Countless words are being written, and will be written, about the current situation in Israel. Analyses, investigations and scrutinies will continue for years to come. Filmscripts are probably already in production. However, perhaps modest personal vignettes also have their place.
Our Jerusalem home has neither a mamad (a fortified reinforced room within one’s own apartment) nor a miklat (a building’s bomb shelter.) The one-hundred-year-old building, that we share with four other sets of neighbours, is architecturally significant and aesthetically striking. However, it was neither built nor renovated to withstand ballistic missiles.
Prior to Friday, projectiles were fired at us only by Hamas or Houthis. We felt that we were adequately protected by nestling cosily next to each other in the stairwell within our apartment. This is an area with ultra thick walls and no visible windows. We huddled up in that space and vacated it after the requisite ten minutes.
But now we are living in another reality. Our stairwell sanctuary is no longer considered sufficient.
I belong to an array of WhatsApp groups who keep me informed about all manner of events and local knowledge. There is English Baka City Council, Jerusalem Municipality Updates and JAC (Anglo English Adult Centre) Over 60’s. In addition, I receive notifications from Telfed Jerusalem Coffee Club and English Bird/Nature Activities. Less relevant now. Then there are the groups undertaking various agricultural volunteering endeavours in the Gaza Envelope kibbutzim and moshavim. Just as relevant as ever.
At this stage we need information about public miklatim (as in plural of miklat) in our area. And nearly all these WhatsApp groups metaphorically illuminate my phone with instructions, suggestions and the all-important addresses of public miklatim in the area. I probably have passed most of these places in my daily Jerusalem life but never took too much heed. However, now I examine the list in detail. Almost forensically so. Firstly, I eliminate addresses that are even a tad further than a fast five-minute walk from home. Then I scour the list of those in the nearby streets. Then I dig deeper and enlist the assistance of Google Maps (probably should use the Israeli Waze mapping system but old habits die hard). Is it closer to get to the miklat on X Street or Y Street? One is listed to be 80 metres from home. The other is 210 metres. However, Google Maps doesn’t seem to know about the narrow walkway parallel to my building that makes the miklat that is purported to be 210 metres away, only about 150 metres away.
My husband decides to go and check out one of the miklatim. My mechutenet (daughter-in-law’s mother) who lives nearby, checks out the other one. We exchange information after the initial reconnaissance forays. Ours is large, spacious, clean. Hers? Not so much. We need to focus just on the two of us. She needs to focus on her 99-year-old father.
At this stage, the Iranians have sent their drones and missiles only at night, and so that is the time we prepare for. We go to what I already think of as ‘our’ miklat during the daylight hours. We enter via the carpark under a four-storey apartment building, scour the place, choose a yet unclaimed corner and begin to deck it out. We don’t have forty years of accumulated belongings here. Melbourne is the depository of all of that. But we manage with yoga mats, spare pillows, light blankets and two folding chairs. (Plus, the all-important bottles of water.) Cosy. Toilets nearby. Like on a plane, I like toilets nearby.
The first night that the warning alarm on our phones awaken us to prepare for entry into a safe space, we calmly grab our pre-packed bag of dried fruit, nuts, newspapers, crossword puzzles, pens, eye-patches, additional bottles of water and of course, toilet paper. (How can we forget our Melbourne Covid days?) Dressed in clothes ready to move I put on my runners. I read somewhere that closed shoes are recommended in case of broken glass. My quandary is whether to have gone to bed with my bra on or not. (Too much information I know, but I share this dilemma the next morning with one of my local café friends. She tells me that this was her quandary too.)
As we make our way quickly but calmly to our miklat in the warm Jerusalem night, people exit from buildings joining the growing troupe heading in the same direction. Young families, some carrying sleeping children and others wheeling prams, single people, middle-aged couples with their pets in tow, strapping off-duty soldiers with their weapons slung over their pyjamas. We’re all in it together.
My husband and I are reminded of an iconic scene in the 1960 movie based on H.G. Wells’ 1895 novella ‘The Time Machine.’ This is the scene when sudden sirens (not dissimilar to ours) wail, the Eloi people make their way, en masse, in a trance-like stance, towards the structure designated by the Morlocks. But I say, “l’havdil”. This is a Hebrew term usually used to make a comparison between events or ideas that are in fact totally different from each other and really should not be used as analogies at all. So many English words for one Hebrew word.
In the movie the Eloi are being lured to their deaths. Hopefully, we are making our way towards continued life.
I see people who look familiar. But where from? Perhaps my local café or fruit shop or drycleaner or makolet (milk bar)? I recognise one of the women as an organiser of the weekly mishmeret (vigil) for the Hostages that takes place in our neighbourhood every Shabbat. I do not know her name, but I do know she is a member of the Hakhel Synagogue community which is less than a five-minute walk from our home. The same synagogue community that the venerable Polin-Goldberg family belong to.
This woman wears her white adhesive tape with number 619 (days since 7 October 2023) stuck onto her t-shirt, though it has come a little unstuck at two edges. Perhaps this is symbolic of the issue of the plight of the Hostages currently. It’s not quite so ‘full on’ anymore. It’s literally coming unstuck. It’s receding. Perhaps falling apart at the seams. A woman entering the shelter with me has a small bag draped across her with a yellow ribbon tied casually appended onto it. I am wearing a similarly sized bag with a similar yellow ribbon attached. We look at each other. We look at each other’s bags. We hold them up and sigh simultaneously. She says sadly, “It isn’t even an issue anymore, is it?”
The dominant language being spoken in our shelter- Public Shelter number 685- is not Hebrew. It’s English and French. This reflects the demographics of our neighbourhood. However, Hebrew is the language of communication. Announcements, titbits of news, offers of assistance- these are all exchanged in Hebrew. And now, as of this morning, a WhatsApp group has been formed for Public Shelter number 685. A notice with a QR code is placed on the entry door for all who wish to join. The first WhatsApp message we receive, and it’s in Hebrew, is that the toilets are blocked and the plumber can’t come until tomorrow. So much for getting a spot close to the toilets.
Day time sirens have now begun for the first time. People look different in the glaring summer daytime light. Perhaps more self-conscious of what they look like? Or is that just me? At night I give no thought to wearing old ‘tracky daks’, a mismatched t-shirt and dishevelled hair on my way to our miklat. During the day, the dishevelled hair bothers me. However, Jerusalem is not exactly the fashion capital of the world.
I see a woman talking with another woman. A Muslim woman. They are chatting amiably. My first thoughts are warm and fuzzy. The Jewish woman is taking care of her friend, her colleague, perhaps a passerby. And then, given it’s about 8.30 in the morning, I say to my husband, “I hope she’s not just her cleaning lady.”
The ‘all-clear’ is given by the Home Front Command. We all head home. Later in the day we meet friends at our café, do some food shopping and enjoy the sunshine and buzz of our neighbourhood. I wander around to see what is open, what is not open. I am glad to see that Eytan, my hairdresser, is hard at work in his salon. Obviously, he classifies his business as an ‘essential service.’ I agree.
