Under Fire, part 3

The alarm goes off at 4:45 and for those first groggy moments I think that the city has changed the sound of the sirens. It is my day to brave the arduous drive to the Tel Aviv area for an in-house seminar at a client's site. I've had four hours of sleep. Waiting for the next explosion is not conducive to peaceful slumber.

I close the shutters, give Nadine another pat, and start loading the car. Murphy's Law: as soon as I am in the car (but not quite ready to leave), there are more ominous booms in the distance.

The drive down is tedious and exhausting, as only driving in this insane traffic can be, but otherwise uneventful. Two morning DJs discuss the story of the Man Saved by Crappy Sandals; seems that a fellow in Nahariya was wearing a pair of "toe sandals" given to him by his wife. They weren't the best things to run in, he discovered, as the sirens caught him outside. In his dash to reach shelter, he tripped and fell, and a ketusha sailed over his head and exploded 20 meters in front of him. Moral of the story, says the DJ: if your wife buys you ugly toe sandals, wear them and be grateful.

But I catch the tail end of another news broadcast, and hear the mention of a fatality at the kibbutz where my brother-in-law lives. I don't catch the name, but the age is about right for my nephew, and my heart stops. I call a friend and ask her to check online, but before she can locate information, I catch the next news broadcast and realize that they are talking about one of the soldiers who was killed in yesterday's border fighting. A kibbutz is like a very small town, where everyone knows everyone, so I call our family to see how they are holding up. The boy was their kids' friend, and they, along with most of the kibbutz, will surely go to the funeral.

It takes me 2.5 hours to reach my client's facility. The two groups of TCs (technical communicators) are great; they are passionate about their work, and the day is filled with lively debate and plenty of laughter. For me, it is a 14-hour day, and I know I will be completely wiped out tomorrow, but it is also like a small vacation away from the tension in the north.

After eight hours of training (and six cups of espresso), it is time to head back north. I feel like a salmon fighting its way back upstream. I call my neighbor to make sure that my house is still there. At Tzomet Faradis, I am stuck at the red light, and I take the opportunity to chug some water. (It is summer here, and you don't go anywhere without water!) Out of my peripheral vision, I see that the guy in the car next to me is also chugging water. We catch each other's eye and grin. He lifts his water bottle in a mock toast. L'haim! The fact that we can still smile says something...

Home again. There may be a war on, and yes, we have no mail delivery, banks and stores are closed, people are hanging out close to their bomb shelters or security rooms, yet not everything stops. There are still cat boxes to clean, plants to water, dogs to walk, kids to feed, clothes to wash. A neighbor pauses by the edge of the field as his dog methodically sniffs a bush. "Nu!" he says, tugging gently on the leash. The message is clear: do your business, please, but don't take all day about it!

Nadine greets me at the door, screaming. Shortly after, the sirens go off again and I hear three distinct strikes in the area. I guess I'm home...