A People That Rises Like A Lion
Like all other Israelis, I was woken up at 3:30 AM on Friday the 13th by a siren.
And probably like a lot of Israelis, it was the 615th night in a row that my sleep was less than optimal.
So far, no biggie.
Except that the siren was not accompanied by the sound of Iron Domes taking off or by the normal booms we’ve come to expect. Instead, we heard planes above (lots) roaring through the sky.
Something was up.
I went back to bed, but didn’t really sleep again, thinking of all my kids, spread across the country, some with shelters, some without, and wondered how they were doing.
I gave up trying to sleep at around 5:00 AM. Again, no biggie. I’ve been getting up pre-dawn for a long time now, enjoying a quiet cup of coffee and listening to the booms of artillery and the roar of planes from my living room, 40 kilometers from Gaza.
But this morning was different. Lots of planes – far more than usual – but few booms from artillery. It was Friday, and I had a bunch of company coming for Shabbat and while I understood, by this time, that the Israeli Air Force had attacked Iran, I still didn’t understand what the siren meant and I had no time or energy, really, to think about it. It was just another siren.
It was only about an hour later, when I had a few minutes, that I caught up a bit on the news and began to understand what had occurred. The 3 AM siren was to warn the populace that we were, once again, in a war, or to be more accurate—in a war within a war. Schools were closed, non-essential businesses were shut, and, most importantly, everyone was told to stay close to a shelter.
However, like on October 7th, it took me a while to understand the magnitude of what had happened.
At 7:30 AM, I got a Whatsapp message from my son (one of those scheduled to come for Shabbat) that he wouldn’t be coming, but he would be in touch with us later to let us know, as much as he could, where he was.
It was his third emergency call-up to the army, and his fourth round of reserve duty since October 7.
At 10:00 AM, my daughter, who was also scheduled to come for Shabbat with her family of four, called to say that she felt very unsafe travelling from her home (about an hour and a half drive away), with two babies and no shelters. Hopefully, she said, she’ll come next week.
I looked at the pots of food I had already prepared. I was going to need a bigger freezer.
By this time, it was eerily quiet. There were no booms, no cars outside, no neighbours arguing. Only the planes, continually flying overhead, taking off to, or coming back from another mission.
That afternoon, a second son called to say he had also been called in – also his third emergency call-up and fourth round of reserve duty. (Our third son – the oldest – had just completed HIS fourth round of reserve duty of over 70 days. Altogether, they had each, by then, put in over 250 days of service in 20 months.)
Both sons were to report to a base in the north, but from there, they weren’t sure where they would be.
The only thing we were sure of was that they wouldn’t be at home.
Again.
Before Shabbat, we set the radio to the ‘quiet channel’. For 24 hours, it doesn’t broadcast except to announce approaching missiles (or other immediate dangers).
Beer Sheva had three sirens that day – at 9:30 PM, 1:30 AM, and 5:00 AM. Throughout the day, the radio, every hour or two, would announce an incoming missile directed at a different part of the country, mostly the areas around Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, and Haifa. But the silence in our streets was total. No cars, no music blaring, no neighbours calling to each other from across the street. Everyone was home, staying very close to their shelter.
A word about shelters. Since 1981, all construction of private or public buildings needed to include a bomb shelter within the building, usually in the basement. After the 1991 Gulf War, every new apartment or house and every floor in a public building was built with a ‘safe room’. My house has a safe room, which first doubled as my daughter’s bedroom, and now, after she moved out, as my ‘office’. There is no need for us to stay in the shelter for long periods of time because we can get to it within five seconds of a siren sounding.
However, any building built before 1981 does not have a safe room or shelter, and the residents must rely on public bomb shelters. These can be situated more than a ten minute walk away, especially for the very young or the very old. Until now, the army has said that, instead of running in the streets to a shelter, when we only a minute before the missile struck, it was better to stay either in an inner room of your house (as far from windows as possible), or in the stairwell of your building but not on the top floor.
