Before time froze

The siren stops, and for a few seconds, no one moves.

Sometimes when it starts, you walk slowly toward the shelter, gathering what you may need - your phone that won’t stop blaring, a water bottle, your baby, extra diapers, a snack for the kids, the dog.

You already knew it was coming.

The alert had sounded first, the one that makes it feel like the end of the world.

But you’ve heard it hundreds of times now.

You know the drill.

Sometimes it happens in the middle of the night. You curse to yourself, drag yourself out of bed, and try to rouse your exhausted teenagers. You quietly lift sleeping children, trying not to wake them. You guide older family members toward the mamad, praying no one trips or gets hurt.

That is, if you’re lucky enough to have a mamad nearby.

Millions of Israelis don’t.

When the alerts go off, they run.

Down the street.

Into another building.

Down the stairwells toward a public shelter.

Maybe by now you have a go-bag by the door. You grab your child’s clammy hand or your dog’s leash and run.

Because you don’t know what is going to fall from the sky.

And you don’t want to be there when it does.

Sometimes you’re at the supermarket.

At the doctor.

On the way to work - yes, people are still going to work.

The moment the siren begins, your eyes dart around you, searching for the nearest sign that says miklat.

You drop whatever you were doing and join the small crowd of strangers suddenly moving together toward safety.

Sometimes you walk into the shelter calmly.

Sometimes you bolt in, sweat dripping down your back, heart racing.

It can change on any given day.

But there is always the same sound.

The slam of the shelter door.

A heavy thud that you feel in your chest.

That sound tells you how tightly it closed - how protected you are from what might come from above, or from what might try to come in from outside.

Once that door is shut, you are sealed in.

The siren becomes slightly muffled.

But the phones keep screaming.

Alert after alert after alert.

You swipe them away, trying to make them stop.

And when the siren finally ends, no one leaves.

Because that’s when the explosions begin.

You hear them above you.

Through the walls.

Inside your body.

A deep rupture in the sky.

So you sit.

You check your phone.

You make small talk with a stranger.

You nudge your brother.

You share a snack with a child.

The minutes pass and then suddenly everyone’s phones buzz at once.

The message arrives.

The event has ended.

Until next time.

Everyone stands up and goes back to whatever they were doing when life stopped.

Before time froze.

Before danger hovered overhead.

And you prayed that the outcome would be nothing...

And you thank God, the Iron Dome, and the soldiers who protect this country for saving your life.