In Israel, sirens are part of the daily grammar.

They interrupt conversations, prayers, traffic, meals, lessons, phone calls. They cut across private and public life with the same insistence. They also send us into stairwells, shelters, reinforced rooms, corners of apartments, underground spaces, school corridors. They reorder time in seconds and reshape space in meters.

We learn very early what each sound means.

We learn where to run, how long we have, whom to gather, whom to wait for, when to breathe again.

And yet, strangely, sirens also gather us.

They bring together neighbors who have never exchanged more than a greeting in the stairwell. They bring children and elders, immigrants and natives, Jews and Arabs, believers and skeptics, into temporary communities of vulnerability. For a few minutes, we are simply bodies pressed close, sharing uncertainty, listening for the all-clear.

In recent months, reading reflections by fellow writers in this space – including a brief, honest note by Sarah Tuttle-Singer about life under alerts – helped crystallize something that had been accumulating in me for a long time. I realized that what struck me most was not only fear, nor even resilience, but the strange moral dimension of the siren itself.

It is not only a warning.

It is a call.

Indeed, it is a civic voice, anonymous and impersonal, that says: take responsibility – for yourself and for others.

Out of this realization, a poem emerged.

I wrote it in Yiddish these days.

Not as nostalgia. Not as an exile-language.

For many of us in Israel, Yiddish is a language of home – of kitchens, stairwells, synagogues, shelters, family memory, and everyday speech. It lives here, in the beys and in the môledeṯ/מולדת [I love to use the word in Yiddish, it sounds “native”, moyl’des], alongside Hebrew and Arabic. In moments of danger, languages do not compete. They shelter one another.

What follows is the poem, in its original Yiddish and in an interlinear English translation.

זינגט, קלינגט, אַזעקות

Sing, Ring – Sirens

בײַ אונדז אין ערטער, אין דער מולדת,
In our places, in the homeland,

הערט זיך שטענדיק אַ קלאַנג, אַ טומל, אַ רעש —
there is always a sound, a rumble, a roar –

אַ זשוּמען, אַ רוּמלען, אַ ראַטען, אַ ראַשען,
a humming, a rolling, a rattling, a rustling,

אַ סופֿית־טשײַניקבלױז פֿאַר בין־השמשותדיק.
a twilight-tea kettle-blow at in-between hours.

בײַ אונדז װײַסט מען: דער ים רעדט מיט כוואַליעס,
Among us one knows: the sea speaks in waves,

דער שטוּרעם טראַכט זיך אין רעש,
the storm thinks itself into noise,

דער רעגן איז נאַס, כּמעט בשקט –
the rain is wet, almost silently —

דער שרב, דער חמסין, די װילדע זאַמד־װינטן,
the heat-haze (South desert wind), the khamsin (sirocco), the wild sand-winds,

די רוחות אינעם מדבר –
the spirits of the desert –

לפֿעמים שטילע שנײפֿאַלן,
sometimes quiet snowfalls,

אַרײַנגעבראַכט פֿון גלויות און זכרונות,
brought in from exiles and memories,

מוּטשן אַרוּם די נאַטוּר און דאָס פֿאָלק.
knead nature and people together.

קלאַקסאָנען, שופֿרים חילוניים,
Horns, secular shofars,

שרײַען דורך די ירושלימער פּקקים אין דער היץ:
cry through Jerusalem’s traffic jams in the heat:

סאופֿית! דאָך סופֿית!
“Finally! At last!”

װען מיר טראַכטן אַ מעגלעך אײַנדע אין רוּ
When we imagine a possible ending in calm

און זוּכן אַ ביסל מנוחה.
and search for a little rest.

פּלוּצעם הערט׳ס: לממ״ד! למקלט!
Suddenly one hears: “To the safe room! To the shelter!”

אַנדערע רוּפֿן: לחדר! למדרגות!
Others shout: “To the room! To the stairs!”

יאַללה – אפֿשר לבונקר!
Yaalla – maybe to the bunker!

אין מאַמאַד, אין מִקְלָט, אין שיץ־פּלאַץ,
Into the reinforced room, into the shelter, into hiding,

אין חדרון, אין שטוּבעלע!
into the little room, into the corner!

אַ באַקאַנטער קול – בעל־הבית־אװענט בטובה,
A familiar voice – the householder kindly announcing,

אין שוץ און בירגערלעכער חברשאַפֿט,
in protection and civic solidarity,

צוּ ראַטעװען אַפֿריער פֿאַר אַלע סכנות.
to save everyone in advance from danger.

