This piece is part of an ongoing series that we are sharing from Israeli authors and authors in Israel.
It is critical to understand history not just through the books that will be written later, but also through the first-hand testimonies and real-time accounting of events as they occur. At Jewish Book Council, we understand the value of these written testimonials and of sharing these individual experiences. It’s more important now than ever to give space to these voices and narratives.
In collaboration with the Jewish Book Council, JBI is recording writers’ first-hand accounts, as shared with and published by JBC, to increase the accessibility of these accounts for individuals who are blind, have low vision or are print disabled.
December 1, 2023
Eight weeks into the war, I still struggle to put on my shoes when the sirens go off, shoving my feet in at odd angles while hurrying and cursing my laces. The pair of flip flops purposefully positioned by the door have gone missing – again. My frustration and concern accelerate as I calculate the amount of time I need to leave my apartment, head down the stairs, out the front walk and through the adjacent garden to the public shelter. In Tel Aviv we have a minute and a half to reach safety. That’s exactly how long it takes for any missile shot from Gaza to land within the city limits. (I count myself fortunate. Those in communities on the border have seven seconds.) I don’t have an armored room within my apartment (now mandated by law) – it was built years before such things existed – nor one downstairs for the residents, so this is the best solution. Having to use the public one isn’t as big a deal as it sounds. Safety is a countable number of steps away. Of course, all such trips are made in the heat of the moment and I’ve yet to check how many steps there are.
We’re very fortunate to have a large network of shelters at our disposal throughout Israel, as well as the Iron Dome system. Israel has spent a fortune protecting its population. Our neighbors in Gaza aren’t as fortunate. Their government has spent their money protecting the militants hiding underground. There are absolutely no shelters in which citizens can take cover. That’s why their casualties are so high. I’m protected even if I’m not home at the time of a red alert. Whether sitting at a café or simply walking through the streets of Tel Aviv, there’s always someone who knows where to go and beckons for us to follow to a nearby shelter. The world makes light of the deadly nature of these missiles precisely because of this massive, effective means of civil defense, but here on the ground, we are aware of its significance and enormously grateful.
“It’s a great way to meet the neighbors,” my friend says to me on the phone after a missile attack on Tel Aviv. Jokes offer welcome relief. But her comment is more true than funny.
Gathering at least daily, in an underground room, even for five to ten minutes (the official amount of time one is meant to remain in a safe space after a red alert) is, in fact, a very good way to meet the neighbors. Before the outbreak of this war, I’d barely exchanged more than a sentence or two with mine. And for the most part, those had been limited to comments about my elderly dog. Yet following my neighbors down the path to the shelter or sitting across from one another here, for the umpteenth time this past two months, I wish we’d found a different way.
I don’t want to give the impression that this routine is a complete horror, although the actual need to take shelter is. Some trips have produced some rather amusing anecdotes. Like the time my dog wandered away from me and pooped among those who’ve come down to seek shelter. My local shelter incongruously doubles as a lively community center. It’s the site of Gymboree and Mommy and Me classes, Feldenkrais exercise therapy, and a local theater club. Its two enormous rooms are painted with bright colors, its concrete floor covered with soft mats, and its walls are lined with a collection of comfy, bean bag chairs. As Georgia was the only dog that one time, I’d let her off the leash and sat down to wait for the “all clear.” The gleeful shouts of children from the other room were what alerted me to the turn of events. Lo and behold, I found said children gathered around the small pile she had left behind, hands over mouths, expressing a mixture of mirth and disgust.
We all need reasons to laugh. That’s the main reason that swapping shelter tales has become part of the city’s daily conversation. What else can we talk about when the details of the war itself are so brutal? I’ve begun to collect these tales, flipping through them in my mind when I need to find humor in a situation that continues to be grave. There was a photograph on social media of a motley gathering that sought shelter next to a day spa, some women sporting crinkly silver paper or droplets of dye, some with face masks still adhered. I understand this group jumped up from their chairs and sought shelter a second time only minutes after this photograph was taken — not bothering to move when there was yet a third red alert within the hour. Missiles be damned.
