Under fire in Jerusalem

It’s 6:30am and I’m trudging down the steps from our third floor Jerusalem apartment to the bomb shelter at the bottom of our building. It’s the fourth time the siren has gone off just since 9:30pm, and the alerts have been increasing in frequency. I barely get to sleep before having to gather my wits and stumble downstairs again.

Last night, my daughter and I made sure to leave our ugg boots and jumpers within easy reach. Somehow, I still managed to put mine on backwards. I’m getting exponentially more tired and it’s barely been 24 hours of war.

We got the first alert on Saturday morning while still snoozing in bed.  Our phones started buzzing incessantly with notifications from the Home Front Command app while we tried to make sense of why we were being awakened so rudely. The war had started with a pre-emptive strike by Israel and the US.

We made our way to our reinforced-cement shelter - it’s seen better days and is fitted out simply with some assorted chairs and an old couch alongside cleaning equipment and some prams from a bygone era. On the wall is a large child’s painting of a smiling, sunshine-yellow lion. The image is strangely welcoming, but also disconcerting, especially noting the name of this war - Lion’s Roar.

We shut the heavy metal door and bolt it.

The first few times we gather in the shelter, we share lively banter with our neighbors, catching up on news before being released back to our apartments, 15 minutes or so later. The neighbours across our landing have their daughter and her four-month-old baby staying with them while her husband is on reserve duty. The baby lightens the atmosphere.