Helter Skelter to the Shelter

Text & Photos: Lydia Aisenberg

The piercing sounds of a siren cut through the air.

Run or not to run, that is the question - "Should I Stay or Should I Go" in the words of the British punk rock band Clash from their 1980s album aptly named in terms of present-day Israeli realities, Combat Rock!

My prefabricated kibbutz abode had been constructed decades ago - long before a law was passed that every new build must have a security room - and the nearest bomb shelter to my home is not exactly a hop, skip and jump away either.

Run or not to run means an almost split second decision. If I stay put, then I sit on the floor in the corner of the only concrete-built – but not reinforced and with regular windows - room in the home, a book-packed library cum computer room.

Or, alternatively, I run as fast and as safely as possible to the nearest shelter.

To run, barefooted or in Crocs (for who has time to put on shoes), means dashing along a narrow, twisting path, down some rather dodgy concrete steps chock-a-block with round, hard seeds from the overhanging trees, whiz past all the various rubbish bins, and huffing and puffing, mightily I might add, enter the shelter.

Even though think I am in really good nick for an almost 79-year-old, when Iran decided recently to send over 180 rockets in our direction one evening, while three of my young grandchildren and their mum were in my house and about to sit down for supper, I was truly tested.

Suddenly, again, deafening sirens were blaring all around, not only from outside but also from within as our mobile phone warning apps began flashing on and off, wailing like electronic banshees on steroids and adding to the general deafening cacophony.

This time, because of the children and with no verbal discussion, all of us were out the door in a jiffy, running down to the shelter with a bone-chilling chorus of explosions in the background as a battery of blessed Iron Dome got to work blasting Iranian rockets out of the sky.

Yours truly was the last to arrive before the heavy iron door was swung closed, causing an all- mighty bang that reverberated like thunder around the small space, one corner of which was piled high with thin mattresses.

Sitting on the floor, in the middle of the shelter, heart beating way above the norm for a good 10 minutes or so whilst I hugged shaking grandchildren, little by little I became aware of who else had piled into the limited space.

Some dozen or so adults lined the walls, sitting on the floor their backs against the rough concrete with around the same number of children ranging in age from tots to older teens.

One couple had snatched one of their three youngsters from the bath tub. The little boy, hair still wet and squirming around in a large towel, thought it all great fun. He smiled at everybody and made some older and extremely nervous children laugh, bringing to mind the old adage of laughter being the best medicine. Under the circumstances, it certainly helped.

I did not recognize a few of the adults and children, which is understandable these days when there are hundreds of evacuees from the south and some from the north who have been living in our kibbutz for the last year. Not the most pleasant way to be introduced one must say.

Some of those shelter sharers who had been quick-witted enough to grab their mobile phones kept us updated as to what was going on. When the all-clear was eventually sounded and the door swung open, people quickly went home or to join relatives or friends elsewhere in the kibbutz who had safe rooms and to spend the rest of the night with them.

A few days later, early in the morning, once again the sirens rang out and the mobile began flashing its lights and dancing an Irish jig under my pillow. Again that darned question:

should I stay, or should I go?

I stayed, but quickly went, with my mobile phone in hand, to sit on the floor in the corner of my library cum office, squeezed between book shelves and an old, battered and weary armchair, waited for the calls from my kids to see if I was safe and also for the eventual all-clear to be sounded.

The building shakes somewhat and loud explosions are heard when the Iron Dome units in the Jezreel Valley have kicked in, jet fighters scream overhead and of course when, thank goodness, they safely return to the Ramat David airbase in our part of the extensive Lower Galilee valley.

Crouched in the corner between chair and shelves, I look up at the row of books nearest to me and realize that all 20 or so English language hardback publications are by well-known historians and writers the likes of Martin Gilbert, Tom Segev, Benny Morris and the closest to my head is From Beirut to Jerusalem by Thomas Friedman!

No doubt there will be a slew of new publications dealing with the horrific events of the last 12 months, but I have no room left on my shelves nor in my emotional storage space.

October, 2024

CAPTIONS

1. Entrance to underground shelter in older part of the kibbutz

1. Temporary shelters alongside kibbutz kindergartens

1. The underground shelter frequented by this writer and her then 2-year-old son during the 1973 Yom Kippur War and still in use today.