by Karen Scholl (Mount Vernon, OH)
My 24-year-old son Noah had been in Israel for less than three hours when I got this text:
Noah: Weird question, but do you want to know when or if I hear sirens or have to shelter?
He was attending a week-long conference with other Jewish educators to meet people directly impacted by the October 7, 2023, Hamas attack on Israel. More than a year into the conflict, Noah was there to listen to people’s stories, see what their lives are like today, and hear what they hope for the future.
When he first sent me a link to the program, I knew he had to go. It didn’t just align with his recently earned religious studies-political science degree, but his passion for connecting with people and trying to better understand their experiences and perspectives.
Was I worried about him visiting a country in the middle of a conflict? That was the question most people asked me. Not directly, of course. “Oh, Israel. Wow. Ok. That’s…uh, how do you feel about that?”
Honestly, my biggest worries were about him remembering his passport and making all his flights.
I’d woken up that morning to a text that he landed in Tel Aviv, and then another one that said he “made it” through customs, which I hadn’t even thought to worry about.
Noah: I definitely didn’t explain myself the best, but the customs official let me through. I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to say and she was just like, “Have better answers next time.”
It’s not that I sit and worry, but just knowing he’s en route somewhere— especially if it’s across an ocean—ignites one more burner on the endless stovetop of my brain. So just the sight of a text that says On the ground, or even an airplane-landing emoji settles me.
When Noah’s question came through I was in the middle of a client project—tweaking a headline about luxury travel to try and attract the most high-net-worth eyeballs. But now I needed to decide about sirens? My Noah burner reignited. Did I want to know—in the moment—if he was in danger?
Me: So, like right now? Or is this hypothetical?
Normally I know better than to use punctuation in texts to my kids. They taught me early on that, from me, periods and question marks seem “aggressive.” So I save them for essential communications—How high is your fever? This time I was tempted to respond purely in punctuation—one giant question mark.
Damn those three dots. Noah typed and re-typed, and re-typed again—from the other side of the globe. It felt like I’d just pulled the lever on a slot machine and was waiting for the reels to stop spinning, praying they’d land on Safe. Safe. Safe.
Noah: Not now. Though when I was in the taxi from the airport we sheltered under an overpass for a few minutes—but it was the first siren in Tel Aviv in weeks.
I really wanted to see his face or hear his voice in that moment, to know for-sure-for-sure that he was ok.
Me: What does the siren mean exactly?
Where I live in Ohio, tornado sirens are tested once a week, literally like clockwork. Hearing one just means it’s 12 p.m. on Wednesday, time to get up from my desk and make lunch.
Noah: I think it means there are rockets in the air, but I’m not 100% sure.
I had to look away from my phone. But there was my laptop screen, covered with the headlines about exclusive vacations.
I couldn’t think, so I shut the lid the way I turn off the radio when I’m driving through a white-out.
Behind my laptop sat a mug with the cold dregs of hibiscus tea and a pile of bills. I could hear the dogs snoring on the couch behind me, my husband on the phone in the next room.
Most days, and for most of each day, this was my whole little world. My grown kids pop in and out of it, but they rarely transport me from it. Not like this.
Noah was barely one day into his trip and my stomach was braided like challah. Later, a friend who travels to Israel often mentioned that there’s an app that lets you know when and where sirens are going off. “I mean, I don’t have it,” she said, “but you can get it—if you want to know.”
I thought of my college roommate who moved to Israel and raised three kids in Tel Aviv. We lost touch years ago, but whenever I saw headlines about unrest there, I wondered how it affected her life. Was she still cooking dinner, asking her kids about school, reminding them to pick their clothes up off the floor like I was? Or was she holding onto them in a bomb shelter?
Me: Yes, please keep me posted about your safety ❤️
The rest of Noah’s week seemed to go well. Mid-way through, he casually mentioned a second incident with sirens, but glossed over it with stories about the courageous people he met and how it felt to walk through one of the kibbutzim that was attacked, seeing the scars and devastation, but also the hope.
After heavier days he’d send pics from feasts in quaint cafes or videos from the poets and musicians they met. He FaceTimed me once to show me the stray cats running around the roof of his hostel in Jerusalem and the sun rising over the Old City.
Right before his flight out of Tel Aviv, sirens went off for the third time. It was Friday night here when I started seeing Noah’s texts come through—first that he was sheltering in the airport bathroom, then that he got the all-clear.
Noah: I’m a little shaken just because I was asleep at the gate when the sirens first went off, but I’m fine. Met a nice Danish woman in the shelter.
Noah (cont’d): Experiencing the sirens gave me a fuller grasp of all the emotions and feelings that are out there. I wanted to be in the center of the action and it comes with stuff like this.
Once he got back to his gate, he shared more.
Noah: The most intense part was everyone running, like watching an entire terminal of people scatter, looking for shelters. I’ve seen it 3 times now, but it’s the look in people’s eyes when they realize oh, this is not a drill, we gotta start running.
Later that night I was better able to take stock of things. Noah was fine. His flight out of Tel Aviv had taken off as scheduled and he was likely stretched out across three seats in the back of the darkened plane, two-melatonin deep into a transcontinental nap. Relieved as I was that the drama of the week was over, I was thankful to be present for it, for him—even just via Wi-Fi. Now that he’s grown up and out on his own, I consider witnessing the events that continue to shape his life a real gift.
A few days later, Noah was sitting next to me on the couch, giving me the full download from his trip. He confirmed that not only did those sirens mean rockets were in the air, but once you hear them, you have 90 seconds to find shelter. Saving that last detail until he was within arm’s reach of me was a kindness.
“But I never really felt I was in danger,” he said. “And it’s going to sound weird, but hearing sirens right after I got there almost helped me get into the right headspace.”
“Everywhere we went, all week,” he added, “the first thing they did was show us where to go if the sirens go off. But that first day, in the taxi, I had no idea. The driver made eye contact with me in the rearview then floored it to an overpass. We sprinted to the bridge then stayed there with other motorists until we heard the all-clear.”
The visual tore through me. I knew instantly that it would run on a loop in my head like a maddening jingle—the boy who I watched run up and down soccer fields for 14 years, running from a car to find safety in case a rocket broke through the Iron Dome. But I tried to hide it, because just like him, I want to be in the center of the action—his action—even when it’s scary—and it comes with stuff like this.
He must have sensed it, because Noah knew exactly where to end his story. “The weirdest part,” he said, “was getting back into the cab and seeing that the meter was still running.”
Karen Scholl has spent the last 25 years working as a copywriter and creative director. In between crafting web copy about laundry detergent, writing video scripts for financial institutions, and creating leadership articles for executives, she started writing about the relatable—and often humorous—moments of everyday life. Karen is the author of Surviving Soccer: A Chill Parent’s Guide to Carpools, Calendars, Coaches, Clubs, and Corner Kicks. Visit her website for more info: https://www.karenschollwriter.com
The Jewish Writing Project 