Mum, I Want to Talk to You

On Friday Morning at 3am, The Air raid Sirens sounded.

We were jolted awake by air raid sirens echoing across the country, unsure what was happening as usually the Home Command App on our phones usually shrieks when there is a siren and it was silent. Within minutes, a message appeared on the phone: We are now at the highest level of alert. Please prepare yourself. Israel has bombed Iran.

What happens in those first moments is hard to describe. It's confusion mixed with panic. Our safe room is my daughters bedroom and it’s a mess. We don’t have any emergency supplies. Should I wake Asaf? Or not? How do I explain what’s going on to Dill, Asaf’s carer, when we still don’t share a common language?

Eventually, the calm that follows a false alarm settled in. We realized we weren’t being attacked, at least not yet, and slowly drifted back to sleep.

But the waiting had begun.

Later that morning, I dashed to the store to buy water and non-perishables. No one knows how long we might be stuck in that "safe room." A room whose window protection doesn’t shut properly and whose door handle keeps falling off.

I sat with Asaf and explained everything that was happening. And for the first time in his life, he could be part of the conversation.

He could respond. He could share. He could be with us, not just physically, but fully.

Typing is still an immense challenge for him. It’s hard to describe how difficult and sometimes impossible it is for Asaf to press the right letters. He uses the space bar like a springboard to help his hand reach the other side of the keyboard.

Still, he managed to type:

"We are here together and it will be interesting."

As a family, we talked about our fears and what helps us stay calm when things feel out of control. Asaf didn’t contribute words this time, but he was listening. He was with us. Fully present.

At 10pm, the first pre-siren alert arrived. I told Asaf what to expect. We went outside and watched the Iron Dome in action: A breathtaking, terrifying display of precision as missiles were intercepted over our heads.

When the siren sounded, we ran into the safe room. Asaf was calm. He sat quietly and waited like us with baited breath. Then came the explosions. And then, silence.

It’s hard to put into words the feeling of that silence. The gratitude of being safe, mixed with the heartbreaking knowledge that others weren’t.

There were three more sirens during the night. Three more times of waking all the kids, getting Asaf out of bed, shuffling everyone, including 3 dogs into that 12m² space.Three more rounds of waiting. Of breathing in unison. Of holding fear in our bodies and trying not to let it escape through our voices.

And then morning came.

The first thing I wanted, needed, to know was how Asaf was feeling.

He typed that he was in shock.

Then, with urgency and determination, he pushed me into the safe room. He closed the door behind us, reached for his keyboard, and typed: "I want to feel safe. I'm scared of dying by a missile."

I held him. I told him that I’m scared too. That we live in a relatively safe area. That Iran likely has no intention of targeting us.I sat with him in the silence. And I gave thanks.

• Thank you for our phenomenal Iron Dome that keeps all the citizens of Israel safe against incoming missiles.

• Thank you that Asaf has the ability to express how he feels.

• Thank you that I’m studying to be a communication facilitator and can support him as he finds his voice.

• Thank you that I now know he understands everything – and that by including him in everything, his anxiety levels reduce. He’s more prepared. Less alone.

Again and again, Asaf pushed the keyboard toward me.He wanted to connect.He was saying, in every way he could:Mum, I want to talk to you.

We’re still processing the night. Still catching our breath. But in the heart of fear, one thing stands out more than anything else:

Asaf has a voice. He has thoughts, emotions, insight. And now  finally, He can share them with us.

And we are listening. Every word is a gift.

I have no idea what the next few days will bring, but I do know this: we are together as a family. And most importantly, Asaf is with us, fully present, able to share how he feels. The strength that gives me helps me face whatever comes next.