"Between Sirens and Silence"

M Mehran

In the heart of Tel Aviv, where the Mediterranean wind brushes against cafés and bike paths, 17-year-old Lior sat on a park bench, earbuds in, pretending the world was normal.

Music had become his escape—hip hop, Mizrahi pop, sometimes old Israeli ballads that his father used to play. Anything to drown out the steady beat of fear that pulsed through the country these days.

It was August 2025, and things hadn’t been “normal” for a long time. Since the resurgence of hostilities in the region earlier that year, every day felt uncertain. Air raid sirens wailed with little warning, sending people racing to bomb shelters mid-conversation, mid-sip, mid-life.

Lior kept one earbud out. Always. Just in case.

Across the bench from him sat Amal, his best friend since the 8th grade. Her family was Arab Israeli, and the two of them had grown up in the same neighborhood, gone to the same school, and watched the same shows. But now, the world seemed eager to draw lines between them.

"Did you hear about what happened in Haifa last night?" Amal asked softly.

He nodded. A building hit. Two people killed. The kind of news that barely made it past the front pages anymore.

"They were just at home," she said. "Eating dinner."

Lior didn’t respond right away. They both knew what she meant without having to say it. This war wasn’t like the ones in the textbooks. It reached everyone—Jewish, Arab, secular, religious, left, right. It blurred the lines and redrew them constantly.

“Sometimes I feel like we’re just… stuck in a loop,” Lior said. “Like none of this will ever end.”

Amal looked at him with tired eyes. “My grandmother says peace is like the olive trees in her village. Slow to grow, but impossible to uproot once they’re deep enough.”

He smiled faintly. “Sounds like your grandmother is smarter than all our politicians combined.”

She chuckled, but it didn’t last.

Nearby, a siren howled.

Without thinking, they jumped up and ran.

They had it down to muscle memory now. The shelter wasn’t far—beneath the small café on the corner, just past the fruit stand. The owner, a stout man with thick glasses, waved them in like a schoolteacher herding late students.

Inside, it was crowded. A mix of tourists, elderly couples, toddlers clutching their parents. The hum of worried conversation buzzed around them.

Lior leaned against the wall, trying to steady his breath. His phone buzzed—his mom checking in.

“Safe. In shelter. With Amal.” He texted quickly.

Amal noticed his screen. “She always asks?”

“Every time,” he nodded.

The siren faded, but no one moved yet. You waited until the Iron Dome had time to work. Until you were sure.

They both sat down on the cold concrete floor.

“Remember last year?” Lior asked. “When all we cared about was final exams and if we’d get into the same army unit?”

She nodded. “Now my cousin’s afraid to leave his house in Nazareth. People think he’s a threat just because of his name.”

Lior looked away. Shame was a heavy thing.

“I hate it,” he said. “All of it. The rockets. The checkpoints. The way we’re taught to fear each other before we even know each other.”

Amal didn’t speak for a while. The silence stretched between them like an invisible thread.

“My brother wants to leave,” she finally said. “To Canada. Says it’s the only place he can just be. No war, no judgment.”

“Do you want to go too?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. I love this place. Even with all its problems. Even with all the hurt.”

Lior nodded. “Me too.”

Outside, the all-clear siren sounded.

People began to file out slowly, their faces a mixture of fatigue and forced normalcy.

As they stepped back into the sunlight, Amal looked up at the sky.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, shielding her eyes. “Even with everything. Still beautiful.”

Lior followed her gaze. The sky was a brilliant blue, unmarred by smoke—for now.

They walked in silence, side by side. In a country where the ground constantly shifted beneath their feet, their friendship felt like the only stable thing.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for today.