was turned off. There is a new life, and every day is more beautiful with her. I have hope that someday I will feel part of this light, but I feel a huge loss. I feel a lot of sadness, but what you see on the outside is fully functional because Shaya needs a new diaper, a warm bottle. You don’t have time to grieve. She is only 2 months old.
“The most difficult thing is the coverup”
Although it looks like any young girl’s bedroom, Yuval’s is a bomb shelter painted pink, with fully reinforced concrete, a gas- and blast-proof window, and a layer of metal to seal the window. When the window is open, it is Yuval’s room. When it is closed, it is the Shalit family’s safe room.
Yuval (age 3, to her parents): I’ll protect you.
Dana: The most difficult thing is the coverup — acting as a mother, giving her the sense that everything is okay. Our lives have changed completely since Oct. 7; our innocence is gone. A sense of security has been shattered. Anything can happen now. And where is it safe in the world? Whom to believe? Whom to trust?
Ido: I feel like we’re living on our swords. There will always be extremists on both sides, and it’s hard to grapple with the thought that I have to raise my children in such a reality.
“They view every Arab as a potential threat”
The Yanaki Batshon family are Arab citizens of Israel. Lacking a shelter in their apartment, when the siren warns of a missile attack from Gaza, they have a minute and a half to descend to the building’s public shelter. The sirens can sound at any moment — while the children are at school, while a parent is taking a shower or at night, after the children are asleep.
Noya (age 5): I’m afraid to sleep; I just don’t want there to be a siren.
Raneen: When they hear a siren, they become very stressed and frightened. Reef starts crying, and it’s very hard to calm him down. Even when they fall asleep, they wake up often, come to our bed, and don’t stay in their beds.
I fear that after the war, the situation won’t return to the same as it was in terms of the relations between Arabs and Jews. Discrimination was already present before the war, and it is expanding, including in workplaces and schools. All my life, I refused to be someone who says, “I was not hired because I am Arab”, or similar statements. I believe strongly in myself and in the idea that if I want something, I can achieve it.
I felt a sense of security and belonging in Israel for a long time. Unfortunately, since Oct. 7, I no longer feel that way. I witness Jewish acquaintances who stereotype Arabs as terrorists or hold negative perceptions. They view every Arab as a potential threat, and seeing this deeply saddens and hurts me. I feel like I’m under a magnifying glass and a step here or there could be misinterpreted. This is very frustrating.
After the war is over, we will all continue to live here, and we will all have to find a way to go back to living together in peace. We need to start now!
“To show the world that we are Jewish, that we are not scared”
Dinush Blau, a single mother, and her children are part of the Jewish Hasidic Chabad Movement. Nine years ago, they moved to Israel from England. Today, they reside in Ashkelon, which has been the most heavily targeted Israeli city for missile attacks since the start of the war.
Doby Vogel (age 12): There’s no point in leaving because everything that’s happening is what God wants, and if He wants us to die, we will die, no matter where we are”.
Dinush: This situation has definitely matured my children. We talk openly about everything. It was the first time they walked by a funeral and, at the same time, living a miracle — every day and night surrounded by hundreds of sirens and bombs, but surviving.
All of our neighbors left, but we are at home trusting in God. We feel very lucky to live in Ashkelon, the most shelled city. We feel that we had the rare opportunity to stand behind our words, to act as we speak. To do our part this time — to show the world that we are Jewish, that we are not scared.
“This is the last war”
The Yhskis family is part of the Beta Israel Ethiopian Jewish community. They, too, reside in Ashkelon.
Liam (age 10, in response to his mother asking why he is not asleep): I watch over my family to protect them from the bad guys.
Bnchlm: When the immediate emergency passed, the children were not ready to leave the bomb shelter. The youngest, Nia, has withdrawn into herself. She does not sleep all day and stays close to me. When she hears noises, she runs and holds onto me.
Liam asked, “Mom, will I join the army too?” I told him, “No, Liam, when you grow up, there won’t be an army anymore. This is the last war”. I don’t know if this is the truth, but I had to create a bright, optimistic picture of the future for him.
“If the terrorists found out we are gay parents”
As the war drags on, the parents in the Yaniv Choufan family endeavors to preserve a sense of normalcy for their children. However, as with many other Israeli families, the children’s nights are spent exclusively in the safety of the bomb shelter.
Neta (age 4): I want the siren season to end.
Ethan (age 4): I do not want to live in this country.
Omri: I had thoughts of what would have happened if I had been kidnapped. What would happen if the terrorists found out we are gay parents.
Matan: It is all very scary and mentally taxing. We didn’t let the children out of the building for about a week; we locked all the windows and blinds and added a lock to the entrance.
After the attack, there were certainly thoughts of fleeing. I felt I was not ready to raise my children in such a reality. However, somehow, as the days passed, the typical cynicism somewhat shed itself, and the Israeli identity actually grew a bit stronger. I am worried that the fear of relocation is grounding us and that we will regret not taking the step [to leave]. On the other hand, the rest of the world also feels like a less safe place right now — a feeling of nowhere to escape.
“I can't protect my son”
Lacking a secure bomb shelter, when sirens wail, the Naveh-Vaknins have a minute and a half to pick up their son and seek refuge either in the nearby street shelter or at the neighbor’s. Omri now insists on sleeping only in his parent’s bed.
Rotem: I used to sit with the door open, enjoying the air. But that doesn’t happen anymore.
Gilad: In the evening, when I wash dishes at home, I look out the window to make sure a pickup truck doesn’t arrive with people who want to kill us. Getting up in the morning, walking the child to kindergarten, paying taxes and receiving security — [all that normalcy] has been wiped away.
Omri (age 3): Mom, if there’s a siren, where are we supposed to go?
Rotem: I can’t protect my son. I have no way, and I have no means.
Gilad: I wonder what will happen in the future. They will continue to hate us, and we will continue to want to live here. What will happen to my son in the future? There are thoughts of not staying, but you see that the whole world hates us. Here, I have family and the language; it’s a dilemma between bad options.
“All these wars should end already”
Meirav Koren Beeri and her children were compelled to leave their home in Kibbutz Snir in northern Israel because of ongoing bombardments by Hezbollah from Lebanon. They have been displaced for more than three months.
Nevo (age 4): They shoot bombs so that we die, and they can live there [in our home].
Meirav: It has been 108 days since I became a refugee, with all that this implies. My children have lost their joy in life and cling to me all day. It has been 108 days since I have showered or peed alone, as they are always with me because they are scared. It has been 108 nights that I haven’t slept properly because they want to feel their mother close during the night.
There is fear about what will happen when the government informs us that we can return home. Will we go back? Who guarantees that we won’t be slaughtered and raped there the next day?
At the same time, I know that in both Gaza and Lebanon, there are many people who just want to live in peace and quiet. There are bereaved families on both sides. No child deserves to grow up without a father. No girl should be afraid of being hurt. And all these wars should end already.
Oded Wagenstein is a photographer based in Israel.