My Alarm Clock is a Missile
A War You Can Scroll Past, but I Can’t
Yesterday Americans ended their evening after hearing President Donald Trump announce that Iran and Israel had reached a ceasefire deal. But at 5am in Israel, before our alarm clocks could even go off for the day, we were awakened by rocket alerts.
The round of alerts included seven missile barrages over the course of two hours that left four dead and more than twenty injured.
Although typically here on Clarity with Michael Oren we offer gripping analysis and historical reflections, we received a submission from an unusual source — a passionate 13 year old writer — that moved us and reflected a feeling many of us understand deeply.
While each escalation in this region is covered in international news, for us, it is not an intellectual or empathetic pursuit to stay informed — it is our very lives at stake.
Amidst the destruction and uncertainty of this phase of the war, Aviva Frankenthal shares her plea to the outside world.
We encourage you to read it,
The Clarity Editors
My Alarm Clock is a Missile
By Aviva Frankenthal
Americans. We are allies. Yet our lives exist in different universes.
You wake up at 7 a.m., hit snooze, and begin your day. I wake up randomly, to the sudden, psychologically unnerving wailing of an air raid siren. You reach for a coffee to run out the door. I reach for my shoes and run to the bomb shelter. You force yourself awake while I am forced to wake up. Our lives feel worlds apart.
But across oceans, we’re still connected. We are allies. And allies are more than alliances—they’re family. And families stand by each other, especially during hard times.
You may never experience what it’s like to live through a missile attack or a national state of emergency—but I have. And this is what it feels like.
On Friday, June 13, 2025, just after 3 a.m., the sirens sounded. We ran to the shelter, like we’ve done many times before. Normally, the “all clear” comes after ten minutes, and we go back to bed, hoping to fall asleep again.
But this time was different. This time, there was a new alert: Israel had declared a national state of emergency. Iran might attack us. No one knew how long we’d be in the shelter—or what would happen next.
The fear wasn’t just of missiles. It was fear of Iran’s version of October 7th. Mass casualties. Every phone buzzed with emergency alerts. Even after we returned to bed, it didn’t feel safe. Warplanes thundered above us, faster and louder than sound, streaking across the sky.
These moments are part of a much bigger story—one with history, politics, and conflict—but for us, it was just a night filled with fear and the unknown. Since then, every day has felt strange. I did normal things—school, chores, calling friends—but with a twist. School was on Zoom—it felt like Covid again. My chores included preparing the safe room in case we’d have to stay there all day. I called friends not just to talk, but to make sure they were okay.
That Friday, I had plans. None of them happened. I didn’t even think about them. In Hebrew, we say, "זרקתי הכל לפח" – “I threw it all in the trash.” That’s what it felt like—letting go of plans, routine, even the feeling of safety. Some days feel almost normal. Others, not at all. Some nights I sleep. Others, I lie awake, waiting for the next siren. Half of my family now sleeps in the shelter—just in case.
On Saturday June 14, the sirens wailed again. We ran to the shelter—our new routine. We heard several booms. Some were interceptions. Some sounded like hits. Two especially stood out—one loud, the next so powerful it shook the entire room. I dove under the blankets, my heart pounding in my head, terrified that a missile had landed on our street.
The next day, we found out what had caused the unusually loud sounds. One missile struck the Weizmann Institute campus—just a mile away—where my great-uncle and great-aunt were hosting their children and grandchildren. They had come because they didn’t have a bomb shelter at home. A missile fell nearby, but thankfully, they were safe. Another missile landed about ten blocks from our house, near a busy shopping center. An elderly woman was killed. Shops were destroyed, glass windows shattered in rows.
A week later, on Saturday, June 21, the United States launched a massive strike on Iranian nuclear sites. America bombed Iran. But Iran responded quickly. Another round of missiles. Another morning in the shelter.
This isn’t just about one country versus another. It’s about stopping terror before it spreads. Iran funds Hamas, Hezbollah, and other terror groups. This time, we pushed back together. Together, we struck back—destroying missile launchers, air defenses, and command centers, disrupting the very networks that fuel terror. And for the first time in days, it felt like we weren’t alone.
I’m writing because I want you to understand—not just what’s happening, but what it feels like to live through it. Even if your days are peaceful, you’re still part of this story. Allies protect each other. Allies are a family. And families stand together. Even though our lives look different, I believe in our connection.
You can turn off the news when it gets too heavy. We can’t—we’re living it. So please, remember us. Not because it’s on the news, but because it’s real. For us, this isn’t something you scroll past. It’s our everyday. So if you take anything from this, when you see a picture of a sky lit up with rockets on your phone screen, remember that someone’s under it.
Aviva Frankenthal, grew up in Silicon Valley and recently moved with her family to Rehovot. Aviva is passionate about exploring big ideas and deepening her connection to Judaism and Israel. A passionate writer, she founded her school newspaper and has been published in national Jewish outlets.
 |
|
Brilliant-eager for more from this young and perceptive writer. Kol ha kavod! Wishing her, her family, and all of Israel security and peace.
We all need to read this and to feel this, to even begin to understand what our Israeli brothers and sisters are going through.