Chavi laid her body over her baby as shots rang out at Bondi. Then she wrote these words.

It's 8:07pm.

The hell began apparently just one hour ago, but it feels like a lifetime.

I am writing on my sister-in-law's iPad because I don't have my phone, I don't have my keys, my pram or anything else. Everything has been left there. I feel naked without my phone and I can't stop fixating on it, yet I am so grateful for my life. Most importantly, my baby's life.

I can't even believe I am writing this. I am in shock, in disbelief. I want to vomit. All I remember is, for one minute, everything was nice and grand. I'm chatting to my friend about joining her beach plans on Friday. Then I hear fireworks. I look up at the sky, confused. I don't see fireworks. Suddenly, I hear everyone, and see the security guys from our community – who are always there to protect Jewish events – saying, "Down, down, everyone down."

Watch: On an episode of Mamamia Out Loud, we grapple with Australia's worst terrorist attack on home soil. Post continues after video.

I am bewildered, confused. I leave everything and throw myself down to the ground, my brain thinking, "No, no, this can't be happening. I am in Australia." People don't have guns. This can't be happening. I am shoving my body over my baby. All I want to do is protect my baby. I started praying. I am with my friend Chaya. I say to Chaya, "Chaya, what's happening?" I am muttering prayers, bewildered. I saw crates. "Quick," I said, "Let's put these crates over our heads," as I tried to move them, protecting my baby. My baby is hot and crying, earth and mud going into his teeny little eyes. His face is bright red. He is sweating. He is screaming. I am holding the bright orange crate over our heads and random baby wipes, trying to protect him.

The whole time I was in complete disbelief. What is going on? I hear loud, pounding shooting all over the place. I am saying prayers, repeating familiar lines over to my baby. The same lines I sing to my baby every day. On normal days. This time, I'm thinking: "This is not my last day, this is not my baby's last day." I'm half crying. My baby is screaming. "What is going on?" I say to Chaya. I'm so confused. Where are the police? Why aren't they doing anything?

Chaya is on the phone making sure her husband and baby are okay and saying, "I love you." I yearn to call my husband Ezry, but he is singing at a wedding three hours away, and my focus is just staying alive, as best as I can. Chaya and I start breathing on my baby, Meir, to cool him down. Time is moving slowly. So slowly. The reports afterwards say the shooting lasted for at least 15 minutes. That sounds about right. How is this happening? How is this happening? What is going on?

My brain is half frozen, half speeding, just protect my baby, just protect my baby, please. I keep thinking, if the bullet will come, at least it will come onto me. Maybe the crates will protect us, or the bullet will go through the baby wipes and the baby wipes will protect us. There is a face-paint lady next to us who keeps popping her head up. My friend Chaya tells her to get down. What the hell is going on? Where are the police?

Then, silence. Quickly followed by chaos, and someone asking us if we are injured. Chaya asks, "Who are you?" I tell Chaya I don't trust anyone. We then look around and see people running. I don't know if the shooter – well, it turns out it was shooters, plural; my family and friends saw them with their own eyes holding massive hunting guns - are on the loose. We run. I say to Chaya, "Wait, let me get my phone," but there is no time. There is chaos and I don't even know where my pram is.

We run down to the beach, collecting missing kids whose parents are not around. One is my friend's sister-in-law who has a newborn baby. She has blood on her back. "It's okay," she says, "I just got grazed." We run to hide behind some cars. I see a lady and burst into tears. "I need to call my father-in-law," I say. I know only my husband's number by heart, and he is playing at a wedding three hours away. She tells me to calm down. "You have a baby," she says. "He feels everything." I try to get it together.

We carry on running towards the beach, to find protection. There are tourists there. They are crying. I say, "This is what happens to Jews." One of them gives me a compassionate, solemn look. A random lady gives me water. My baby is crying. I give him water. He is so thirsty. We continue running, tourists giving us confused looks, some dudes walking and chilling as if nothing has happened.

I managed to get through to my father-in-law. He is on his way. I start feeding Meir, trying to calm him down. My father-in-law comes. We all bundle into the car, on top of each other, the highway patrol police screaming at us to hurry up. It feels rude and insensitive. I can't process that they are just doing their job. We drive off. I managed to speak to my husband for a moment. Hearing nonstop sirens, seeing ambulances and police cars, I'm shaking.

We get to my in-laws. My mum is about to fly overseas. I was covering Meir. I tell her, tears streaming down, and I break down sobbing. I am okay though. I am okay. Meir is okay. We are okay, for now. I pray that everyone else is okay, but I have been hearing bad news.

As all this is happening, one article is stuck in my brain, something I read a while ago, by a Jewish writer. "Something bad is going to happen" it had said. And Jewish people will be leaving the country because of it. Oh, how his words echo. And yet we still light the candles tonight for Chanukah. We sing the songs; and all I can think about is how amazing and resilient our people are.

It's 9:20pm now.

The sirens are still going.

Read more:

• Today at 6.30am, Bondi Beach belonged to everyone.

• 'I was at the Bondi shooting with my 5-year-old. Her question the next day will haunt me forever.'

• Four days on, this is what we know about the Bondi terror attack.

Feature image: Getty.