By Debi Lerner-Rubin, Special To The Dayton Jewish Observer
Rockets and missiles shadow our lives here even when they are not falling en masse. They fall from the southern and northern skies indiscriminately. When lives are not lost, news is not made.

I live in a cozy little town perched on top of a mountain 4.35 miles northeast of Jerusalem.

Jerusalemites feel pretty smug and safe from local missile attacks, a feeling I share from my close mountain top. Bombs, knives and axes get my fear factor up.

It horrifies me that my children have grown up learning all too intimately about security threats and I hope to God they are the experts they have been trained to be, if need be.

I feel anxious as Kassam, Grad, mortar rockets and Ketyusha fire escalates.

Will we respond? How? When? More than 128 rockets strike Israel from Saturday, Nov. 10 to Monday, Nov. 12. I’m working on Wednesday when Hamas military chief Ahmed Jabari is taken out.

This is it, I think and say to Liat, “We are at war,” really hoping she responds with some bit of hidden truth or information proving the opposite (this is, after all, a newspaper and she is a very well informed senior editor) but she seals it with, “We are always at war.”

That heavy spot in my chest presses as my eyes tear up. Israel is a postage stamp of a country set in a sea of states qualifying us as their mortal and immortal enemy. Where are my children? I feel myself fall into a familiar surreal state, a little fall but still a tiny slip down from reality that punches the adrenalin to some survival section of my brain.

Hold yourself together. Call home. No, it will just alarm Eden, probably home alone. No, she is a news junkie, she’ll know more than me. I phone to reassure…her, me, us. She is tough.

And I am back with Liat rejigging the news on our pages as quickly as we can before putting our paper to bed.

Thursday early afternoon, I fill up my shelved flask. Shortly after arriving to my office, Iranian Fajr 5 rockets begin falling on Tel Aviv and Rishon Lezion.

Tel Avivans have an air of impenetrability that dwarfs Jerusalem smug. This seems impossible. My daughter in Tel Aviv, trained on her Jerusalem terror experiences, is strong, firm and steady with her baby.  She is on the street, gets to shelter – a stairwell, and has the big mother revelation. “It is so different with a child, everything changes.” Another bonding experience for us as mothers. How I wish she never knew this bonding experience. Of course she knows she can come home to safety.

I turn to my buddy at work, we confirm our nerves and agree it is time for a shot of JD. The news desk is referred to as the war room. We laugh. I notice twitches that were previously hidden. There is more snapping than usual and an odd desire for Pringles.

I just want it over. I want to be home, with my children around me, bickering please.

At home, I keep the radio on, but there are so many sirens and alerts that no song plays uninterrupted. Commercials are incoherent. It is impossible to sleep. But life goes on.

Friday morning brings more nonstop siren alerts. I keep busy, there is plenty to do, but the Friday ritual of blasting rock ‘n’ roll all day while preparing for Shabbat is replaced by radio, online updates and phone calls checking on friends and their children.

My son has not been called up and I am grateful. My husband is away on business and I am grateful. Yes, selfish. I don’t care right now, I have got to be selfish.

I light candles and start to wind down to Shabbat mode. I am happy not to hear news for a day. Suddenly there is a blaring siren that stuns me and my daughter Talia into instant statues for a few seconds. Our eyes fix on one another until I run to get the radio I had put away half an hour before.

A neighbor is calling my name, I go to her and someone that I can not see is crying, wailing really. The neighbor and I discuss our secure area options (At a time like this? Are we nuts? Haven’t we done this years back?) and I leave her to find the cryer. A young girl, maybe 16, all dressed up and shaking with fear. I put my arms around her and try to assure her that everything is fine, that we are in no danger.

Another neighbor comes out and calls someone to bring water for her. Sirens are blaring and we are doing everything wrong. But we stand together and support each other, and we all need to do exactly that. It seems like a long time but it’s seconds.

The girl’s mother and another woman appear, we all speak about our next and best moves and go home. My children are remarkably cool and seem offended that I intrude on their last minute primping. I leave the radio on, there is no real information other than that it is a real siren so I silence the radio. It is Shabbat, the day of rest.

By Sunday, “life goes on” seems to be the mantra. I have limited patience and have got to get out. For many months I have neglected my friends; tonight that changes. I meet two dear friends I have not been able to get together with for a year and a half. Waiting for someone to get home to be with my youngest child, I arrive late at our meeting place, in the Mahane Yehuda shuk. People are out and busy. It is good to be out. Where are my friends? I hear my name, turn to the voice and see my old friend, bald. She did not want to tell me on the phone.

We don’t mention our national war once. We have each had rough years and share our stories. She has finished six rounds of chemo, had surgery and will start radiation soon. When we are offered Limoncello, my friend is thrilled to have her first taste of alcohol in ages. We raise our glasses. L’chaim! Life goes on.

My night out gives me perspective and somehow I feel stronger despite the horror of the news and continuous sirens. The ticks, outbursts, stutters and junk food consumption increase. Outside I think I am cool and calm. At home I have trouble finishing sentences. Thoughts are choppy and fast. I clean and clean compulsively, but not the things that really need cleaning. At night I gaze at the extraordinary clear, bright, winter starry sky and breathe deep. Let the sky be!

When the second siren sounds in Jerusalem I dutifully follow the group into the enormous, dark, stinky underground shelter. With no phone reception, I leave faster than I descend and discover a very nice rebellious group. Next time, I’m with them. Now I must speak with my children. They are fine, nonchalant and shaming me a bit. I will not go to that shelter again.

I am going through motions, doing what I must. Somehow numb and simultaneously hypersensitive, always receptive. There are no Pringles left on the shelves, except pizza flavor. Life does go on.

Debi Lerner-Rubin is art director of The Jerusalem Post International. She lives in the West Bank Settlement of Ma’ale Adumim and is a former Ohioan.