Posted on June 27, 2025
Sarah Abebe (Amitei Bronfman ’10) lives in Be’er Sheva. She studies law at Sapir College in the Negev and works as a legal assistant in the criminal division of Be’er Sheva Magistrate’s Court.
Everything feels mad right now—time and routine are flipped around. It’s a strange sensation, like COVID meets war. The streets are empty. Anyone whose job isn’t declared “essential” has been told to stay home. The whole thing feels surreal.
After being evacuated from Kibbutz Nir Am following the October 7 attack, I eventually moved to my parents’ place in Be’er Sheva. We’re lucky—we have a mamad (safe room), which means we don’t need to leave the house and run to a public shelter every time there’s a missile attack.
The other day, I went to a friend’s house—just to see someone who isn’t my parents and have a moment of normalcy; a casual chat that, in better times, would’ve happened in a café. So we just hung out at her place. Then the siren went off, and we ran down to her building’s shelter.
Shared shelters have a completely different, and more frightening, vibe. They feel like neglected public basements, out-of-use and forgotten. It’s not a calming atmosphere. You’re sharing space with strangers who all respond differently to the situation. Some are terrified like me; others are nonchalant, coming and going regardless of sirens, leaving doors open or closed at will. For me, this triggered a deep sense that I had lost control of my own safety—something I’ve been trying to regain for the past year and a half.
One of the biggest realizations I’ve had during this time is that it’s the first time I feel like everyone shares my anxiety. Growing up in Be’er Sheva, I’ve lived with rocket fire since 2008. Wherever I go, I automatically look for the nearest bomb shelter. It’s inherent in me, always in the back of my mind—in a way that hasn’t been true for people living in Tel Aviv, for example.
Now there’s been a shift. This anxiety about what’s happening and what might happen is on everyone’s minds now. These aren’t the usual rockets we’ve seen from Gaza. We’re all witnessing the scale of destruction, and it’s insane. People are finally grasping how dangerous and overwhelming this threat is. Some are in genuine existential fear, especially in central Israel where the shelter-to-resident ratio is terrifying. In my neighborhood, every apartment has a mamad (safe room), so there’s no need for public shelters. But I worry about friends in Tel Aviv who don’t even have a proper shelter within ten minutes’ walk.
As kids growing up in the periphery, we used to say, ‘Maybe if the rockets hit Tel Aviv, they’d finally understand.’ Now, you see these images of crumbled buildings and people sleeping with their families in train stations and underground parking lots, and all you can do is shake your head in disbelief.
