Memories of bomb shelters past

August 13, 2006 - 9:32 PM by Sarah

Yael Israel, one of the many fascinating bloggers at “Between a Rocket and a Hard Place,” explains why she no longer runs to bomb shelters when the air-raid sirens go off. (It’s worth clicking on the link to read the whole post.)

I was 7 years old when the 6th Day War broke out in 67. I was glad we didn’t go to school, but hated going down to the shelter, though I loved that mossy smell of those Ali Baba damp caves, as I saw it in my childish imagination. The sirens howled almost every night and made us run into the shelter along with the other 6 families living in our apartment building . . . .

When the Yom Kippur War broke out on 73, I was 13 years old. The alarm sound found me in bed at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, hiding under the cover, listening to the radio, to the Voice of Peace, if I am not wrong, but maybe not, who remembers. I snatched my baby niece, a tiny scared crying bundle, and we all ran to the shelter. This time, it was a new shelter, in a new building, different from the previous damp shelter . . . .

During that bloody summer of 82, when the first Lebanon War broke out, I was a film student in an Art school. At that time, all I could think of was how to finish my year project, namely directing my lousy short film, based on a novel by John Bart, wondering what will happen if the man I love will get drafted and die in Lebanon . . . .

During the First Golf War at 91, I was already a film critic, and a promising young writer, dressed in black, true to my constant depressed mood and the latest Tel-Avivi Shenkin St. fashion. I carried everywhere my gas mask, its box adorned with colorful paper strips. This time, I went into the sealed room whenever the sirens blew. In spite of the missiles, I didn’t go down to the shelter, though a few days later we were told to to leave the sealed rooms in favor of those dark damp shelters, which have not been in use for years. Right now, at this dreadful Second Lebanon War, I have no intention of going back there. Let the missiles fall wherever they like, I am staying right here, determined not to go back there. As far as I am concerted, let me join my fathers, forefathers and my dead lovers, unfortunately too many of them, but to that damp shelter I am not returning.

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