The mental math of living through war

There’s a distinct kind of math you learn when you live in a war zone.

It’s not taught in school. It’s the quiet, constant calculus of survival.

I find myself running numbers all the time:

Get The Jewish Chronicle Weekly Edition by email and never miss our top stories Free Sign Up

The distance from a park or café to the nearest bomb shelter.

The opportunity cost of going out versus staying home … again.

The likelihood of a missile strike during the late morning hours.

How to trim precious seconds off the six-flight descent with two kids in tow.

I now know the exact radial distance required to survive a direct hit.

I wish I didn’t. But I do.

I have zero control. Not over policy, not over timing, not over where the next missile will fall, or when this will end.

But I’ve learned how to control the things I can.

The micro-decisions. The patterns. The preparation.

There are practical lessons that only come with experience:

The best time to shower (with a hair wash) is right after the all-clear.

My neighbor across the hall brings the best wine down to the shelter.

The family from the fourth floor? Excellent snacks.

I always wear sneakers. My phone is always fully charged.

The important documents are packed and ready.

I never go to bed before midnight, but I fall asleep immediately after a nighttime siren.

And I’ve learned what must always be stocked:

Toilet paper. Coffee. Chocolate. Eggs.

Yogurt for the kids.

I used to keep alcohol, but now I prefer to stay sharp.

There’s a strange peace in knowing those things are there.

I’ve also learned how to compartmentalize my reality.

I’m acutely aware that we’re at war.

When sirens blare, we run.

Until recently, the kids still had to get to school.

I had meetings to take, emails to send and a gym routine.

As long as day-to-day life retains even a sliver of normalcy,

I can set aside fear and just get on with it.

We no longer have that.

It’s nearly impossible to make plans.

We live in a kind of purgatory, caught between the hope of a peaceful tomorrow and the very real possibility of no tomorrow at all.

Stuck at home. Waiting for updates. Trying to guess what comes next.

It’s like COVID, but worse.

It’s not a virus. It’s people, decisions, weapons.

And unlike a lockdown, there’s no illusion of protection behind closed doors.

I’ve become very fatalistic.

It’s like getting on a plane: I know the likelihood of disaster is low.

But if something does go wrong, that’s it.

There’s no margin for error. No second chance.

And yet, like boarding a flight, I still get on with the day. I still move forward.

When the first wave of ballistic missiles was launched back in April,

a deep, unfamiliar dread settled in.

I worried for my children’s lives in a different way.

It wasn’t just the mental math. It was something primal.

Something that took longer to shake.

Still, there are the people.

I’ve learned that when things do go wrong, I want to be with Israelis.

Israelis thrive in crisis.

The same Israelis who cut me off in traffic, who argue with me at the pharmacy,

are the ones who carry my daughter when I can’t,

who make room in the shelter without hesitation,

who will risk themselves for someone else’s safety without a second thought.

I’m calm in a crisis. My daughters are, too.

My youngest, somehow, finds it thrilling.

She likes the urgency, the adrenaline, the togetherness of it all.

I’ve also learned that most people outside this country don’t understand what we’re living through.

But that doesn’t stop them from having opinions,

which they freely express.

It means a lot when someone checks in.

It stings when close friends don’t,

when they say later they “didn’t want to bother me.”

Please bother me.

It reminds me I’m not invisible in this.

Because the truth is, no one is coming to save us.

So we save ourselves.

And we save each other. PJC

Keren Rosenfeld lives in Tel Aviv. She emigrated to Israel 10 years ago. A former Pittsburgher, she attended Community Day School and Shady Side Academy. She is a copy writer in a startup company.