They file in gradually, descending the two flights of steps leading to the bomb shelter. Some remain silent, heads down. Others exchange knowing glances, shrugging as if to say, “Here we go again.”
Newcomers to this particular space follow veterans, learning the rhythm, the corners, the spots where cell reception is best. The last one to enter when the air-raid siren stops wailing pulls the heavy door shut and lefts the handle until it clicks—a required act to stave off blast-damage.
The room has white walls, dingy from basement dust, visible via the 100-watt bulb in a hanging socket. The chairs along the walls are an accidental collection—plastic, folding, upholstered, one with a cracked armrest, another too low to be useful—brought down by residents realizing that “Operation Epic Fury/Roaring Lion” will be going on for a while.
Laughter and gaping yawns intermingle, the language of disrupted REM cycles. All phones are out, with owners scrolling for updates on aerial interceptions and impact sites, while checking social media and snapping selfies. Or playing computer games, thumbs in furious motion.
This has been the ritual for the past three weeks, since the morning of Feb. 28. Repeating it daily in regular intervals, at all hours, is sufficient for creating bonds with people who were once strangers, a cast of diverse characters who happen to reside in adjacent buildings.
There’s a woman in her 70s with broken Hebrew and a heavy Russian accent. She seems more perturbed about having to leave her apartment upstairs so often than worried about injury or death.
Beside her, a petite Filipina stands as if she’s just stepped out rather than rushed in—hair neat, clothes pressed, expression composed. She offers a small, steady smile to anyone who meets her eye, a gesture that has become part of the ambiance.
Cross-legged on the floor is a 20-something Canadian whose Israeli parents moved to Toronto before she was born. Cradling a small poodle in her lap, she is busy tapping out messages to her mother and father who—she announces, smiling—“are more stressed out about the situation than I am.”
To her right is a middle-aged couple who made aliyah from France several years ago. They, too, have a dog—a tiny puppy happily seeking and receiving attention.
Near the door, a divorced father with a five-year-old boy smiles at the sight of his child playing with the canines. It’s a welcome distraction from his having been forced out of bed to head for safety.
At his mom’s home in Herzliya, he’s able to sleep through the night in her fortified room.
Then there’s the real-estate agent who bemoans the fact that he doesn’t dare get any shuteye for fear he won’t hear the alert or siren. He says he’s considering moving to his parents’ house in another part of the country for the duration of the war, since in any case, his business is currently at a standstill.
Across from him is a guy from Germany with brightly painted fingernails and a pile of silver bracelets stacked from wrist to elbow.
“Tel Aviv has the best LGBT community,” he declares. “But maybe I need to go back to Berlin for a bit, to have a little peace and quiet.”
A man speaking Swedish to his three Israeli children nods.
“We managed to get a flight tomorrow night to Larnaca,” he says. “From there to Paris and on to Stockholm. Better for them to be with their grandparents for Passover.”
It is Friday, ahead of Shabbat. The following night, for the first time since the war began, Tel Aviv isn’t targeted. Perhaps the sudden thunderstorm is responsible for pausing enemy launches to the center. Or maybe not.
And though the temporary calm should feel like a relief, no one really sleeps. News about mass destruction and casualties in Dimona and Arad make that impossible.
In any case, the alerts return, one after another, on Sunday morning. During one of these excursions to the shelter, a group of women spills in, decked out in Lululemon attire, ready for their workout in a nearby gym.
Another girl appears, with her face covered in a mud mask.
“Sorry for looking like I belong in a horror movie,” she apologizes. “What can I do? It’s supposed to stay on for at least half an hour.”
A young man looks up, unfazed. After all, he’s wearing a fleece, adult-sized onesie with a Mickey Mouse theme.
A soldier on furlough—with his rifle slung over the shoulder of his Pokémon pajamas—is equally nonchalant. He calls out that getting caught by a siren while in the shower is even more problematic than engaging in cosmetic treatments.
When the sound of various pings and ring tones signal the “all clear,” everyone moves toward the exit, expressing with humor the false hope that they won’t have to see one another again in the near future.
Missiles, rockets and drones aside, the most explosive aspect of these endless gatherings is the utter—uncanny—absence of politics. It’s one of many miracles marking this war.
