Your Stories—Israel vs. Iran
Personal takes on what's happening right now.
As the Iran-Israel conflict escalates, we put out a call for submissions on how you are feeling. Here is the first round of your comments from on-the-ground. We’re continuing to send our support to everyone in Israel and extra strength to those fighting in the IDF. To everyone in Israel: Thank you for protecting our homeland.
How are you feeling? Share your thoughts with submissionsobjn@zibbymedia.com.
Rina Ne’eman
We live in one of the northernmost towns in Israel, in one of the places that was greatly affected by the Hezbollah attacks. We fled at the very beginning of the war and only recently returned. Ironically, since the initial attack against Iran, we have felt safer here than in central Israel, but are well aware that this could turn on a dime. We are just at the beginning of the Iranian cycle of this war and nobody knows what will transpire. The uncertainty is sickening.
The early alerts of incoming missiles we receive on our mobile phones now slightly diminish the frantic urgency of the transition to our steel-reinforced safe room. Notwithstanding, our four-year-old granddaughter understands enough to be frightened, and she covers her ears and cries when our phones, yet again, let loose their ear-splitting warnings. She—and we—have not left the house in days. We stay as close to our safe room as possible.
When the sirens go off, we carefully close the heavy steel door. The four of us crowd into a double bed and try to somehow make it fun for our little one. Sometimes she sleeps through the thankfully distant but still very audible booms of the Iranian warheads. Other times, we have distracted her with children’s programs or her iPad.
The old adage “one day at a time” has taken on a new meaning. I want to say that I don’t know how much more of this we can take. But we will, somehow. Thus far, we are truly the fortunate ones.
Julie Gray
I have received so many loving emails and messages asking how I am and whether I am safe. Other messages congratulate me for being "strong."
I am neither strong nor safe. Nine million Israelis are not safe. We are in the midst of the most consequential, existential war since the establishment of Israel. Our enemy is formidable—a corrupt, fanatical regime oppressing 90 million people, the majority of whom would rather be free and prosperous than be enslaved by a hateful, backward old man and his opportunistic, out-of-step lackeys, desperate to hold back progress.
I am terrified, and I am pissed off. Why is my country the only country willing to take a stand and stop the useless lip service of diplomacy and negotiations?
I am neither strong nor safe. But I am proud to be Jewish and Israeli. And I'm proud to be a woman standing with the amazing women of Iran who have risked it all for the right not to wear a hijab if it is not meaningful to them.
The fact is, I am limp with despair. But I will go down with the ship of drawing a line long overdue to be drawn. These missiles are powerful, yet I will likely live through this. Not all of my fellow citizens will, but this is a fight worth fighting.
Wendy Smolen
I work with a company based in Israel. The founder, a father of three and a former member of the Israeli Special Forces, is usually unflappable. This morning, as usual, he emailed detailed instructions for a project we're producing. Then, when I asked how he was, he sent this:
We are okay. It's a different time here. Restless nights. We spend a lot of time in the shelter. Iran shoots ballistic missiles on people, not on military bases. A lot of people are dead, hundreds injured...it's everywhere. At 4:30 AM I was sure our house was on fire. The missile hit a 20-house complex five miles from us and it felt like it was in my backyard. Our defense system can hit 90% of the missiles. They shoot 100-200 a day. It means a lot are hitting the ground.
Michelle Cameron
Before the war, I’d arranged for a Zoom call for Father’s Day for my husband, Steve, who is in Israel now, and my two grown sons. It was scheduled for Sunday at 9 AM ET, 4 PM in Israel.
The call was interrupted by an unexpected afternoon alert—Steve dropped out to rush to his hosts’ mamad, or safe room, and my American born-and-raised sons got a small taste of what it's like to be living in a war zone.
An Israeli friend if this was Steve’s first experience with war. It decidedly is not, not for either of us. My parents made Aliyah in 1973 when I was 15, where I attended an American school in the far north of the country. When the Yom Kippur War struck, I slept in a shelter for about two weeks, maybe three. My husband came to Israel in the 80s and worked as part of the camera crew for American and European news networks, reporting on the territories and the war in Lebanon. He had close calls with death at least three times.
But, as I responded to my Israeli friend, this time feels different. She agreed.
Steve, forever a stoic, makes light of the situation, repeating the joke that is circulating around Israel: “I slept like a baby last night.” Meaning: I slept like a baby that is awakened three times from deep sleep, not to be fed or changed but instead to head to his hosts’ small safe room, to try and doze off as they wait out the current barrage.
This time feels different. This is an existential threat and I wish with all my heart that we weren’t separated by thousands of miles. I do what I can to stay connected, doom-scrolling through social media, downloading the Home Command alert system so I know when he’s heading into the shelter and when he can exit. And speaking with him on the phone every morning, long conversations about what we’ve both read about the situation and, of course, how he’s faring.
But none of it feels like enough.