Several Iranian missile barrages targeted residential areas in Ramat Gan and other areas of Israel. (photo by Yoram Sorek / Wikimedia Commons)
A missile alert blared! Early Friday morning, like 2 a.m. early, we ran into our saferoom, seemingly to seek safety from yet another Houthi missile from Yemen. As usual, I was the last to get there. Not because I heroically brought up the rear, but because I lagged behind, looking for my glasses and Ventolin puffer – in the heat of battle, I can’t seem to remember where I put them.
As I entered our sanctuary and slammed the heavy steel door shut, my wife exclaimed in disbelief, “We’re attacking Iran!”
Dumbstruck at first, thoughts then flew through my mind at hypersonic ballistic missile speed, including the prayer for the army, “He who blessed our forefathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, may He bless the fighters of the Israel Defence Forces, who stand guard over our land….”
The purpose of the siren that morning? Get Israelis in front of the TV, announce this remarkable development and prepare us for the days ahead. To advise us we were under emergency lockdown and we should remain close to safe areas until further notice, in anticipation of Iran’s retaliation.
So there we stayed for the rest of the night, watching history unfold. In shock. In awe. In fear.
* * *
Much later that morning, I noticed we were out of Manischewitz wine, needed for that evening’s Shabbat dinner. Now, I am not a religious person, but we are living in existential times. I needed to say the blessings.
“I’m going to the grocery store to buy some Manischewitz,” I told my wife.
“No!” she said. “We can be attacked any moment. We can do without the wine.”
“OK. I’ll go to the corner store,” I said by way of compromise. “We need the wine for the blessings tonight. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I guess everyone was looking for Manischewitz that day, as our corner store was sold out. I made my way to the store a bit further down the road, running, hoping not to be caught in a missile barrage. But that store also had sold out. Guess a lot of people wanted to say the blessings that Shabbat.
I tried one more store, a bit farther away, running faster, still hoping not to be caught in a missile barrage. Sold out there as well.
Determined to buy my Manischewitz, I ventured even further away, towards the main street, hoping even harder to not be caught during a missile alert, so much farther from home than expected. Found it! That night, we said the prayer for the IDF.
* * *
Speaking of blessings, I talked with a friend who has become very religious. As we discussed the situation, he asked what people who don’t believe in prayer are doing now. “Praying,” I deadpanned.
* * *
A few days later, my city was hit by two Iranian intercontinental missiles in the middle of the night. The impact was tremendously loud and tremendously scary. Our building shook. The destruction was immense, several blocks wide. With all the confusion and damage, there was no looting. Not here and not in other areas of the country suffering the same outrageous fortune from the mullahs’ missiles.
In the morning, my wife and I walked along the main street – where I bought the Manischewitz – surveying the damage. You could still smell the dynamite. The huge front window of the bookstore was blown out. Now, if I were a looter … forget the TVs and stereos from the store next door or the perfume from the nearby pharmacy. As a bibliophile, I would probably loot the bookstore, grab a few bestsellers – not.
The scene was very humbling. Very depressing.
* * *
My wife and daughter are sleeping in the saferoom. I remain in our bedroom across the hall, sprinting to join them several times a night as missile alerts blare. I’ve put an extra pair of glasses and my inhaler on a shelf to avoid delays.
Our saferoom is a messy fortress stocked with mineral water, canned goods, medications and passports. We each have packed an overnight bag, should our place be hit by a missile. How helpful are an extra pair of pants and underwear should we lose everything? We also put some shoes near the fortified steel door – we can’t imagine walking over rubble and shards of glass in our bare feet. Of course, we packed some personal keepsakes: photographs, favourite books, my plastic superhero figurines.
* * *
There was another missile alert the following Friday morning. As we made our way to the saferoom, I again brought up the rear. Again, not because of heroism but, this time, to grab the pots of food simmering on our stove. Dinner was my wife’s specialty. I wasn’t going to risk it to a ballistic missile fired by angry mullahs. This time, the Manischewitz was chilling in the fridge.
* * *
Anxious speculation comes to an end. Another Machiavellian Trump triumph. Doing the right thing, the moral thing. Several B-2 stealth bombers flew over 35 hours under the guise of a two-week bluff. To defeat tyranny, or at least to destroy those dang nuclear sites, “By wise counsel thou shalt make thy war.” (Proverbs 24:6)
* * *
The ceasefire is holding. We unpacked our overnight bags and put the keepsakes back in place. Batman, the Green Arrow and the Flash are safely back on the library shelf.
* * *
The financial cost to Israel of the 12-Day War, as it’s now referred, is huge, some billions of dollars. A war brought by surprise to the enemy – not against the Persian people but against the myopic, maniacal mullahs of the Islamic Republic of Iran. So please continue donating to your favourite Israeli charity or buy Israel Bonds or come visit and spend your tourist dollars here.
Israel lost 28 people during the war. According to Jewish mysticism, one soul is like an entire universe. But, while 28 universes were destroyed – and I don’t say this lightly – it was only 28, which is testament to Israel’s great preparedness and adherence to Home Front Command instructions. At every opportunity – billboards, newspapers, public service announcements, movie trailers – instructions were given. And again. And again.
* * *
Bring them home now.
Bruce Brown, a Canadian-Israeli, made aliyah more than 25 years ago. He works in high-tech by day and, in spurts, is a writer by night. He is the winner of a 2019 American Jewish Press Association Simon Rockower Award for excellence in Jewish writing.