Stories from the shelter: life between sirens in Israel

Racing to a bomb shelter as red alert sirens sounds is a unique experience for most. In Israel its all too familiar, with a spate of ballistic missiles, cluster warheads and drones being launched at civilian centers, yet again in this current war. 

Here are some of the more unusual moments:

Something fishy going on here?

Leaving the on-air news studio during a live broadcast, with around 90 seconds to get to the fortified room down a few flights of stairs in the complex at the local port. People huddle inside before a security guard from the port slams the shelter door shut. A distinct smell of fish inside the public shelter. 

A fisherman clutching his fishing rod is standing next to my colleague. Is his backpack holding the catch of the day? Nope. 

Turns out a lady in the ‘miklat’ or shelter is holding a tin-foil tray of fried fish she may have just bought, when the warning sirens went off.

Good to know. At least if we’re in the shelter for a while, there’s food…

Are we on the set of Bridgerton?

Back again in the same public shelter. Colleagues looking at their phones, some chatting quietly, a smile or nod across the room at familiar faces – a knowing look. We’re all in the same quietly, a smile or nod across the room at familiar faces – a knowing look. We’re all in the same boat. 

My eye catches a couple dressed up in matching Bridgerton style costumes. Replete with red and gold velvet, lace detail and full makeup. Are they actors? Maybe. Are they keeping the festival of Purim vibes going for the whole month? Not sure. The all-clear comes through that it’s safe to leave the shelter. We all return to our routine. Just another day in Tel Aviv.

On the road again, as sirens blare…

Driving in a taxi to Jaffa when the alert sirens go off on our phones, flagging that an Iranian missile has been launched towards the country. Within ten minutes, if we hear sirens, we will have to stop to get to a shelter quickly. The driver keeps going, as we start discussing where we could stop if need be. The sirens blare. He stops the car in the road and puts on his hazards.

We cross the road and follow people into a building. Down two flights of stairs. We’re in a shelter, hearing interceptions overhead, surrounded by very calm strangers, and one less than happy-looking pitbull. A whole new psychological experience to be unpacked after the war. The taxi driver Roman and I get chatting, after each sending messages to our families to check everyone is safe. He is softly spoken with a kind face. He’s here from Russia, works two jobs, has two children and worries about his family back home. The all-clear is given. We get back into the taxi, continue to the channel and go back to so-called normal work routines.

Music to my ears….

Drinking coffee at our local outdoor coffee spot with one of my favourite people in the world on a

sunny Friday morning, an unusual but welcome change of pace, after one week of intense nightly war coverage. This friend brings a guaranteed much needed dose of energy and humour during insane times. Despite reports to the contrary, yes, life goes on and people try as best they can to have ‘regular’ social gatherings – within the war-time restrictions. Meeting with close friends and staying connected within one’s community is part of a crucial coping mechanism, again to be discussed more in-depth later, after the war. The first alert goes off on our phones.

Everyone checks their App and continues with their conversations. Ten minutes later, the sirens go off. People calmly pick up their coffee cups – and in some cases their pastries – and walk to the nearby public shelter. Down several flights of stairs, scores of people pack into the ‘miklat.'

Is that the sound of a piano? A child is having a music lesson in the shelter. The music teacher leans against the piano, talking to the young maestro, while people move past to the enclosed area. Only in Israel. The underground fortified shelter is being used as a music center. Guitars hanging on bright-coloured walls. Theres a vibe inside this bomb shelter. Never seen anything like it. 

We check in on our loved-ones, and keep chatting inside, joined by a friend who was at the gym upstairs when the sirens went off. He is a financial advisor. We discuss the security situation, how everyone’s families are doing, how his clients are responding, the geopolitical and financial implications of this war and if everyone feels it’s safe enough to go to friends for Shabbat dinner that night. A normal range of topics in a shelter, as cluster warheads are launched towards us. We get the all-clear and the young pianist keeps on playing.

Staying sane with saferoom shenanigans at home…

Most new homes have a safe room or ‘mamad’ in the apartment or house, making it easy for people to get to safety. If they are lucky, some might even be able to sleep in their enclosed rooms. Older buildings have a larger room – usually in the basement of the building – which means residents must run down flights of stairs to get there. We live in an old building with four apartments and have spent an extraordinary amount of time with our neighbours there, both in this chapter of the war, and of course during the two-year war, started on 7 October with the Hamas invasion and terror rampage. Grateful to have the shelter under the building – blessed that we have the most incredible – and sometimes highly entertaining – neighbours, who help keep each other’s spirits up, as we hear the interceptions overhead. 

Occasionally, literally with spirits or other forms of alcohol. Only in rare instances.

One family brings their dog. She is always there. Her name is Poppy – the only pet in the building. Calm and quiet. The other night, I glanced across at the special people in our shelter, all exhausted, all going through this extraordinary experience together, forming a bond that doesn’t need words. But if you know, you know. Sometimes families come to the shelter with relatives or friends who may have been visiting. Someone walking by at the time might race in, just like I did with the taxi driver in Jaffa, knowing that every shelter is open to anyone nearby.

Through all this, there is one image that will stay encapsulated in my mind. One moment in a shelter at the start of this war – a soldier holding his rifle, who had just been called up yet again.

He was about to leave for the train station to go back to keep protecting us all. Next to him, a woman holding her gorgeous young grandchild, so innocent and oblivious to this insane world she is in. And next to them, Poppy. The surprising constant in these uncertain ever-changing times.

And we remain all too aware that many people don’t have shelters at all, that many race to pubic shelters in the middle of the night, that some older structures have not been able to withstand the force of the missiles targeting civilian sites and, as one resident of the north described on-air overnight, people close to the border have just 8 seconds to get to safety. 8 seconds, as they hear Hezbollah launching their attacks. And he’s adamant he’s staying put. In awe of the resilience of extraordinary communities across the country.

Eternally grateful for the young men and women – and the tens of thousands of reservists - risking their lives every day. Constantly aware of the enormous strain their families are taking. All, so that one day, we won’t need shelters at all.

To better days ahead… everywhere.