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Definition: ‘A situation in which a series of unwelcome or tedious events appear to be recurring in exactly the same way’.
Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting
Last Saturday night, I sat at my desk and scanned the news on my laptop. The war with Iran had already been going for a month.
(I'm talking, of course, about our current direct engagement with Iran, as opposed to the last time in 2025 - a conflict formally called ‘the 12 day war’ and affectionately referred to here as ‘the last war’ or the ‘war during the war’. Note that all these monikers fail to take into account the war with Iran’s agent, Hamas, which has raged viciously since 2023, and which even now is only in a state of ceasefire).
A flickering distracted me. Looking through the window at the dark outside, I saw a small ball of fire streak across the night sky.
A missile.
It wasn’t like a firework. It was flying horizontally and left a dirty, burning tail in its wake before petering out. I heard nothing; no sirens nor explosions. Sirens were presumably heard elsewhere, but in the absence of an explosion I assumed that the missile was not intercepted by our defence systems. It was creepy watching the missile with my own eyes but not actually knowing if it was being tracked or had somehow gone rogue.
Palpatations
A few nights earlier, at around 11pm, I had sat on my bed, ready to turn in. All was quiet. Yawning sleepily, I reached down and removed my socks. A sudden sound, like a combination between a drumroll and the squeal of a synthesiser, made me jump. I felt like I’d been punched in the chest. It was the pre-alert warning blaring on my phone. It’s a short, sharp sound designed to get your adrenaline pumping. And it works. Of course, this pre-alert warning comes when you least expect it, and it shocks you into a different reality. Despite having heard that sound multiple times a day for weeks on end, it still makes me jump. I don’t know how people with heart issues cope with the pre-alerts. I believe that the musician who created this psychological piece could scare a sloth into winning a 100m sprint.
Taking a minute to calm myself, I bent down and put my socks and shoes back on. I then looked around for my house keys and a warm jacket. By the time I found them my phone had started wailing non-stop, this time with a tune closer to that of an ambulance siren. The wailing told me in no uncertain terms: ‘projectile impact in 90 seconds’. I headed out to the stairwell and shut the door behind me, fumbling with my phone to disable that blasted noise. The stairwell, which moments earlier had been silent, was now a growing flurry of activity. Doors on all the floors were opening and closing as the residents started flowing down towards the shelter. Having done this so many times, I pretty much know the order in which the apartment doors are going to open. You get a feel for which of the neighbours have been waiting anxiously at their door since the pre-alert, and who has stayed in bed hoping the alert would not be followed by a siren.
If I’m not the first person to arrive in the shelter, it’s the guy from the top floor who works for emergency services. He often works night shift, and on this occasion he was just about to head off to work when his phone screeched. He sat there calmly, coffee in hand. When asked why he always has a coffee with him in the shelter, he laughed. "When I hear the pre-alert, my first reaction is always to pop on the kettle." A neighbour smiles and jokingly castigates him. "Stop switching on the kettle – the Iranians are tracking you!"
As with so many older shelters in my area, the walls, floors and ceiling are unfinished dark grey concrete. A small light bulb illuminates the area near the entrance, while the inner recesses of the room remain dark. It feels like a cave. A young couple holds their two toddlers tightly in their arms. The kids are wrapped in blankets, having been urgently lifted from their beds. A number of residents are wearing pajamas, discretely covered by nightgowns or winter jackets. It’s cold in the shelter. (Years ago, in the humidity of Tel Aviv, when I was similarly caught in a shelter in the wee hours, the hot and bothered local residents were less judicious in the way they dressed for the shelter. If you flip through my older blogs, you’ll find an account of that episode). The air raid siren from the street stops wailing and those who are not too tired scroll on their phones. All modern shelters require a metal blast door to protect those inside from shock waves. Ours has an old wooden door that would fall down if a fox walked by and huffed and puffed. Nonetheless, the lady from the 2nd floor always insists on closing it, giving her some sense of psychological safety. Her husband is that character that exists in every shelter, who gleans all he can from the web about which cities and neighbourhoods received sirens, where the missiles went, and whether they were intercepted or landed. He tells everyone his findings and then stands up to leave 10 minutes after the siren. "That’s long enough, no need to wait for the all-clear", he announces, as if it’s his call. People in this conflict have been killed by falling missile debris by leaving before the all-clear is sounded. This fellow’s an annoying figure, but I distract myself by speaking to the others.
The woman from apartment 9 leans towards me in the dark. "If we are stuck here too long it’ll be my birthday." I stare back.
"Do you mean it's your birthday tomorrow?" She responds with a little grin.
Before the all-clear arrives, the sirens go off again. Multiple missiles? No-one moves. I tell everyone I think that a cat is walking on the keyboard at the Home Guard Command Centre, activating alerts around the country. That’s the only explanation.