Maybe more macabre, but still somehow amusing because of its absurdity, was the gory, close-up image of a bloody toe sans nail I received an hour after such an alert: my friend’s run for the shelter with her two dogs that sent her to Urgent Care. Just as practical as absurd are the early evening debates I’ve been party to, time and again, on the phone with friends, regarding whether there’s time to take a shower. Pictures of men wrapped in towels standing among others fully dressed in an underground shelter testify to the risks. One chilly late evening, I ran into a young woman shivering in a short nightie. The rest of us were also in bedwear. Most of my friends have ditched genuine pajamas for comfy clothing more suitable to an audience.
The loud, thudding explosion of intercepted missiles (and the slightly different, sharper, sound of those that escape the interception mechanism and slam into a building, car, or even a person) immediately extinguishes our desperate attempts at joviality. There is an inherent contradiction to our experience of this continual threat. On the one hand, it’s quite terrifying; on the other hand, stretched out over the course of weeks, or months, it can become almost mundane. It’s deadly to not seek proper shelter but missile fatigue causes some people to make alternate choices. Like my husband, who lies down on our apartment floor by the door to the stairwell. Like the women in the beauty parlor, who chose to stay put after the third subsequent siren. On the one hand, we fear for our lives; on the other hand, we feel inconvenienced by the constant need to stop everything and seek shelter. Whenever possible, we face this untenable existence with laughter. Otherwise, we’ll cry. It’s fundamentally not funny at all.
On one run to the shelter, I come across a woman with fiery red cheeks, eyeglasses lodged halfway down her nose at an awkward angle, lips pursed in a painful pucker. She’s cutting across the little yard outside my building, pulling a little dog that – confused by her frantic, irregular movements – is tracing a jagged path in her wake. This is no longer just any leisurely afternoon walk.
“Can I come in?”
I shake my head. “No. We don’t have a shelter. It’s over there.” I gesture with my head. “Follow me.”
I swerve around the two of them, unwilling to waste even a few of the precious seconds I have, to make my way to the shelter. “Don’t worry.” I call behind me. That’s my mantra these days. I repeat it as much for myself as for others. Born and raised in America, I only moved to Israel as a young adult. I didn’t grow up with this nightmare, but thirty years later, it has become an undesirable given in my life.
Once inside, this duo and I head down the stairs, joining others already gathered. I take a seat and look around at the others, some swiping the screens of their cellphones, looking for news updates (the city of Tel Aviv provides free WiFi), while others are also checking out the crowd. We only gather for a few minutes so there isn’t much time to strike up a conversation. Yes, you can meet your neighbors, but this isn’t a very good way to get to know them, after all.
My attention returns to the woman I encountered outside. She’s crying. No, not just crying, sobbing — expelling big gasps of air between jagged inhalations. She paces back and forth within the shelter, her dog looking thoroughly ragged for the wear. He no doubt wants her to sit down like the rest of us, so he can get a break. A wall of stony faces, reflecting what I call shelter stupor, that numb state of mind that sets in among those now safe but worn-down from the whole routine, watches her fall apart. Again, the duality — this time in how one responds to this sustained trauma.
I am certain I’m not the only one who wishes she would stop crying. We all teeter on the edge of feeling okay, a sliver away from completely lost. The abyss of abject fear lies right there — straight ahead. None of us want to go there. Those who had stared, now look away. No one tries to calm her down. Mental energy is at a minimum — our nerves frayed by what has been and still is, our hearts heavy at the thought of what lies ahead. Growls attract my attention and I look over to see two feisty dogs, pulling their leashes to the max and trying to get at her schnauzer. I exchange a smile with their owner, welcoming a break in the tension, then gaze back at the woman. Sunk deep into her fear, she ignores this room of witnesses and pulls her dog into the second room, half-sobbing half-speaking into the phone. I catch a few words. Something about how she can’t take this. How she doesn’t want to live like this. I look down at my feet. Does anyone?
The encounter with another’s fear that day is soon eclipsed by my own. During one of my runs to the shelter, the leash between Georgia and me extends to its limit as she falls behind in the stream of people seeking safety. The woman ahead of me falls flat on her face. My eyes immediately look beyond her to the door of the shelter. It beckons invitingly. Come in. I can keep you safe. I’m so close to it.
