When Rumors of War Are No Longer Just Rumors but a Night Lived and Remembered

What happens when rumors of war are no longer rumors?

What happens when you find yourself caught in the crossfire of two powerful nations, and honestly, you have no idea why they’re even fighting; all you know is, “I came here to work and maybe change my home situation.”

That was me last night in Israel, when the rumors we’ve all been hearing turned into a reality we could hear, feel, and run from.

Having been in Israel for two years now, I’ve heard those rumors before, sirens, tension alerts. But last night? Last night was so real.

The day itself had been normal. I had just finished a long 10-hour shift of standing at work. My legs were sore, and my back was screaming, “Boss, lay me down!” I took a cab home, dropped my things, and let the bed swallow me. Normally, I’d scroll through WhatsApp, reply to a few missed messages, maybe go live on TikTok, or get lost in some Brooke and Jubal videos. Sometimes I’d switch it up with a YouTube binge, Find Love or Pop the Balloon, or some Apostle Joshua Selman sermons. But last night, even my favorite distractions had no place. My body wasn’t asking; it was demanding rest. “Boss tipume, zibwana ayi”

Phone down. Lights off. I slept. That was around 7-ish.

Until around 10 PM, when my phone buzzed with an emergency alert, Half-asleep, I muted it, rolled over, and was ready to doze off again. Then came the siren, “Dang.”

You can mute a phone, but you can’t mute that sound, Baba. It pierced through everything: walls, windows, sleep, silence, and peace.

I jumped out of bed. My housemates were still awake, cooking and mumbling. I could hear them, but in my half-dreaming state, I couldn’t even make out their words. All I knew was – run.

In our building, the staircase is the first line of defense. Reinforced with heavy concrete, strong, but not the safest. The real shelter is the basement.

At first, we ran to the stairs like we always do. But a few seconds later, the siren went off again, louder, like it was saying, “Boys, I said go down!” So we moved.

Moments later, the entire apartment building was there. Azungu, azigogo, ana, everybody. A room full of different languages, but one shared urgency.

I wasn’t counting minutes, but we were down there long enough to wish the night would fast-forward. My mesho looked at me and muttered, “Awa nde atopa awa,” as I tried to lean on the nearest thing I could find.

Eventually, we went back upstairs. As expected, I went straight to bed and ignored all the calls and messages that had started flooding in.

But before I could properly land in dreamland, the siren returned around 1 AM. Like a toxic ex that doesn’t take the hint, but this time, they came back stronger. (Tabweranso Usiku uno mudziwanso… if you know, you know, lol.)

We ran again. Same route. This time, steady and sharp, fully alert. My body had gotten a bit of the rest it needed, so I was now fully awake.

The basement was quiet. No one said a word. But our body language was loud. The energy had shifted. Then came the deep, loud booms from very close by. Too close, the building shook. That moment didn’t need explanation; we all knew “this one wasn’t a drill.” This wasn’t Gaza or Yemen—this was Iran. 

I checked my phone and saw what was happening outside. It’s one thing to see these videos while you’re in another country, like most Malawian families watching and texting. But it’s a whole different thing when it’s your neighborhood; then you understand and fully feel what that sound means.

Coming out of the basement again, my mesho sighed and said, “Koma guys tikuvutika nde wina azitipepha ndalama.” We all laughed because sometimes, humor is the only armor you’ve got. That’s how we cope.

On the other side, social media was already wild, buzzing with videos of rockets flying, interceptions in the sky, and fire in the distance.

WhatsApp groups and Facebook comment sections back home in Malawi were on fire. Everyone was sharing clips, saying, “This is Tel Aviv” or “This is Jerusalem,” yawo ija Amalawi, wiser than thou.

My phone didn’t stop buzzing. Calls. Messages. Some genuinely concerned.

“Are you okay?” “Are you safe?”

“We’re praying for you.” (Bha pente – I love my people.)

Others? Just fishing for a front-row update from someone in the film,

“Bro, nanga chikutera kuti pompano?” (Aah boss, pena pake tu lol.)

Barely an hour after settling again, the third siren came. Around 3 AM. At that point, I was just like, “Lord, please let this be the last one.” We went back to the basement, slower this time. Tired. But still alert.

By morning, the air outside felt different. I saw some of the nearby buildings that had been hit on my way to work. Glass shattered. Black smoke. The city was in recovery mode, still standing but shaken.

Last night wasn’t just noise or fear. It was clarity. For the first time, I truly understood how thin the line is between peace and chaos. How fragile life is.

When we rushed down to the shelter, no one thought about grabbing belongings. Everything we usually chase after suddenly felt irrelevant. All that mattered was being alive. That was it. Life.

And in the middle of all that chaos, one line from our Malawian national anthem played in my mind on loop: “Keep it a land of peace.” That line has never made more sense than it did last night.

Because once you’ve heard the sirens. Once you’ve felt the building shake and seen the fear in people’s eyes. You realize peace is not just a political ideal or the absence of war – It’s survival.

It’s being able to sleep without fear of what’s gonna fall from the skies. It’s being able to call home and say, “I’m okay,” without lying. It’s something we should never take for granted.

Last night, I didn’t read about war. I lived through it. I felt it. And by God’s grace, I survived it.

Now that I think about it, maybe the funniest part, yet also the most powerful, is that I still managed to fall back asleep after one siren to another.

That’s the real definition of “You will keep him in perfect peace…” (Isaiah 26:3) and “He gives rest to those He loves.” (Psalm 127:2) God gave me both peace and rest even in the middle of it all.

So, if you ever hear someone say, “rumors of war,”

Tell them: sometimes, those rumors grow legs, walk into your night, and leave you with a story you never imagined telling. This is my account of the night of June 13th to the morning of June 14th, 2025, when rumors of war were no longer rumors but a night survived.