Diary from Jerusalem: ‘My daughter thinks it’s all just a game’

But my husband’s face says it all: deeply shocked and tense, he walks through the house with his mobile phone and headphones. I had asked him not to consume the news in front of our daughter and to give me a briefing every now and then. My uncle wants out. I heard from a friend that there are bunkers at two of the two playgrounds in our neighborhood. So we dare. On the way, my Swiss friend calls me, who is stuck at the Dead Sea with her husband and child and wants to fly home to Switzerland. An Israeli advised them to leave the country as soon as possible, but their Swiss flight was cancelled. «Remain as calm as possible. “You are relatively safe in Kibbutz Ein Gedi,” I advise them. Once in the playground, my daughter happily runs to the swing and later up the slide, she squeaks and is happy with the little friends she meets. But the world on the playground is not the same as usual: it is mainly grandparents and mothers that I meet. The fathers were called up. Who is stationed where? When I hear ‘North’ or ‘East’ I breathe a sigh of relief, when I hear ‘Gaza’ it becomes silent – ​​even when we talk about the victims. Everyone knows someone who has died. Entire families were wiped out. The word ‘pogrom’ is mentioned. Although today marks the start of the new week in Israel, schools, daycare centers and most shops remain closed.

My father-in-law knocks on the door and wants to know how we are doing. Delighted by the visit, my daughter takes her grandfather by the hand and walks down the stairs into the street. Coffee, I think, but then the sirens sound. Barefoot and in my pajamas, I run into the street, grab my daughter, wave a passerby with a stroller in and take shelter in our basement. All the other residents of our house are also here with their dogs and children – meanwhile we all know that this is the safest place in the house. The shock is so deep that I don’t go out again until late in the afternoon. Just going to the playground for some fresh air, I guess. But sirens sound again. I leave the stroller and run with my child across the lawn into the bunker. My daughter laughs. When we got out of the bunker, I missed two calls from my husband: “Where are you? Come home immediately.” My child runs across the lawn back to our buggy and laughs again. She thinks it’s a game. In the evening there is raclette. I put on music, my daughter draws at the table and we sing along to a few songs. “Is it ridiculous to want to maintain some normality?” I ask my father-in-law. He has lived through all the wars in Israel since the 1950s. ‘No darling, that’s important. Keep it up.”

All night I heard military planes flying over Jerusalem, moving ammunition and equipment. My husband is in the cafe. Today he opened one of his three stores for the first time since the outbreak of the war. It is located on the ground floor of our house. Every customer comes with their stories, their losses, their fears. My sister-in-law from Jerusalem is also coming over, her one-month-old baby is sleeping in the baby carrier. “He barely ate anything yesterday. He couldn’t latch properly because I was so stressed. I had panic attacks,” she says, and I notice that she feels guilty. Last night we were instructed by the government to purchase supplies and prepare everything for a longer period of isolation. Biden speaks in the evening, and when he quotes Golda Meir, he speaks from the hearts of many Israelis. “We have nowhere else to go,” she is said to have told him shortly before the Yom Kippur War, when he was still a young senator – we have nowhere else to go.

Since today, a rain of bombs has also been falling from Lebanon, which is located in the north. We need diapers and vegetables, but the shelves at the cooperative where we usually shop are empty. I only come to work at night, from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m., when everyone is sleeping. After midnight I received a message from my Swiss friends that they could leave for Rome.

My uncle is also flying to Switzerland today. My neighbor returns from holiday in Vietnam and her husband moves in straight away. She stays at home with her daughter. The question for us is: should we travel with the small children? Until now I wanted to stay. I feel solidarity with everyone who is still here. My uncle is flying out late at 7:21 pm.

The calm before the storm. Israel has called on residents of northern Gaza to leave the area within 24 hours. The daycare center opens its doors at 9 a.m. to give the children a play hour and to take the pressure off the parents. Even though it’s the shelter where her usual toys are, my daughter feels like a fish out of water. She plays independently, is happy with her supervisors and I think about a message that an acquaintance from the EDA sent me: “It looks like there are no flights next week and tomorrow there would be another good opportunity.” Should we just pack our bags and go? What else awaits us? My sister-in-law and her husband were allowed to drive to the gates of the military base today to hold their son before he goes off to war again. In the evening I read in the Swiss newspapers how the situation in Gaza is developing. After all the attempts to control everyday life and maintain some normalcy, I finally understand, deep in my cells, that the tragedy has only just begun. I heard by email that Swiss canceled the two rescue flights due to safety concerns. I am overcome with panic. What will happen this night?

The night remained quiet, but the noise of the planes and the muffled sounds of missiles ahead are unnerving. There is fear, confusion. My husband, who was in the army when Israel occupied southern Lebanon, says he smells gunpowder. In our living room the believers sing prayer songs. Louder and more demanding than usual, I feel. My daughter is taking her afternoon nap. So this is what war feels like.