Stuck in Tel Aviv

So here I am in Tel Aviv. Walking around north Tel Aviv, no car. It’s warm, but not as hot as Tel Aviv can get. I’m sleeping in a modest Airbnb but spending time with my daughter in her more spacious place. Speaking Hebrew as best I can, making sure I get my requisite falafel, hummus, and Coke Zero.

I have a project that’s turned out better than I imagined. I’m interviewing rabbis — only rabbis. My assumption, which has proven quite correct, is that rabbis are innately interesting people. All ten of my subjects have had fascinating things to say.

So ten days, part vacation, part project.

But, oh yeah, there’s a war on. I don’t want to sound glib, because of course it’s deadly serious. Missiles are falling, people are dying, and in fact, just before the last comma, the siren went off and I had to break to get to the shelter. First one today.

I’d planned to visit all of my interview subjects in person; that was supposed to be part of the fun. In the end, I conducted all but one interview on Zoom. The one exception was the first, just before the war broke out.

When I walk around, I think about what I’ll do if the sirens go off while I’m strolling down Ibn Gabirol Street, or buying a Coke Zero in the Am:Pm convenience store (pronounced “Am-Pom”). What I’d run for, and where. The answer is simple: I’d follow the crowd to the nearest public shelter.

My daughter’s building doesn’t have a shelter, so she’s been staying with a friend. I make my way back to my building around 7:00 pm, which is around when the missiles have tended to arrive in the evenings.

So until I find a way out, I’m here in Tel Aviv with a good chunk of Israel and about 40,000 tourists.

Israelis in the shelters are, at least outwardly, calm about all of this. And there’s relatively little reason for panic. The Iranian attacks have been, so far, tepid, and Israel’s various systems for repelling rockets, drones, and missiles have been remarkably effective. That these defenses exist is due to the obvious and sobering fact that this country and rocket attacks are not strangers. The means to defend against them are necessities.

As are shelters, which are everywhere. My reader may know that buildings constructed after 1992 are required to include a safe room in each apartment. It’s called a mamad—which I only just learned is an acronym. I had only ever heard it spoken, and assumed it had something to do with amad, “to stand.” In fact, it stands for merchav mugan dirati—protected residential space.

Imagine buying a home in America and needing to decide whether you want one with a built-in bomb shelter.

My love affair with this country runs deep. I know something of its general craziness. I could tell you stories. But every time I reflect on the astonishing facts that comprise the totality of why and how Israel came into being, and how it has grown into an economic, military, cultural, and Jewish powerhouse, I am amazed.

So here I am, stuck in Israel during wartime, enjoying the walkabouts, the cafes, the folks I’m meeting in the shelter in my building. But, to be honest, I’m completely discombobulated. Yeah, that’s the word. Discombobulated.