War Interrupts an Internship

Like many of my generation, after I graduated from college I returned home to live with my parents. For the ensuing year and a half, I worked part-time at Grattan Elementary School in Cole Valley and searched, albeit without much energy, for what to do next.

In one of our “What are you doing with your life?” conversations, my mom mentioned Onward, a two-month immersive internship in Tel Aviv. Although worried I wouldn’t get in because the program is highly competitive, I applied and, a few months later, was accepted. I was assigned to work at a nongovernmental organization helping to write grant reports and evaluate funding requests, many of them associated with recovery from post-traumatic stress. I was excited to start my next quest. 

I’m not religious but have extended family in Israel on my mom’s side. They’re Modern Orthodox, obedient to Jewish laws and rituals, but not judgmental about other Jews who have a different relationship with the religion. 

My cousin, Miram, picked me up from Ben Gurion Airport. As we drove to her home in the Tel Aviv suburbs, she explained that occasionally a siren might go off, warning of a potential missile attack from Gaza or Yemen, remnants of the unresolved conflict with Hamas. I needed to download an app, Home Front Command, that provides a shrill notification shortly before an alarm is triggered, with instructions as to whether and when to proceed to a safe room or bomb shelter. 

After staying with my family in their small Orthodox community for a few days, I moved into an apartment in Tel Aviv. I was living with six other young adult women in a cute two-floor suite with amazing views.  

On our first night we had dinner with our program leader, Maya, and a group of Israelis. Just as we were sitting down to eat, our phones shrilly buzzed.  Stay near a shelter, a siren will go off in five minutes, announced Home Front Command. Eyes widened around the table. We all looked at Maya to see what to do next. 

“Follow the other Israelis into the shelter,” she instructed. 

The air felt tight; what if it hits us? I worried. 

In our apartment, there’s a room that consists of a small, windowless, reinforced chamber otherwise used as a bedroom. This is our shelter in case of an emergency. Every apartment in Israel has something like it. 

Inside, the makeshift refuge is warm and calm; people are laughing, being normal. This is what normal life is like in Israel. After ten minutes, we’re told we can leave. Without saying a word to one another, we return to dinner. 

After the first siren, hearing an alarm isn’t as scary. It becomes a game, looking at Home Front Command to see when the next siren will go off, go to the bomb shelter, or the closest thing to it, wait ten minutes, then carry on with the day.

A couple of weeks into my internship, I’m out with friends in Tel Aviv. We’d gone to a few bars and were aimlessly wandering when Home Front Command issued a warning. Finding the nearest saloon, we’re welcomed by the staff to shelter until the all-clear signal. The siren roars, we wait ten minutes, walk out, and continue with our night. This cycle goes on for a few more days. Until June 13th.

It was the night before the Gay Pride Parade, the first scheduled since the October 2023 Hamas attacks. Upwards of a quarter-million people were expected to attend. My housemates and I were excitedly making plans when we started getting alerts from news feeds that Israel was going to attack Iran to dismantle its nuclear program. Suddenly, things shift. This isn’t just a siren; we won’t be sheltering for a short period and then returning to normalcy. People are glued to their phones, expecting an announcement of some kind, unsure of what will happen. 

The air feels anxious. But everyone maintains a kind of stoic calm, silently praying that everything will be fine. We resume the night as normal. Friends start to pour into our apartment to socialize and drink. 

At around 9:30 p.m., a group of us is standing on the balcony looking at the stars, when we notice missiles flying through the sky. For a few seconds, we stay where we are and stare into the night. A mixture of fear and excitement races through my body. 

“We should go to the shelter,” one of my friends insists, though Home Front Command has remained silent. Two and a half seconds later, the blare of Home Front Command goes off. 

We file into the reinforced room. Nine of us huddle together. Time doesn’t move. 

“Israel took out Iran’s nuclear site,” one of my friends reads on her phone. 

Iran is attacking back. It’s now war, this one with a powerful nation. Our eyes are glued to our phones, trying to read the news and make sense of what’s to come. We can feel the ground rumble. 

“It just hit something,” another friend chimes in from the corner. 

I’m the calmest I’ve ever been. We sit in the shelter for what feels like forever. Some people tense every time there’s a boom. Others try to make light of the situation by playing the Heads Up charades game. I’m not afraid, more annoyed or amused. I didn’t want to be in the shelter, but I was with friends drinking and playing games. Finally, Maya tells us we can leave. We scatter, everyone going their separate ways. 

In my bedroom, I fall asleep but am soon awakened by another siren. A friend comes in and tells me to get to the shelter. I shuffle, half asleep. Didn’t we just have a siren? Why are there more sirens? Time passes; sometime later, we’re told we can leave. 

My family in Israel texts, checking in on me. Not even two hours later in the middle of the night, my phone again blares, followed by the sound of the siren. I leap out of bed, heart pounding. 

Within the coming days, Onward participants would be evacuated from Tel Aviv and transported to the Dead Sea, further away from Iranian targets, though not so far from an Israeli nuclear site.  We’re told we’d be there for a week. A few days after we’ve arrived we’re instructed that we were being evacuated by boat to Cyprus because the airport is closed. 

I’m hard-pressed to describe what it feels like to have a new stage of life that’s just beginning abruptly shattered by war, followed by a hurried evacuation to safety. I was rarely scared, maybe because most of the Americans around me, and none of the Israelis, showed fear, though plenty of irritation and stress. Perhaps I’d already become acclimated to the constant need to duck and cover. The deepest emotion I ultimately felt was heartbreak that I had to leave a community, my family and an adventure I had only just started. 

Living in the United States, I only knew about military conflict from reading articles or watching the news. Never once did I think I’d be part of the story.