Dispatch from the Shelter: The Nightly Exodus
Life right now is missiles and reinforced rooms. But also family dinners, quiet streets, and holding on to the present.
Shalom from Israel,
There is no tomorrow. Not in a pessimistic, 'we’re all going to die' way, but rather, in the sense that all we truly have is the present. We’re in a holding pattern and planning anything is impossible and even borderline absurd. There’s only so much energy I can spend, and I’m using it to stay calm, think clearly, and control what I can - which, at this point, mostly means deciding what we’re eating for dinner. It’s been a week of interrupted sleep; jarring warnings blast from every device in our home in succession; and the loud and sudden drone of sirens warn of missiles' imminent arrival. We sit in our reinforced room, phones buzzing with Telegram and WhatsApp alerts. On YouTube, we stream the Tel Aviv skyline live, watching missiles intercepted midair and others raining down.
We’re also living in two worlds. Although there have been a few attacks during the day, daytime is as normal as possible. Mostly people running errands. We don’t stray too far from the house and certainly not without being a few steps away from a shelter. I got caught at the supermarket the other day and ended up in an unventilated shelter with several toddlers eating bamba.
Another kind of trauma altogether.
We’re experiencing what I’m calling the nightly Exodus. Once the sun sets, the streets are empty. What’s usually the hum of highway traffic a couple of kilometers away becomes the occasional car speeding along or the inconsiderate motorcycle pushing their engines to the point that the roar sounds like a siren alert.
Pavlovian response: my dog used to head to the shelter when he heard the sirens outside, now all it takes is an alert on the phone and he’s the first one in.
I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but I do know that my children’s future will be a safer one. One unexpected gift: we’ve eaten dinner together as a full family every night this week.
There is no tomorrow.
But there’s tonight.
And tonight, we’ll gather, eat and hold tight to the parts of life we can still call our own.
Harry
"Want to explore the tools and ingredients I love? Check out my Amazon store. Every purchase helps support this newsletter!"
Listening: Alan Sparhawk and Trampled by Turtles
Reading: Mark Twain by Ron Chernow
⌇⋰ Website
⌇⋰ Email : harrysbaked@gmail.com or respond to this email, I love to hear from you.
This newsletter may contain affiliate links.