On Saturday night, ahead of another week of welcome routine, I was planning to update my Facebook status. "It is the Bnei Akiva youth movement's opening ceremony. This year I am proudly represented by three children in the Psagot branch," I would have written.
But before I managed to do so, two of my children arrived home from the ceremony and told me that an emergency alert team had arrived on our street and had told them to go inside immediately.
Because we had not received any official announcement, we thought this was just another of many drills. Or that perhaps someone had touched the fence and mobilized a response team, so we didn't even lock our door.
Then a siren sounded throughout the community. I changed my Facebook status to: "My children are at the opening ceremony for initiation month. A siren has just sounded in the community. Two children have come home and one hasn't."
We quickly locked the doors and closed the shutters. We're well-drilled for such scenarios. Our eldest daughter hadn't come home yet and many long, tense minutes passed before we heard that she was with other children in the school's shelter.
A large number of soldiers gathered below our house. Military vehicles of all sizes and types blocked the street. Seeing the dogs and flares made it clear that they were looking for a terrorist and that it had not been sniper fire.
Messages kept coming in through the Psagot internal email list and by text message: Stay in your homes, don't open the doors, turn out the lights.
We quickly learned that young Noam Glick had been attacked. Our children sat and read psalms for Noam's recovery. I fielded phone call after phone call, reassuring those near and far, speaking with girlfriends I hadn't seen in years. Messages kept coming in that I didn't have time to read. My friends on Facebook sent virtual hugs, expressing their love and concern.
Near midnight my older daughter arrived at our front door, accompanied by two soldiers. Everyone was at home, and Noam's condition was improving. We were still under curfew, but we could breathe a sigh of relief and go to bed. Nevertheless, sleep evaded me.
We have been living in Psagot for 15 years. Our six children were born here, and this is where we see our future. We're already used to relatives who refuse to come visit, to delivery people who refuse to bring deliveries, even though we paid in full, and to the surprised exclamations of visitors when they see the big city of Ramallah laid out before us. We've experienced difficult years of daily shootings at houses in our settlement and spent hours, as on Saturday night, nervously waiting for the all-clear following security alerts.
Living in an isolated settlement surrounded almost on all sides by Arab homes, the scenario of a terrorist penetrating Psagot has entered my thoughts more than once.
But when I look out my window, which is at an elevation of 900 meters, I can see the houses of Jerusalem, Mount Scopus, the city center and even the Meitarim Bridge as a white stripe glinting in the sun. It is clear to me that if we weren't on this mountain, the terrorist who infiltrated our settlement on Saturday would be on it with his friends, and would threaten our capital and the entire country. There is no terrorist who can dent our faith in the justness of our way.
Hagit Lalum is a resident of Psagot and mother of six.