Like most eight-year-olds on a midsummer night in Tel Aviv, I was lying lazily on the sofa with a Coca-Cola flavored lollypop in my mouth. My parents were watching the news regarding the latest warnings of a possible missile attack. I was no longer frightened by these warnings, for there had been at least a dozen false alarms since we had moved to Israel. My parents were as lenient as I was, considering the fact that we were completely prepared for a potential attack: our bomb shelter was stocked with canned meat and beans and our gasmasks were by its entrance.   

My siblings were in front of the television while I lay in front the window, gazing out at the black sky and embracing the humidity in the air. In the midst of daydreaming, something grasped my attention over the sea. I narrowed my eyes to see three round lights moving at a rapid speed. My arms fell numbly on the sides of my body and I dropped the stick of my candy. The blood behind my eyelids grew thick, making me feel lightheaded. An abrupt foreboding overwhelmed me in an instant-I had never been more petrified in my entire life. Tears poured out of my eyes as I ran to the living room and shrieked at the top of my lungs, "Bomb shelter! Bomb shelter!" while running in bewildered circles around my family, who just stared at me quizzically.

I was inanely tugging at my green nightgown with increasing horror, not understand why my family was not striving to save their lives. By this time, I was blinded by acidic tears and I could not determine whether the figures were getting closer or not. I did not have the morale to wipe away my tears to examine these missiles further. I was overpowered by the idea that I would die at any moment. My short legs gave way beneath me, and I fell upon the cold floor, weeping.

My mother approached me with irritating composure. She shifted her eyes to the window and then exchanged glances with my father, who looked back at the television. Mama stroked my hair and told me to look at the screen. I obeyed and raised my head from the marble, dizzy and nauseous from my hysteria. The newscast was a live clip of an event that President Ariel Sharon was attending on a yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. He was giving a speech at its bow and there were three spotlights surrounding him, moving at a sporadic speed. I gazed back at the lights in the sky, dumbstruck. I closed my sore eyes and rested my head against my mother's chest, sobbing with warranted relief.