However, with the new and improved ballistic missiles of Iran, stairwells and inner rooms are next to useless if there is an impact within a few hundred meters and people have been instructed to make a run for the nearest shelter. In complicated procedures, there is usually a ten-minute warning. But rather than make a run for it in the middle of the night, many families and older people have elected to sleep in the shelters. There are hundreds of pictures and videos of public shelters where the occupants are singing, or making kiddush together, or playing with babies. These shelters are a great equalizer, but very hot and quite uncomfortable. And not all of them have bathrooms.
Since Operation Rising Lion began, one can type ‘open shelter’ into WAZE, and it will show you the nearest shelter to you if you are caught out. Welcome to Israel.
On the other hand, in my neighbourhood, there are no public shelters at all, because all the houses have safe rooms in them. Therefore, residents have to remain within 10 minutes of their house, because if they are out in the streets, or playing in the parks, there would be nowhere to go if there was a siren. There is, to some extent, a feeling of seclusion, again especially among the elderly and those with very young children.
On Shabbat morning, my husband ran across the street to the local synagogue for services. They took place in the basement, which is ‘sort of’ a safe room.
When he returned, he reported that he had spotted shrapnel in the street, and the two of us went out to investigate.
We found shrapnel. All over—in front of the house, next to our car, on our lawn (we haven’t checked the roof yet). And by a miracle, there seemed to be no damage to windows, cars, flower beds, or dogs. Hundreds of falling pieces of sharp hot metal and nothing seems to have been hurt.
Despite the radio broadcasting sirens around the country, we really had no idea what was going on that day. We didn’t know of damage or casualties, if there had been an infiltration, or any other bad news. We didn’t know how any of our many family members across the country were coping.
On October 7th, also a Shabbat, we had sirens all day, but we had no idea what was happening. At the time, I could never have imagined what actually took place. Now I can imagine it.
I can’t stop imagining it.
While some places of work are slowly beginning to re-open, schools will not resume before the end of the year.
My oldest grandson will not be graduating from Grade Six next week with a much looked-forward-to trip to Jerusalem. This is the same grandson who missed half of Grade One due to Corona, several weeks of Grade Two due to ‘Operation Guardians of the Wall’, and two months of Grade Five due to the beginning of the current Swords of Iron war. His father, who has served hundreds of days in the army over the past twenty months, missed this boy’s first steps when he was called in to serve in 2014 in Protective Edge.
My youngest grandson celebrated his first birthday in a public bomb shelter because he lives in a building built before 1981.
All the children will be missing their end of year parties, saying goodbye to friends and teachers, taking home their final report card.
Summer vacation has come early – Israel style.
I go through the days. I do the laundry, sweep the floor, plant cuttings my son gave me last week. I try, desperately, not to think of my older daughter with her two babies running to the public bomb shelter; of my other daughter running down four flights of stairs in the dark to the shelter in the basement of her building; of the trauma of my son and his family, living in one of the towns that was attacked on October 7th, of having to sleep – again – in their shelter; of my two younger sons, sleeping and guarding outside somewhere in the north, with no shelter at all, watching the fireworks overhead.
Every once in a while, I succeed.
I am determined to be resilient.
Not as often, I succeed.
Since Shabbat, there have been dozens of sirens, millions of dollars in damage, hundreds of wounded, at least 24 dead. There have also been hundreds of miracles – of near misses, of successes, of a nation united.
Of kindness, and generosity, and resilience (though I’m beginning to hate that word).
And above all, miracles of faith.
For those out there in Not-Israel Land wondering how they can help:
- Buy Israeli – wine, chocolate, olive oil, soap, jewelry. There are dozens of online stores.
- Plan your next trip. Don’t come now – there aren’t any flights in any case. But do plan to visit. Show your support with your feet.
- Reach out – to your Jewish friends, to your Israeli friends, to anyone you think might be afraid, or alone. Show them you care.
- Most important: Be kind. Always. And then, be even kinder.
