An extended stay in Israel (Part IV): a daily reality of war |
The war has begun, but the first few hours are surprisingly calm. I shower, get dressed, and head downstairs for breakfast. People are talking about the war, scanning the news. I do a bit of reading as well.
The hotel staff are, as always, very friendly. They try to make people as comfortable as possible. After finishing breakfast, the new reality starts to make itself heard. The government has closed Israel’s skies and El Al, subsequently, has canceled my flight. I receive offers to come stay with friends in Modi’in and Beer Sheva, but decide to stay with family in Ra’anana. It is Shabbat, so I decide to make my way there the next day. I refuse my aunt’s offer to pick me up, as I do not want her to come under these circumstances.
My Canadian friend is still in Tel Aviv and I ask if he would like to have lunch somewhere. We decide to meet on the boardwalk.
For hours, there is an eerie calm. Then, the first siren. The guests rush downstairs towards the shelter. In this instant, it becomes clear how much this country is concerned with security, as it is much more than the layered defense of Iron Dome alone.
You receive a first warning on your phone; if you have installed the Red Alert app, an alarm goes off, telling you how much time you have left to get to shelters or safe rooms; in my hotel, a warning appears in English on the television screen, telling you to get to safety; and, finally, sirens wail.
The afternoon has arrived and I meet my friend on the boardwalk. Most places are closed but some convenience stores are not. We walk past the US embassy and an Israeli security guard tells us that its shelter is open to the public.
Minutes later, Tel Aviv is targeted again. We make our way to the embassy, along with other people. The kindness is soon disrupted by the same security guard bellowing at people. Apparently, some of them have interpreted the offer of shelter, as an invitation to take multiple pictures of the embassy’s grounds. Thus, the guard is forced to educate them.
After we emerge, we decide to have lunch at a convenience store and café rolled into one. Pizza and beer, perfect. We have a view of the Mediterranean, but the streets are largely deserted. It reminds me of the silence on Yom Kippur.
Suddenly, an Indian man walks by and asks us for help. He is a journalist who came to cover Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s visit and was now sent to another hotel by his employer. This is another aspect of the reality of war: someone without any support system trying to find his way in a foreign country.
We manage to find his hotel and provide him with directions. He thanks us profusely and I am glad we could be of some assistance.
We walk a few hundred meters further and decide to have some coffee. After a few minutes, another missile barrage. I decide to take my cup back inside, which leads to comical confusion. The employees think I want to shelter with them and send me to the hotel nearby. I assure them I just wanted to return the cup.
Another barrage, another shelter. After it passes, we decide to sit on a bench overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. For a few minutes, the odd calm, the warm weather, and the rolling of waves distract us. We part ways and decide to meet again for dinner.
On my way back to the hotel, the barrages intensify. One siren, another siren, looking for cover. Throughout the afternoon and early evening, the barrages intensify. Numerous times of heading to the hotel’s shelter and my exhaustion show me that I am not in the best shape.
At night, my friend and I meet for a late dinner at a Russian restaurant. After dessert, another siren. The owner urges us to hurry, as we move towards a nearby parking garage. Inside, we hear thundering booms. Usually, that means an interception; but this time, it is a direct hit. An entire apartment complex is largely destroyed in Tel Aviv, not far from where we were. Multiple wounded and a Filipino healthcare worker dies en route to the hospital. Mary Anne Velasquez de Vera had been assisting her patient.
On Sunday, there are more barrages in the morning. I check out of my hotel and leave my suitcase. One last time, my friend and I will try to stuff our faces for lunch.
Again, the city is eerily quiet. We walk through Shuk HaCarmel and see another consequence: shopkeepers without customers. This war is already hurting their livelihoods.
As we stroll, a man on a bicycle passes us, singing that “Bibi is the king and the king is Bibi” – it makes me chuckle. Another man smiles and gives thanks to Israel’s fighter pilots and the mothers who raised them.
It is rather warm, so we stop at a small park and sit down on a bench. As we are talking, people walk their dogs and suddenly a woman sits opposite from us. She takes out a sketchbook and starts drawing. After a while, my friend tells me that she is drawing me. I joke and tell him that such a drawing would never sell.
She keeps drawing feverishly, while sitting cross-legged, and looks up every now and then. After a while, we get up to have lunch. I ask her if she needs a picture to finish her drawing. She smiles and tells me that she has nearly finished. We say goodbye and move on. It shows how people try to distract themselves from this new reality, as much as possible.
After finishing lunch at a market stall, there is another siren – our timing is truly impeccable. The owner brings us to her shelter; more booms.
I say goodbye to my friend, retrieve my suitcase at the hotel, and make my way to Ra’anana. Now, for something a little light-hearted.
I get on an empty bus to Tel Aviv’s Savidor station. Dutch bus drivers drive carefully; a long time ago, I spent four months in Ottawa as an exchange student and OC Transpo drivers are a little less careful, but fast. It annoyed many Canadians. Then come Israeli bus drivers. There is no such thing as boarding the bus and leisurely paying the fare with your card. Oh, no, you grab onto something and hold on for dear life. But this driving style does get you everywhere faster.
At the train station, I board a train to Herzliya, where I will transfer to one that takes me to Ra’anana. My aunt insists on picking me up there. Now, the comedy starts.
I arrive in Herzliya, but my other train does not. I look for a bus and my phone dies. I walk in circles with my suitcase, while my aunt is at the closed Ra’anana train station, trying to reach me.
While I study the lines at a bus stop, an elderly gentleman asks me about my destination. I tell him where I need to go and a bus stops after a few minutes. The man gently yells at me to board, which I do.
Modern technology exists to aid hapless people like me. So, I plug my phone into a USB port and let my aunt know where I am. I eventually disembark and meet her at the bus stop. And throughout this entire journey, no sirens. I was lucky.
Upon arriving in Ra’anana, my second week in Israel had begun. My family in the Netherlands became increasingly worried; colleagues at work expressed concern for my wellbeing; and I remained in touch with both Jewish and non-Jewish friends outside of Israel, as I shared information about the daily reality of war. Ra’anana is much more quiet, a nice city with a suburban feeling to the north of Tel Aviv. But missile alerts and safe rooms remained part of the story, of course.