"Boom". Apparently the cat knew what he was doing.
It takes another 10 minutes before everyone's phones beep, to indicate that we can leave our shelters. With glee we rise to our feet and shuffle out into the corridor towards the stairs. The tension is gone and we breathe easily, and sleepily. Now, with the adrenaline rush over, people are feeling the pain in their knees as they ascend the stairs. The apartment doors open and close in quick succession, everyone smiling weakly and calling out "good night" over their shoulders.
A Special Birthday
Back home, I head back to my bedroom. Breathing deeply, I again remove my shoes and take off my socks before getting knocked off my bed. It’s that bloody warning jingle from my phone again. F**k. Perhaps this time it’s a mistake? Can’t be too careful. On again go my socks and shoes. By the time I’ve had a glass of water and a pee, another siren echoes in the street. Forearmed with 90 seconds, I head back out into the stairwell. Everything repeats itself.
We all return to our previous seats, lined against the shelter walls, as if returning to a theatre performance after intermission. My cousin, who lives a few streets away, texts me from his shelter. "Those Persians are frisky tonight!" he writes. I reply that it must be my fault, because it seems to be happening whenever I take off my socks. A powerful whooshing sound, like that of an aeroplane using our street as a runway, envelopes us. "They’re interceptors", the young father sitting across from me says, balancing his dozing child on his shoulder.
Everyone is exhausted, wishing they were in bed.
The matron of the building, its longest resident, manages a smile. "I saw a cartoon in today’s newspaper. The Israeli name for this campaign is Lion’s Roar. The cartoon shows a lion with menacingly open jaws, but it turns out he’s not actually roaring, he’s yawning from exhaustion."
Just like the rest of us.
I laugh loudly.
"Boom". The shelter shakes a little. "Boom, boom." I try to imagine whether the sound is a landed missile or an interception high in the sky, and why we are hearing multiple explosions if it’s only one missile. I’m curious, but I don’t really need to know. After interception, the danger is no longer being hit by missiles but being hit by the debris of an intercepted missile. That’s why hearing a boom does not mean the threat is over. As we wait for the all-clear, the woman from apartment 9 shows me her watch. It’s just after midnight. I jump to my feet and give her a happy birthday hug. Puzzled, I explain to the others who are watching, and they follow suit with hugs of their own.
‘Beep!’. We get the all-clear.
Everyone stands to their feet and piles out towards the stairs. I switch off the light.
The Sock Cycle
By the time I get to bed it’s 12.20am. So much for an early night. I take off my shoes and socks. And then...Alert!
You’ve got to be kidding.
Socks and shoes back on, I again head for the door. The lady in apartment 5 follows me down the stairs, complaining. "Does this never end? Those Iranians have gone crazy! I’ve had enough of all this climbing up and down to the shelter."
I looked at her squarely. "You know it’s all your fault. The whole Iran war is your fault."
Confused, she asked me why. I stab my finger at her accusingly.
"It’s because you don’t keep Shabbos!" She takes a moment to work out if I’m being serious or making a joke. Others have to explain that I’m kidding.
My phone vibrates. It’s a text message from my cousin. "You idiot, stop taking your socks off or we’ll never get to sleep!"
The shelter door stays open, and we realise that the tenant who is so adamant about having it closed has not yet arrived. Her husband looks anxious and calls up the stairs to her. She swans in carrying a cupcake with a candle and sparkler. It’s for the birthday girl. Everyone laughs and sings happy birthday, and the whoosh of the interceptors is almost drowned out by the jovial atmosphere. I suggest we consider installing a jacuzzi in the shelter. After all, we may as well enjoy the experience if we need to stay there so long. I suspect my suggestion would have been more positively received in Tel Aviv.
When the all-clear sounds, we make our way back upstairs, slower than before, but with more determination. "I hope I don’t see you again tonight", we all say to each other, meaning it from the heart.
I switch off the light and sit on my bed, removing my shoes. Then I stare at my sock-covered feet for a few minutes. I’m not superstitious. But still: better safe than sorry.
Fully dressed and besocked, I lie down on my bed and fall into a deep sleep, my phone squashed under my stomach with its alert app running in the background.
Until tomorrow.
Notes:
1. Everyone here has shelter stories, whether amusing, sad or pertinent. This is just a small sample of experiences that even I experience multiple times a day.
2. If you are reading this from outside Israel, contact your friends and family who live here. They will appreciate it.
3. Readers are invited to leave a comment (on this blog or on Facebook), or to contact me directly with their thoughts, suggestions, criticisms or corrections.
4. I try not to repeat what is reported in the news or the dross that is often posted to social media, so my writing is mostly based on personal experience. This is intended to highlight aspects of life often not brought to light.
5. I am often asked whether my blogs can be shared: feel free to do so, they are written to be read.
