The Morning After

I am exhausted and my heart is heavy. Even though I mentally prepared myself for the sirens, and heard from family and friends how difficult it is to survive a night of rushing to the mamad, nothing truly prepares you for the reality of it.

We are lucky to have a bunker in our building, and our apartment is on the first floor, which helps. I had schlepped down my cashmere blanket, a small water bottle, a siddur, Tehillim, and my phone the night before, all waiting next to my bed. I slept in a dress; there was no way I would appear in a robe and slippers in front of fellow tenants. Even in the middle of the night, in the middle of a war, dignity matters.

In the early hours of the morning the sirens went off. Three times they pierced the quiet, though only once did we truly need to rush to the bunker. The other two were warnings, and we waited tensely, not knowing which way it would go. By the time the city finally fell quiet again, going back to sleep was a hopeless endeavor. I lay there in the grey morning light, listening to the silence, wondering what the day would bring.

After splashing cold water on my face and doing my davening, I felt a little more human. I decided to take a walk to the nearby park to clear my mind and breathe some fresh air. My son Chaimi, who has been through this drill for weeks, gave me instructions. “It’s safe to venture out,” he said, “but make sure you have the app that shows you the nearest mamad.” The worry in his voice stayed with me. So that’s what I did. 150 meters to the right of the park I found my safe room and checked it out, feeling a strange mix of relief and sadness that such precautions are simply part of daily life here.

I am sitting near the tiny outdoor library where people drop off books and Judaica they no longer need. It’s shady and peaceful here, and for a moment I let myself simply breathe. The only sounds are those of a young man instructing little boys on how to kick a ball into a makeshift goal. No school today, and mothers with children roam the playground, their tired eyes telling a story similar to mine.

One young woman in a tall turban is slicing a delicious looking chocolate babka on her lap with a plastic knife, surrounded by children waiting patiently for their treat. Her calm and warmth moves me. Nearby, adorable little girls in matching denim skirts and pale yellow T-shirts chase each other around the slides, hair brushed, bows and headbands in place. How did their mother manage that? At least three of them must be hers. Wasn’t she just as tired as me? Maybe she is so used to the routine that she moves robotically, or maybe she simply refuses to let fear win.

Then I spot a father pushing a double carriage with a baby and a toddler, having decided to let his wife take a nap while he strolls through the park. Something about that small act of tenderness brings tears to my eyes.

This is what strikes me most. Life goes on. People are tired and frightened, yet here they are, feeding their children, kicking soccer balls, pushing carriages, choosing to step outside and face the day together.

I pick myself up, browse the bookshelves, and find a small water damaged Navi with pages stuck together. I leave it there. I pass a few mothers, smile at them, and they smile back, a quiet understanding passing between us. I head home to face a new day in this complicated, heartbreaking, beautiful holy city.