Not many Israelis have been heading to hotels in the last three weeks, but everyone has spent some time in a bomb shelter.
Whether in the cozy confines of a mamad within one’s own home, a building’s miklat for all the tenants, or a public shelter for passersby, Israelis have become experts at sitting on plastic Keter furniture, seeing their neighbors in their disheveled overnight worst, and staring at cement walls while waiting for the all-clear.
Through various circumstances, I’ve spent missile attacks in more than a half dozen different safe rooms since the war began, most of them as a pop-in guest off the street.
They vary in size, comfort level, and ambiance.
A 10/10 bomb shelter: Would recommend to a friend
On Purim day in Jerusalem, for instance, we double-parked on Jerusalem’s Eshkol Boulevard and entered the nearest apartment building. Inside the ground-floor shelter, a Purim party for the ages was raging, with young costumed families, seemingly from the Five Towns of Long Island, drinking out of paper cups, singing and dancing, and parading in costume.
When we entered, seats were offered, and shots and pastry were thrust in our faces. Since I was driving, I only indulged in the baked goods, which were fresh and aromatic.
Heading back on the road, the next siren caught us in the capital’s Yefeh Nof neighborhood, near Yad Sarah, where we parked and ran into a more sedate and austere setting. Although welcomed in, there were no drinks or celebrations, and barely any chairs. I wouldn’t go back there.
Another siren found us turning into Ir Ganim, near Mount Herzl, where we ran into a private home and joined a family in a pantry-turned-shelter. There was no room for chairs, and we stood elevator-close, while exchanging nervous pleasantries.
Reaching our destination in Kiryat Menachem, where our daughter was waiting out the beginning of the war, we joined her family three times in their building’s shelter. It was spacious, with mats on the floor for the kids and a toy-and-game corner. Plenty of chairs hosted the 40-some attendees, and someone passed around chocolate biscuits. The room’s decor was basement-unfinished, but the vibe was homey. I’d go back.
Heading to Malha one day, a siren caught us running into the Tamara Café across from the mall. The shelter was a couple of corridors and twists and turns away, and it turned out to be the coffee shop’s drink warehouse. Six-packs of soda, beer, and bottles of wine lined the walls, but alas, none were offered. Still, the comfort-food apple pie we partook of afterward in the café made up for the slight.
Home (shelter) sweet home (shelter)
Of course, after experiencing shelters both big and small, clean and dingy, there was nothing like being back home in our building’s safe room. The 20-plus times we’ve descended 40 steps and walked around the building another 35 steps (within 90 seconds) have not only gotten us in shape, but we now know our neighbors more intimately than is necessary.
The shelter has ample chairs, a wall fan, plenty of water, snack food, a finished tile floor, four or five dogs, usually three or four toddlers or young children, and an abundance of spirit.
I’d give it five stars.
The writer was a guest of the bomb shelters.