What are the right words to say when nothing can be said?

I meet with people from Europe on a video chat, and I see the sadness in their eyes, the regret, the lack of words. What do you say to an Israeli when they tell you that this morning they went shopping and had to abandon their cart twice to move with dozens of others into a tiny fortified room, where they stood, heard booms, checked their phones, and waited?

What are the right words to say? What can you do? You listen to them describe a world you cannot imagine. Sitting in a room and suddenly all the phones start beeping. At the first beep, the parents remind the children to go to the bathroom. They gather a bottle of water, though there is no reason. 

Long ago, water was put in the secure room. They call the dog, pick up the baby and wait. And then the siren sounds. It's loud and cuts straight to the heart, to the stomach. They fight the urge to run. In most places, we have 90 seconds. The distance is not far. Go slow, don't fall. 

Hundreds have been injured rushing to bomb shelters. Three have had heart attacks. Several car accidents have been caused by the sudden panic of the siren. One young woman ran to cross the street without warning to get to the shelter and was hit by a car. Slowly, despite the siren, we rush to the shelter. A contradiction, a reality.

I'm pretty sure my upcoming trip to Europe to meet with those same people I met with today will soon be be cancelled. And even if it's not, how do I leave Israel at a time like this?

No, that's not the question I'm asking because I know the answer already. It's impossible to leave unless this ends. No, this won't end. And most likely, the plane won't be flying anyway. The answer I want today is not for me but for those outside of Israel. What do we need you to say, to ask, when you see us, tired and pale?

You can ask how we are but honestly, how do you think we are? We can't sleep at night because nearly every night in the darkest hours, they fire ballistic missiles and the sirens wail. And it starts again, rush to the bathroom...rush slowly down the steps, your feet cold on the winter floors because you don't stop to put on socks and you never remenber your slippers until you're already on the steps.

How are you? How do you think I am? I'm angry and tired and frustrated. I'm so tired. 

What's happening there? How do we know? The same as yesterday and the day before. We're tired and cold and angry. We're worried about the booms and truth be told, scared for our soldiers and those who can't take cover.

What you can say is - I'm sorry. I can't imagine what you are going through.

And then listen when we tell you that this war must be the last war - and that means not ending it now. It means fighting until Iran's people can rise up and reclaim their freedom. For now, we are being pummeled by an evil regime that seeks our death and happily kills its own people while awaiting their dream world without Israel.

They can wait until hell freezes over, until the sun rises at night, until the UN praises Israel and still, we will be here.

Bruised, somewhat battered, but strong, determined, resilient. We are tired, but we'll sleep when Iran's leadership steps down, walks away, crawls away, or is buried so deep under the earth that they won't find their bodies for a thousand years.

So maybe don't say that you hope this war ends soon. Say you are praying with us that this will be the last war - whatever it takes to get there. Let this be the last war.