It鈥檚 one thing to be in my neighborhood of Los Angeles and read about missiles launched at Israel.

It鈥檚 another when you鈥檙e thinking they might hit your bedroom.

I鈥檓 here in Tsfat in northern Israel, and in the midst of a happy family gathering, bomb alerts from Homefront Command have started appearing on our phones. Then random sirens come wailing.

We read in the news that 鈥淚ran fired a volley of missiles at northern Israel Sunday night, catapulting the region back to the cusp of all-out war after two months of a shaky ceasefire.鈥�

We’re in one of those old houses without a bomb shelter. Authorities caution that if a missile gets through, we must stay away from windows at all cost. Unless a missile lands on a house鈥攁t which point it鈥檚 pretty much game over, with or without a shelter鈥攖he real danger is shrapnel, and windows exacerbate the shrapnel. We read that hospitals are moving underground and that schools will be closed on Monday.

In contrast to the news, however, a weird sense of safety comes over me. I can鈥檛 explain it and won鈥檛 try to.

When I read that the IDF has shot down the missiles, I’m relieved, yes, but I stay pensive, away from windows, trying to understand why I didn鈥檛 feel any fear.

If I told you I felt my life was in my hands as the missiles came our way, it鈥檇 probably make for a more interesting story.

But I didn鈥檛 feel that.

I felt alive. I felt Israeli.

If fear was hiding somewhere inside of me, it felt oddly empowering to keep it hidden.

Maybe hiding the fear was my own personal missile. Maybe it was my own defiant message to the Jew-hating murderers in Tehran.

I felt alive.

I felt Israeli.