Last April, I was walking down the street in Tel Aviv with my granddaughter Orly Adele. She was three years old at the time. Playful. Curious. Holding my hand. 

Suddenly she stopped and pointed at a corner and said: 'Grandpa, if the siren goes off while we are walking, we can go there… or there… but not there or there.' 

Three years old — and already calculating survival options. 

Cute? Yes. But chilling. 

You see, in Israel, childhood comes wrapped in barbed wire. In bunkers. In red alerts. It’s not just ma’aseh hayom — it’s the air they breathe. 

And now, a year later, the sirens haven’t stopped. If anything, they’ve multiplied. And the missiles? They’re not coming from Gaza anymore. They’re coming from Persia. From Iran.