Keeping the Faith

WE BOUGHT OUR house over 20 years ago after returning from an extended stay in California. When we came back, we were looking for a house in a moshav. A moshav is an Israeli concept: a vil­lage originally built around agriculture and cooperative living. Our moshav is surrounded by orchards and brinjal fields. Over the years, many of these communities have evolved into quiet and picturesque neighbourhoods with very few active farmers. As a lawyer, I authorise documents for my neighbours—and in return, they thank me with eggplants and artichokes.

Our house was brand new at the time. A unique feature is the safe room. Built into the house itself, it has fortified concrete walls and ceiling, a metal window, and a heavy steel door that can be hermetically sealed. This became a standard require­ment for new homes in Israel after the Gulf War in 1990, when Saddam Hussein targeted the coun­try with missile attacks. The safe room has now become my study.

Over the years, as things became more peaceful, we found the heavy metal door of the safe room a bit of an eyesore. Eventually, we decided to replace it with a regular wooden door. When the war in Gaza broke out on October 7, 2023, it took us a few days to realise that we were too optimistic and the metal door was needed. We took down the wooden door and reinstalled the original metal door which had been stored in the attic for years. It was no longer just about appearances; it was about safety. In the villages targeted by Hamas during the October 7 massacre, these metal bulletproof doors and safe rooms saved lives.

Since the start of Operation Rising Lion, Israel’s ongoing response to Iranian military and nuclear threats, Iran has launched over 400 missiles and countless drones at Israel. Thanks to the defence systems, most were intercepted or allowed to fall harmlessly in open areas. Still, a few managed to get through, striking heavily populated neighbourhoods. Most people who stayed in the safe room survived when a missile hit their building. Even if the rest of the building was damaged, the safe room really saved lives. Unfortunately, in the case of a direct hit on the safe room itself, the room is not enough. Some people died due to such direct hits. The missiles coming from Iran are no joke. A direct hit with a few hundred kilograms can penetrate even a safe room.

For years, I was convinced that my safe room was truly safe. But over the past few days, I have started to wonder, am I really protected? I’m beginning to question the quality of the safe room itself. The man who sold us the house had run out of money near the end of construction. What if he cut corners? What if the safe room wasn’t built to standard? How would I even know? We usually say that the proof of the pudding is in the eating, but in this case, testing the pudding isn’t exactly advisable. I know I should call in an engineer to evaluate the room. But part of me wonders: Maybe it’s better to keep living in comforting illusions?

After a few months of relative quiet (the missiles from Yemen didn’t intimidate us) we restocked the safe room with bottles of water, snacks, and a radio with fresh batteries, just in case the electricity goes out. I even brought a good bottle of wine, to keep the morale high.

The people who were evacuated from their homes due to missile attacks carried plastic bags with whatever they managed to grab at the last moment. Many fled in their pyjamas, some without even shoes. That sight stayed with me, and it pushed me to be prepared. In my safe room, I have placed a few bags with valuables: important documents, medicines, family photo albums, jewellery, and other sentimental treasures that no amount of money can replace. I’m also planning to pack a bag with some clothes, just in case we need to evacuate. My husband laughed at me, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. This whole situation made me think: What would I take if I had to leave a burning house? We spend our lives collecting so many things. But in moments like these, it becomes clear—we actually need very little.

On the night the operation began, the sirens started around 3AM. There was no immediate threat that clearly justified the si­rens, but the Home Front Command decided to alert everyone in advance of the expected retaliation from Iran. It wasn’t until later on Friday (June 13) that Iran launched its barrage of missiles and drones. By now, missiles coming from Iran’s proxies in Yemen have become almost routine; one every other day. Most were intercepted well before they reached Israeli airspace; others were intercepted closer to the border, with sirens triggered not by direct threats but by the risk of fall­ing debris from interceptions. But missiles from Iran are a different story altogether. We have already experienced two direct at­tacks, in April and October 2024, and they were no child’s play. I warned my foreign friends who weren’t in Israel during those times: attacks from Iran feel different. They are bigger, more complex, and far scarier.

One of the side effects of the situation was that Israel closed its skies. Tourists couldn’t leave, and thousands of Israelis found themselves stuck abroad. ‘Stuck’ might sound strange to non-Israelis as I have received plenty of kind invitations from my Indian friends to come and stay with them during this period. But the truth is, history shows that when Israel is at war, Israelis don’t try to escape. They rush back home. Patriots.

The Home Front Command operates an alert app. The first few moments of the siren sound like a cacophony. We all rush to the safe room with our mobile phones (and chargers), and just a millisecond before the local siren blares, all our phones begin buzzing with alert notifications—loud, urgent, and impossible to mute. Before this operation, the app only notified users once a siren had already sounded. The new feature provides a notification about 10 minutes in advance, so that people can make their way to the shelter at a calmer pace rather than having to run. Most of the casualties over the past 20 months of war and sirens were people who got injured on their way to the shelter. Some people have to go down many flights of stairs to reach the build­ing’s basement shelter. Elevators, of course, are not recommended during alerts. My 89-year-old mother-in-law has difficulty walking, and since she lives in an apartment without a safe room, her only option is the basement shelter. But in her case, the risk of falling on the stairs during the chaos is probably 10 times higher than the chance of a missile actually hitting her building.

A siren—no matter how accustomed you are to it—is a fright­ening sound. Reaching a shelter within a few minutes can be challenging, especially for the elderly and for families with young children, or with pets. Imagine trying to catch your cat when the siren is sounding! I have a few scratches to prove how well those attempts went. One deeply touching moment from an otherwise chaotic week: a fellow pet lover carried his golden retriever down 33 floors, ensuring the dog stayed safe from the shattered glass scat­tered everywhere. Thick concrete may guard us from missiles but it’s our enduring optimism—and the knowledge that this is the only Jewish state we have—that truly sustains us.

A Personal HistoryIsrael-Iran conflictIsraeli air defence systemsTel Avivwar zone