March 18th, 2026 – This is a story of Ortal, a Bat Yam resident:

On 6/15/2025 our lives collapsed in an instant. A one and a half ton ballistic missile hit us directly. The noise, the explosion, the dust and dirt filled the air. Fear was palpable with every breath, and the chaos around us was impossible to describe. Pain, shock, helplessness all collapsed on us at the same time.

We had no protected space. Only an old, small, neglected warehouse, which seemed to us at that moment to be the safest place. We ran to it quickly, my children, 17, 14 and 13 years old, clinging to me, crying and scared. They were looking for a hug, a word that would calm them down, security in the midst of the horror. “Mom, I’m scared,” they whispered, each showing fear and weakness in their own way.

In that small warehouse, every moment was an eternity. Every noise from outside—cries for help, wounded, dead—made the heart beat twice as fast, every sound became a threat. My oldest child tried to stay strong for his sisters, holding their hands, and his hugs touched me too. My oldest daughter tried to calm her little sister, while she herself was shaking and terrified. And the little daughter clung to me, her eyes wide with tears, seeking reassurance in every look and every word.

I held their hands, didn’t let go, and our hug was all we had, their shield and our shield at the same time. Every breath, every whisper of “I’m here, I love you, everything will be okay” was an attempt to keep us alive, even when our own fear was terrible.

The house, the pictures, the memories—everything turned to pieces in the darkness and dust. But in this horror, we discovered our true strength, not the strength of the place or the walls, but our strength for each other, and the strength of the family. The tears, the little words, the mutual embrace are what kept us alive.

Every second in that warehouse was a test of strength, of courage, of love. Seeing my three children, grown but scared, holding our hands and trying to protect each other, taught me what true courage is, courage born precisely when there is no place to hide. Every touch, every breath, every hug, they became eternity, a memory that cannot be erased.

This direct impact, the moments we experienced, have not passed. To this day, my three children and I live with severe post-traumatic stress disorder. Sudden noises, loud sounds, even a sudden memory – all this awakens in us fear, shock and uncertainty. The small voices of the children, the beating hearts, the mutual concern – all this accompanies us every day, reminds us every moment of what we have been through, and strengthens the bond between us, the understanding that we must hold each other tight Always.

It’s a story about fear that has no words, about pain that never goes away, about a direct hit from a giant missile that changed us forever. But also about love, about courage, and the unbreakable strength of family. It’s a story about survival, about children who teach us what courage is, and about the hope that after horror there is always light, even if it’s small, trembling and blurry at first, and that’s my personal miracle.