I stoop to gather the articles that have fallen out of the woman’s purse – a lipstick, her wallet, a few random scrunched-up tissues – conscious of the passing seconds. “I’ve got your things. Let me help you up.” I give her arm a tug, but she doesn’t budge. Another glance at the doorway. The clock is ticking. In general, I have plenty of time to get to this safe space, but on this occasion that window is closing. “Come on. We need to get inside.” Georgia runs circles around us. Planting her hands on the ground, the woman lifts her head from the pavement. She is bleeding profusely from both her nose and mouth. I panic, sensing I’m out of time, and grasp her arm more firmly. I have no idea what to do: leave her alone on the ground and get to safety? Or stay by her side?
“We have to move.” I speak firmly and help her onto her knees. She moves sluggishly, obviously stunned by the fall and the quantity of blood. That’s when I hear them – several loud explosions. A frisson of fear, then relief, moves through me. We didn’t make it, but we’re still alive. Suddenly aware of the danger of the situation – a first round of explosions is often followed by another – the woman lets me help her inside. Georgia happily follows, unaware that I am freaking out. I still don’t feel safe. These are missiles after all. And they aren’t always intercepted. Sometimes they kill.
I’ve had enough of being the good Samaritan. Once inside the doorway, I find a pile of paper towels and press them toward her face. “Hold these. Apply pressure.” Turning away, I lead Georgia downstairs. We aren’t completely protected until we enter the underground area of the shelter, and I’m no longer taking chances. Shaken, I chance a glance backward and see someone else attending to her needs. I’m relieved as I can no longer find the wherewithal to attend to the needs of another. I intend to survive this war.
No longer worried now that I’m situated within this underground haven, I hear another round of booms, this time three in succession. The solid walls of the shelter shake. I eagerly embrace the prolonged silence that punctuates the end of this attack. Those gathered look around in acknowledgement: we are all still here, safe and accounted for. I recall experiencing the similar shared sense of relief recently on a public bus when a tire blow-out accompanied by a frightening explosion had us all thinking it was the work of a suicide bomber. An exchange of glances had verified that it wasn’t, that we were all okay.
The actual danger, the one I continually shove to the back of my mind, occasionally makes itself known. Only a few nights earlier, I’d been calmly heading to my shelter when I heard the booms from the Northern area of the city, whose alert system had gone off about thirty seconds before ours. The city of Tel Aviv is divided into four quadrants by the missile detection system. I’m in Central Tel Aviv — but, depending on the direction of the wind, I can hear the alerts coming from those adjacent sections. Exponentially louder when heard outside, those explosions shake me to the core, shattering what is, admittedly, a false sense of comfort. The assumed certainty that I will be able to stay out of danger is quite friable.
Sometimes, that optimistic mantra of don’t worry isn’t enough. Sometimes, I’m afraid. I just don’t want to admit it. It’s easier to instead be annoyed and inconvenienced by this routine, to laugh at appearing in my pajamas and slippers, and to complain that Georgia’s heavy when I’m forced to carry her all the way to the shelter, knowing that if I give her time to pee, we won’t make it safely inside. I’m aware of the duality of emotions and realities that govern my daily life, but desperately try to force the lighter, more palatable side to the surface. It’s not all doom and gloom because it can’t be. Because the human spirit can’t stand it. At the end of the day, we seek the light.
Just the other night, I found it. As I made my way down the unusually crowded stairway to the shelter (I know there’s plenty of space inside to accommodate a crowd), I was distracted by the sound of singing. I apologized as I squeezed myself beyond those gathered, then peeked around the corner of the stairwell. Inside was a large circle of seated women being led in song accompanied by a guitarist. Not one of them reacted to the random individuals who’d come in to seek shelter. Did they even know there was an alert? Some of us exchanged smiles. I turned my attention back to the group. They were smiling as well, and, joined together in song, hadn’t missed a beat.
Life goes on, even under fire.
The views and opinions expressed above are those of the author, based on their observations and experiences.
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Caroline Igra is a freelance writer, an art historian, a triathlete, and a mother. She lives in Tel Aviv, Israel, but haisl from Philadelphia. She has a bachelor’s degree from Brown University, a master’s from the University of Michigan, and a Ph.D. in Art History from the Institute of Fine Art, NYU. She has published numerous art historical articles, several exhibition catalogs, and a monograph on Polish artist J.D. Kirszenbaum, chosen as one of Slate Magazine’s Best Books that year. Her creative nonfiction has been featured in several literary journals, including Collateral, Away, and Mothers Always Write. Her first novel, Count to a Thousand, was published in 2018 (Mandolin Publishing). Her second, From Where I Stand, was in 2022 (Koehler Books).