Posted on January 10, 2025
“There may be no limit to how much sorrow we can bear, but there is a limit to how much complexity we can process.”
My name is Gal, Amitim 2004. I’m a clinical psychologist living in Hod Hasharon, in central Israel. I am married to Dotan and we have two sons, Uri (6) and Tom (3.5).
Sirens in the Dead of Night
The past year has been an intense series of events, a war on many fronts that has been both physically and psychologically exhausting. Ongoing rocket fire and sirens have gradually become a part of our reality. Recently, attacks from the Houthis in Yemen have escalated to a point where, due to the type of missiles and their range, every attack puts half the country on high alert. These attacks are mostly in the dead of night.
When the siren sounds in the middle of the night, my husband and I rush to the kids’ room, where they are usually already awake, scared, standing in their beds and waiting for us. We quickly take them to the safest place we have—our house isn’t equipped with a proper safe room so we go to a nearby closet room, where there are no windows or anything that could shatter from a blast. But if a missile or debris were to hit us directly, it wouldn’t provide much protection. We hug them and reassure them until it’s safe to go out. My 6-year-old, Uri, has decided that he will bring one of his dolls each time. Having a plan of action helps him feel less afraid.
When we talk with kids about the war, we try to focus on the protections we have in place—explaining that we have a safe room and air defense systems. Uri, who loves technical things, is fascinated by the laser interception system and excitedly discusses inventions to improve it. He sometimes worries that the house will collapse if something hits the roof. Tom, on the other hand, is more focused on the immediate experience—the loud siren and the panic of rushing into the room. He doesn’t talk about missiles, but he has become more anxious and now sleeps with us more often.
A Limit to Processing Complexity
One of the hardest things about the nightly sirens is getting back to sleep. People here say, ‘My heart is captive in Gaza.’ That’s how I feel, and it’s the thing that keeps me awake most nights. I constantly think about the hostages who are still there, so far from their homes.
I also think about the citizens of Gaza, though that statement cannot be expressed in every space in Israel. It troubles me that we can’t say it, but as a psychologist, I understand the mechanisms behind this. There may be no limit to how much sorrow we can bear, but there is a limit to how much complexity we can process. To feel such immense grief, pain, and anxiety while also confronting the parts of ourselves that cause harm or contribute to such suffering in others—and then to imagine ourselves in their shoes—is too complex for most of us to handle. So, while I have empathy for the Gazan citizens, I’ll be honest—most of the time, my thoughts are with the Israelis who are being held in a place they shouldn’t be. My heart is with them.
Safe Rooms and the Israeli Psyche
Many Israeli homes have a designated missile-protected room, and new homes are legally required to have them. As a psychologist, I often reflect on what this means for the Israeli psyche. We all have a “safe room” within us to survive here. When do we retreat into it, and when do we feel safe enough to come out? I also think about the presence of this space in our lives. We are thinking of moving to a new house, one with a safe room, and I find myself wondering what would be our daily use for that safe room. Initially, I considered making it the kids’ room, but it feels wrong for them to sleep in a missile-proof space. Instead, we might make it a playroom—a space we can use when needed, without turning it into a war room, left untouched and only used for storing canned food and water reserves. So I sometimes wonder: how does this translate to our psyche? What does it look like, that place where you feel protected? And what does it mean for the Israeli psyche that every house needs a missile-proof room?
Trouble Talking About Captivity
Uri doesn’t ask many questions, but he absorbs a lot of information from school. Like many parents, I try to find the balance between telling him the truth and shielding him from it. While I worry that he might hear from other kids things I’d rather filter out, my biggest fear is that he will reach the conclusion that there are some things he can’t talk to me about or that I’m afraid to discuss. I especially feel this when it comes to the issue of captivity.
I haven’t said a word to Uri about the hostages. It’s surreal because, as a child, I grew up in a home where captivity was always present. I grew up in the Arad family—my father’s older brother, Ron Arad, was captured in Lebanon 38 years ago. After failed negotiations and intelligence operations, his trail was eventually lost, and his fate remains unknown, with his name becoming a national symbol. Growing up, we always talked about my uncle; he was a part of our everyday life. Yet here I am, unable to even mention the word “captive” to my son, unable to explain it. What does “captives” mean? Where are they held? I just don’t talk about it. And he probably won’t ask.
So, yes, I suppose, some things really are too big – and too hard – to talk about.
Disconnect and Maintaining One’s Defenses
Very few of my patients discuss the sirens in our sessions, perhaps due to that “protected room” within the psyche. This was especially evident after the Iranian attack, which was a truly unprecedented and jarring experience. When my patients came to the clinic the following week, none of them mentioned it. Instead, they talked about personal issues—arguments, trouble concentrating—and they couldn’t explain what was wrong. They were completely disconnected from the event, and I felt it was my role to help them reconnect, to acknowledge that something big had happened and that they were bound to react to it in some way.
I experienced this myself after a night siren. When my therapist asked how my night went, I replied, “Oh, my little one had a fever, but my older one is feeling better.” She asked, “Didn’t you hear the siren?” And I said, “Oh, yes, you’re right, there was a siren.”
I wonder: Is this our Israeli resilience, or is it the “protected room” we retreat into, leaving behind what happens there? And what is my role—as a psychologist, mother, or human being? Is it to help connect, recognizing that when I feel alone or uncared for, it’s not just daily stress but an existential sense of being unprotected? Or is it to maintain these defenses, because they are necessary? After all, they allow us to live—to choose not to dwell on the threat of death or hatred—but instead, to live our lives, care for a sick child, and focus on how many milliliters of ibuprofen to give. Despite the fear, they help us keep going.
