特拉维夫导弹下的十三天Nothing has changed,
but everything has changed.Ничего не изменилось,
но всё изменилось.

War hits you like a shot of adrenaline.

But once time passes, people choose to forget—it's a form of self-protection.

I remember when the Russia-Ukraine war broke out in 2022. I refused to believe it.

My colleague said: "Russia and Ukraine are at war!"

I shot back: "Stop spreading fake news. I lived in Ukraine for four years. People said this every single day."

He told me to check the news myself. I was still muttering "impossible, this is absolutely impossible"—convinced he was messing with me.

Then I opened my laptop.

My heart nearly jumped out of my chest.

That was four years ago.

How many people still think about how those people are doing now?

Then, the day after the Israel-Iran war broke out, a friend in Ukraine messaged me, demanding to know why I was still in Israel.

I sent back a laughing emoji. "Look who's talking — aren't you in Ukraine right now?"

He said: "That's exactly why. I know how terrifying this is. And I didn't want you to know."

But it was too late. Now I know.

(Most of this was written between 2.28–3.08. Revised on 3.16)

Tel Aviv, morning of February 28, 2026

The weather in Tel Aviv is beautiful every single day—almost cruelly so.

Under the Mediterranean sun in March, the light is clear and generous. The blue coastline always feels like it's healing something.

I was in the shower, humming to myself, when the siren went off.

That piercing sound tore open an ordinary morning.

My friend said: Shite.

I had no idea what to do. I needed to get dressed and get to the shelter—but all my clothes were in the washing machine. I couldn't find anything.

I kept spinning around the room in a panic, not knowing where to start. I was about to run out wrapped in a towel.

My friend came over, gripped both my arms, looked me in the eyes and said: "It's okay. We have one and a half minutes. Don't be scared." His voice was trembling.

I grabbed a pair of pants from the washing machine—still wet, still cold, and pulled them on.

Then I just ran. Following everyone else.

Every sense shut down in that moment. The only thing I could hear was my own heartbeat.

When we reached the shelter, I felt the floor was cold.

I looked down.

I hadn't put on shoes.

My legs were shaking—not the shaking of fear, but the kind of uncontrollable muscle failure you get after running a marathon.

The sirens kept coming.

Every two hours at first. Then every hour. Then every half hour. Then every ten minutes.

Each time, I flinched all over again. Even ordinary sounds made me jump.

I didn't dare take off my clothes. Didn't dare take off my shoes. Didn't dare rest. I stayed wound tight.

My phone started buzzing. Friends and family from home sent message after message.

Some forwarded news articles. Some asked why I wasn't coming back. Some told me what I should do. Some asked me to film videos for them.

I stared at the screen.

I didn't reply to any of them.

The sirens kept coming. Too many times—I lost count. Once, walking back from the shelter, I stood in the hallway and suddenly found it funny.

First a short heh. Then I started laughing out loud.

Yesterday I was happily celebrating Shabbat, planning which Purim party to go to. Then I woke up to this. Isn't that hilarious?

I decided I wasn't going to let the sirens control me anymore.

Next time the alarm goes off, I'm going to compose music to it. I'm going to dance.

I started sinking into the gaps between sirens.

Sometimes Christmas songs. Sometimes Celine Dion. Sometimes classical.

In the shelter, I sang Que Sera Sera—what will be, will be.

If I were making a war film, I now know exactly how people react.

First time—panic. Pure, animal panic.

Second time—still panicking, but the legs don't shake anymore.

Third time—it's absurd. I genuinely want to laugh. The world is absurd.

Fourth time—scared again, but mentally prepared.

Fifth time—used to it. But I told myself: don't get numb.

From the hallway drifted the smell of someone cooking.

At night, I still couldn't sleep. I didn't trust the walls to protect me.

March 2, 2026 — Purim

I put on the Purim costume I'd bought days earlier, did my makeup in the mirror, and took a photo of myself.

Outside, missiles could fall at any moment. But between the extremes of tension and release, I chose absurdity over absurdity—chose to affirm life in the shadow of death.

The closer destruction gets, the more fiercely you need to confirm you're still alive.

I started to know the siren sounds, to walk the route to the shelter like an expert.

But at night, I sat by the door with my back against the wall, ready to run at any moment.

I was afraid of the missiles. I sat there, unable to sleep, listening to the occasional sirens still echoing outside.

In the days before the war, I had been going back and forth about whether to leave. Now, because of the war, I couldn't.

I kept checking my phone, is the evacuation notice real? Is the war really that serious?

I was looking for evidence. Evidence that would let me stay with a clear conscience.

I knew what I was doing. I just didn't want to admit it.

This force majeure had made the decision for me. That thought made me want to laugh.

I pretended I had no way to leave. And so, naturally, I stayed.

Maybe running away and making a choice are sometimes the same thing.

Miron sent me a message: "You were supposed to be in Nepal right now. But you're here, going through all of this. It's for a reason. The more you see this as part of your journey, the more answers you'll receive."

I stared at those words for a long time.

A thought rose in me—simple, rough, but full of force:

Fuck the war. Let's live our life.

I don't know what day of the war it was anymore. The sirens were still going. But something had shifted.

I sat at my laptop writing. My friend looked over at me and said: "You feel so comfortable now."

I smiled. "My train of thought can't be interrupted."

I picked up my laptop and walked toward the shelter. Two tabs still open on the screen—one was the document for this book. The other was my résumé.

The war entered its second week.

I messaged friends I'd met at the hostel to check on them.

One of them—an Israeli—replied that he'd gone camping.

I laughed. And completely understood. I told him to stay safe.

I suddenly realized I hadn't left the apartment in a whole week.

Eventually I made it outside. I met people from Facebook who had offered to help.

Life was going on as normal. As if nothing had happened.

A siren went off on the bus. Everyone ran for the shelter. I didn't know what to do—I just followed the locals. I looked back and saw the driver hadn't gotten off. I kept thinking about why he hadn't gotten off.

When the all-clear came and I walked out, my first thought was: is the bus still waiting for us? Is the driver safe?

The street had gone quiet again. As if nothing had happened. Except the bus was gone.

Nothing has changed, but everything has changed.

In those final days, I couldn't take it anymore. Exhausted. So tired. I still went to the shelter during the day—but at night, when the sirens came, I only went to the bathroom or the kitchen. Nowhere near the windows. I stopped following the rules. At the beginning I was one of the few who went every time, strictly within ten minutes. By the end, even I had started to unravel.

This is what war actually looks like.

Not heroism.

Human adaptation. And helplessness.

On the tenth day of the war, I saw a news report.

A thirty-three-year-old girl had been killed by a missile.

She was my age. The news showed her photo and her name. Not a number.

Outside, cars were moving. The sky was the same sky.

Nothing has changed, but everything has changed.