A week in a war zone

During the first six days of the war between Israel and Hamas, I was just outside of Jerusalem with my husband, who is Israeli, and our 2-year-old son. A trip that was meant to be a joyous visit with family quickly turned into a terrifying week of living in a bomb shelter, followed by 68 hours of travel, including three layovers, back home to Philadelphia.

A bomb fell a few blocks from where we were staying in Abu Ghosh, another on the hill right outside our home. One of our neighbors’ sons was killed in the blast, and his mother was severely injured. We have cousins from Kfar Aza who were raided by Hamas; they barricaded themselves in safe rooms and made it through the night while many of their neighbors were murdered.

Living through the first days of this war has taught me that compassion — for all families impacted by this war — is one of the most important human traits. And compassion is something that we desperately need more of, especially now.

On Sept. 28, what feels like an eternity ago, my husband, son, and I arrived in Israel, eager to see our family for Sukkot. The air hitting our faces at the airport was warm and smelled like jasmine blossoms, and I looked forward to my first of many cups of pomegranate and passion fruit juice. We were supposed to return to Philadelphia on Oct. 20.

The first days of our trip were packed with visits to friends and family, trips to the park, hikes to mountain springs for a dip, great food, and lots of laughter. On Oct. 6, we traveled to Ashkelon, a city by the sea in the south of Israel, to celebrate our niece’s 1st birthday with a potluck, cake, and face painting. We had considered spending the night, as my father-in-law was set to receive an award at his synagogue the next day, but my husband insisted that we drive back to our apartment in Abu Ghosh, a decision that might have saved our lives.

The next day, we woke up to news of war. And then the air raid sirens started, haunting and loud.

When these alarms went off, we had 90 seconds to take cover in a safe room. Ours has a window with a metal door that can be closed from inside, and the main door is thick, designed to shut like a vault. My husband told me to breathe, scoop up our baby, and start to count.

On Oct. 9, we were out of diapers and clinical cream for my 2-year-old, who had a diaper rash. My husband needed to go to town to buy them, and we hadn’t heard a rocket in 12 hours. As he prepared to leave, my toddler started crying. “No, Abba! Sit, Abba!”

During that five-minute delay, we heard the siren again. Seconds later, we heard a bomb close by. Smoke seeped in from the porch. We called our friends in the village, who told us that one of the bombs had dropped on the street where my husband would likely have been driving.

Did our son sense something? This small delay may have saved his father’s life.

For the next days, air raid sirens became routine. During one, I was changing my son’s diaper and I had diaper cream on my hands. I started counting: One. Two. Close his diaper. Three. Four. Pick him up. Five. Six. Grab my cell phone and laptop. Seven. Eight. Open the door to the shelter and close it firmly behind me.

Residents of Abu Ghosh — a peaceful, Muslim village — have 90 seconds to get to the safe room because of how far we are from Gaza. Tel Aviv has 90 seconds. Our relatives in Ashkelon have 30 seconds. For Israelis who live in a border town, they have no seconds. The alarm is that they hear the bomb in the air and run to the safe room.

Sheltered in that safe room, alongside cans of beans and bottles of water and nuts and seeds, I focused on calming my son. We counted the bombs together to try to make them seem less scary. I sang “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.”

As soon as the alarms stopped, we had to wait 10 full minutes before we could exit.

I had once thought — naively, perhaps — that no matter how difficult a situation was, the U.S. Embassy in Israel would rescue our family. I now know otherwise. For a time, it seemed that my toddler and I would have to leave without my husband because he is a green card holder.

The return journey was not easy. Our flights changed multiple times, and for a moment it seemed like we might be evacuated by land or by sea. On Oct. 12, my husband, toddler, and I boarded a flight from Tel Aviv to Athens, Greece. I made eye contact with the flight attendant as she filled up a water bottle for my child. She looked tired.

“Thank you for being here,” I said. “I know that you and the entire crew have been operating on fumes. How is your family? Are they safe?”

She started to cry, and instinctively, I reached out to give her a hug. “No one has asked me that,” she told me. “Not once.”

This, too, is an impact of war.

Back in the U.S. customs line, not yet in Philadelphia but close, we handed our passports to the officer for the routine check, stamp, and inquiry about where we had been. The officer looked at me as she slid our passports under the glass, and in that gaze, I felt her concern and recognition of the gravity of what our family had just survived.

She said, “Welcome home.”

Aisha Loeks is an artist and business owner who lives in Philadelphia with her husband and 2-year-old son.