The rocket sirens began just as I entered the front door of my building, and every cell in my body was filled with the very essence of fear.
My lungs were in my throat as I ran up the stairs in my building at a speed most would consider impressive on three-inch heels.
A young man I ran by called out, "Where are you going? The bomb shelter's downstairs."
I simply yelled back from the upper landing, "My son."
They say mothers can accomplish some incredible feats in a burst of adrenaline. I believe it now.
My husband threw open the door just as I arrived and, seeing my face, gave our son to me. He knew I needed to feel his heart beating and hear his sweet breath. His brows were furrowed in confusion over the end of his bottle.
We went down the stairs – carefully, as we'd learned is necessary the hard way from my toe, still crooked from breaking on October 7 – and into the bomb shelter, herding our neighbors in with us.
We crowded in further and further. Families nervously introduced themselves to one another, giggling uncomfortably over the awkward circumstances.
A new mother shook uncontrollably, her newborn baby at her chest. An elderly woman clamped her hands over her ears, lips pursed. A young girl silently cried, saying, “ima, ima,” into her mother’s shoulder.
So my boy waved. "Allo!" he said cheerfully. After a few more babbles, including blowing raspberries and a few "bagadabagada"s, the girl stopped crying. The mother's arms stilled. The elderly woman's hands lowered.
At that moment, calm focus settled in the too-small bomb shelter, cramped further by the furniture and bags of out-of-season clothing strewn across the floor. Everyone’s phones were out, but the bomb shelter is old, and the walls are incredibly thick. Barely any cellular reception reached us.
A waiting game
Eventually, after the third siren quieted, people began to crowd by the door — which cannot shut fully — to try and get some reception and see what was happening. Only then did someone call out to the rest of us, “It was Iran.”
Oddly enough, that calmed most of us. Not because it is good that Iran has attacked Israel so aggressively — that is very frightening — but because knowing is far better than the alternative.
At that point, every sound had us jumping in place. A door slamming in a nearby building had the young girl crying again. The ambulance sirens wailing outside sent collective shivers through the room.
But then 10 minutes passed, then 20. Thirty. We filed out of the bomb shelter, shakily saying, “See you soon” as we collectively prayed, with all due respect, to never have to see one another again.