We grew up with a bomb shelter in our basement. My dad, an engineer, was the first to build a designated home bomb shelter in rural Windom, Minn., during the Cold War. Our house did not have a basement, so it mostly served as a storm shelter from tornadoes. We saw more destructive winds in rural Minnesota than missiles from the former Soviet Union.
Because of our Cold War readiness, our family was featured in a photo shoot in the local newspaper, the Cottonwood County Citizen. In crisply pressed clothes, we sat on fold-down benches that doubled as bunk beds. Mom and Dad held my younger sisters in their laps. I sat between them, wide-eyed, wondering how we could live in this tiny room together. The shelves on the wall opposite the bunk beds held rows of canned goods, soups, vegetables, fruit slices, jugs of water, and toilet paper. Dad thought of everything. There was a small toilet, a cook stove top, a first aid kit, and a can opener. Enough provisions to last us several weeks until the nuclear cloud passed and we could reenter our home, like a family of prairie dogs looking for sunshine.
I am certain that building a state-of-the-art bomb shelter was an act of love for my father. But in our photo shoot, we look awkward and frankly sad, even though no nuclear threat was imminent.
Israel is again under attack. My friend in Tel Aviv wrote that it takes them 1 minute and 45 seconds to walk to the public bomb shelter near their home. Missiles from Iran arrive in Tel Aviv in about six to nine minutes. He told me that most of the time, they are only in the shelter for 20 minutes or so, until they get an all-clear to return home. He told me the Wi-fi is good there. He added that they do not bring food with them for such a short period of time. But I know there are those who likely do bring food, or chocolates, or hamantaschen left over from Purim. Maybe they bring toys or costumes for the children or books to share. Little acts of caring and kindness to bring human connection into a utilitarian space. I know that in many public shelters, Israelis know who is sheltering with them. They are neighbors, and they have been meeting this way for years. But there may also be a few strangers. People who were working or shopping in the neighborhood were ushered into the shelter when the siren went off. I have read that there are apps that Israelis download to time their walks to the nearest shelter, to acquaint themselves with people in the shelters, and even to determine whether there is time to take a shower before the next ballistic missile volley.
I want to see a photo of my friend sitting in the shelter, like the one of our family in the early 1960s. But I cannot bring myself to ask such an intimate request, invading the privacy of so many people at a traumatic time. Nonetheless, I long to see the room. Are they sitting on folding chairs? Or those awful white molded plastic chairs that stack? Are there benches? How does the shelter smell? Of nervous sweat? Of stale cigarette smoke? Ripe fruit? Who empties the waste basket?
I admit I have neither the courage nor the stamina of my Israeli friends. With my wheezy breathing and bunion-toed gait, it would take me far longer than 1 minute and 45 seconds to reach the nearest public shelter. I can imagine myself stopping to pause along the way at a bus stop bench to catch my breath, watching anxiously as others run past me to get to safety. At what point, I wonder to myself, might I just sit there, in the open, wondering whether I’d had enough of it: the disruption of daily life, the fleeing from my home, the fear, the sirens, the explosions. I ponder whether I could find the motivation to stand up and go on,
At a moment of imagining such despair, I recall with honor one of the first Israeli residents to be killed in the current conflict, a Philippine citizen, Michelle De Vera. She died protecting the Israeli woman that she took care of. Michelle and the woman she was caring for did not make it to the shelter in time. Perhaps Michelle could have made it to a shelter herself. But she chose to stay close to her companion. After the horrific blast and fires erupting after the missile strike, rescuers found Michelle had entangled herself on top of the older woman, shielding her from the blast in a split-second decision to sacrifice her own life for another.
This terrible tragedy is a testament to love and all that is good in human beings. I do not question Michelle’s affection for the woman she cared for. In the awful moment of this missile attack, unconditional love shines through at the same time and place where other human beings directed bombs. As our history and Torah teach us as Jews, we know this to be true, that goodness and evil, life and death, are bound together.
After getting another message on my phone of a missile barrage on central Israel, I sent a short WhatsApp message to my friend. “Sending [heart emoji].”
My friend wrote back: “Your [heart emoji] arrived together with a missile alert. So I’m sending this message from the shelter. It seemed like you were well coordinated with Iran. You countered their missile with a heart.”
Heidi – I saw that picture before I saw the article, and I thought “those people look so familiar “ and yes- I know all of them! I drive by that house every day! You are such a tremendous writer-you have such empathy and a very big heart! I am so proud to call you my friend! What a wonderful article!!!