װידער, װײַטער הערט׳ס אַזעקות,
Again, again – the sirens are heard,

צעק־צעק־צעקים מיט צער־בלי־חיים:
sharp cries with a living pain:

זהירות! אַזװהרה – ניט קײַן אַזכּרה,
“Caution! Warning!” – not remembrance,

גענױ ניט קײַן טױט־זכרון,
not a memorial of death,

נאָר אַ געדענק־רוּף אױפֿצוּמוּנטערן און באַלעבן זיך – 
but a call to encourage and revive –

אַן אַכטוּנג אָן טיפֿן שרעק –  
an alert without deep terror –

נאָר דער רוּף פֿון שכנים:
only the voice of neighbors:

נוּ, חברותא, לױף שױן,
“Come on, friends, hurry –

מיר האַלטן זיך בײַנאַנד.
we hold together.”

אָט זינגען די אַלערטען, זשװיװע,
So the alerts sing, alive,

װי אין אַ זאַכטעם פּאַראַדאָקס –
in a gentle paradox –

אַ הולטײַשער קוּריאָז: װאַרט אַמאָל! –
a strange curiosity: “Wait a moment!” –

בלײַבט אַלע זיצ־שוּץ־פֿלײַשיק!
“Remain seated — safely!”

מיר דרוּקן זיך נאָענט און גופֿא –
We press close, bodily and near –

יידן, ערבים, באָבעלעך, זײדעלעך, זײגקינדער,
Jews, Arabs, grandmothers, grandfathers, infants,

מאַמעס פֿון דער ארץ־המולדת.
mothers of Eretz the homeland.

די אַזעקות פֿאַרבעטן אַלע כאגודות שונות,
The sirens invite all associations,

גאַנץ פֿאַראײַניקט און פֿאַרשײַדענע –
united and diverse –

און כאָטש – אַכטוּנג!
and yet – attention!

אַרוּם דעם הײַמלאַנד
Around the native land

קײַנער װאָלט קײַנעם צונױפֿרוּפֿן,
no one would gather anyone,

קײַנער װאָלט קײַנעם װאָרענען,
no one would warn anyone,

קײַנער װאָלט פֿירן זיך לױט אחריות
no one would act with responsibility

און שיקן פֿרײַנדלעכע אַזעקות…
and send friendly sirens…

פּאַס אױף – מאַכט אַלע אױף, דו הקהל,
Pay attention – awaken, O assembly,

מיט קאָפּ, פּאַװאָליע:
with mind and patience:

די אַזעקות גרוסן, שאַנווען דעם כלל
the sirens greet and shape the community

מיט זהירות… בײַ אונדז בארץ.
with caution… here, in our land.

In public discourse, sirens are usually discussed in technical, military, or political terms. How many seconds? Which area? Which system failed? Which government is responsible?

These questions matter. But they do not exhaust the meaning of what happens when a siren sounds.

A siren is one of the few remaining voices in modern society that still commands immediate, collective obedience without coercion. No one forces us physically into shelters. We go because we recognize a shared vulnerability.

We go because we know that survival here is never purely individual.

In this sense, the siren is not only an alarm. It is a moral instrument. It trains attentiveness. Likewise, it teaches mutual care. It reminds us that our private lives are woven into a fragile public fabric.

Writing this poem in Yiddish was a way of staying close to that fabric. Yiddish is a language that knows how communities survive through responsibility, humor, tenderness, and constraint. It carries an ethical memory that remains relevant in contemporary Israel.

At the same time, the poem insists on inclusion. In shelters, social categories collapse. Fear does not distinguish between languages, religions, or passports. The siren creates, however briefly, a community of fate.

This does not solve political conflicts. It does not replace policy. It does not absolve responsibility.

But it reveals something essential: beneath ideology, there remains a human capacity for coordination, care, and mutual self-control.

In times of extreme polarization, this capacity deserves attention.

If sirens can still teach us how to listen to one another – even under pressure – then perhaps they are not only instruments of warning, but also fragile reminders of our shared moral space. There are places, neighboring regions where no siren will be heard in times of danger, attacks. Nobody would ever think to prevent those whose lives can be imperiled.

Thus, sirens and sounds reveals something essential: beneath ideology, there remains a human capacity for coordination, care, and mutual self-control.