Homesick

Two a.m.

I try to sleep.

But my body is alert—tense—still coursing with blood and adrenaline.

Another round of war has ended—

as always, unresolved.

Like a returning tide,

like the faint pulse of a wounded land.

This country—

perched on the edge of the Syrian-African rift—

is a gash across the earth’s skin,

a scar that refuses to heal.

News anchors argue about “results,”

like judges on a reality show.

I can’t listen anymore. Enough.

Enough of the endless rhythm of alerts and hollow escape.

Enough of the suspended space between shield and shudder.

I disconnect.

And still, the body won’t release.

Muscles tight.

Instincts coiled.

Should I sleep in a bra tonight?

What if the siren wails again?

How will I face the neighbors in the shelter?

Is it foolish to dye my hair tomorrow?

Will I regret every barefoot moment, every second without a packed bag?

Is it allowed—to live again?

To care about small things? To think of myself?

Will I ever write again

without feeling obliged to speak for a country I no longer recognize?

Is there still room for my voice—

even without a flag, even with a fractured heart?

I ask myself why I’m still here.

Why I chose to raise my son in this place—

my son, with one year left before enlistment.

Who will protect him?

I remind myself: I have no other country.

No other place where they speak my language,

share my memories.

Everywhere else, I’ll be a stranger.

And even there—

I’ll be seen as a delegate of the place I fled.

I know I’ll miss home.

But I already do.

Not this house. Not my childhood street—

but the land I once believed in.

The place that was meant to be a refuge,

not a battlefield of the soul.

Maybe it never was.

Maybe it was only an idea.

The landscape remains,

but the air has changed—

cynical, hardened.

In the shelter, I see Rakesh.

He stands at the entrance, hesitant—

embarrassed, apologetic, almost invisible.

He’s been here for years.

Doesn’t speak Hebrew. Asks no questions.

But he knows the siren. Knows when to run.

Knows how to read fear,

even without understanding the words.

And still, the act of running—claiming his right to survive—

shames him.

He didn’t have time to carry my elderly neighbor down the stairs.

That’s his job: to care.

So survival, the most human instinct,

feels like failure.

He doesn’t truly belong.

He lives in-between—

between the home that survives on the money he sends,

and this country whose pain he will never fully grasp.

This isn’t his war.

He came to work,

and found himself trapped in a wordless conflict.

And when I look at him,

I don’t understand either.

I can’t explain—not even to myself—

what this is all for.

How do you explain it to someone not born here,

yet living among us?

Even to those who were?

The neighbors gather in the shelter,

and a shy joy stirs—

at rediscovering them.

The warmth no screen can offer.

The Midnight Call:

“Didn’t you hear the siren?”

“Why haven’t you come down?”

I watch an unlikely friendship bloom

between the six-year-old boy next door

and his widowed neighbor.

He explains the conflict in his child’s voice:

Is it Iran? The Houthis? Lebanon? Gaza?

“President Trump will come soon,” he says,

“drop a big bomb on Iran’s nuclear plant,

and make everyone stop the war.”

She smiles, strokes his hair,

delighted by his cleverness.

And I—

I mourn this childhood.

When the third threat of the night passes,

we climb the stairs in silence.

They race ahead—he wins.

We part again, not knowing when we’ll meet next.

No one asks, “Is it over?”

We all know the answer is temporary.

The missiles don’t discriminate.

They don’t ask who is Jewish or Arab,

refugee or foreign worker.

They don’t check religion, skin color, beliefs, or tongue.

They shriek through the sky, indifferent to difference.

Sometimes I think—

only an outside threat ever unified us.

Danger, not hope, kept us whole.

Like an inward-facing Iron Dome,

forged from the dread of standing alone in foreign fire.

And I wonder—

if fire doesn’t distinguish,

maybe the heart can learn not to either.

Maybe it can grow—

to hold more than our narrow tribes.

All I have left is hope.

That from blood and grief and exhaustion

a cry for a simpler life will rise.

That the people here, in all their names and faces,

will claim the right

to wake up and fuss over what to wear,

what to cook, whether to answer a message now or later.

The small things—

so easily taken for granted

until they vanish.

That we’ll stop falling

for the manipulations of rulers

whose decisions are made far from where we live.

That we won’t let them turn our lives into chess pieces—

our fear into leverage.

I’ve never held a weapon.

Only words.

And sometimes, even they fall short.

But I keep writing—

because I believe in their power.

To imagine something better.

To plant hope in weary hearts.

To remind us—gently, stubbornly—

that more unites us than divides.

I go on—

not out of certainty,

but longing.

Longing for something that never was—

but must be.

And if it doesn’t exist,

then maybe it’s time to build it.

Tonight is quiet.

For the first time in days,

I can hear myself breathe.

Not a promise. Not peace.

Just a pause—air in, air out.

Life, tugging gently at the edges,

asking to return.

I take my time.

To steady myself.

To understand what we’ve been through—

what we’re still in.

To try to see the whole picture,

from every angle.

I promise I’ll keep checking on the neighbors.

I’ll knock on Rakesh’s door.

I’ll remember the warmth I found—

the hand on a shoulder, the quiet care.

But I know—

when the dust settles,

so will I.

Back into routine.

Back into myself.

The small details of a life.

Maybe I’ll write.

Not for any flag.

Not on behalf of a country.

Just from my heart—

cracked like the ground beneath me.

A heart that still dares to believe

the pieces can come together.

That a true home can be built.

For I ache for

a land I once believed in,

a haven I once imagined.

Perhaps it never was—

and yet, it must be.

And maybe,

with these very words,

longing marks a beginning.