The First Week of War: Faces From the Miklat

Miklat (Hebrew: מקלט): A reinforced public bomb shelter, usually underground, intended to protect civilians from rocket and missile fire. Derived from a biblical translation meaning “shelter.”

In a week of war, my neighbors have quickly become characters in a story that none of us wanted. Here, I present to you a photo essay detailing the people of my building, who have gathered in our miklat under our building alert after alert, throughout any and every hour of the day this first week of war. Here will unfold the moments, the stories, and every emotion between.

At 8:17 AM, public air raid sirens and a flurry of alerts from our phones warned us that we were now at war. The attacks in Iran had begun. Be ready.

DAY 1

The first day was the most intense. The alerts came quickly, initiated by the first Iranian missile attack about an hour after that initial warning.

My phone blared an Amber Alert sound as an emergency alert popped up on my screen thrice, each time featuring a message in four languages – Hebrew, English, Arabic, and Russian – that an official missile alert was expected in a few minutes. My go-bag was prepared and waiting for me by the door, filled with everything I could possibly need if my home were struck by a missile. I whisked it up and went down to the miklat.

Being on the fourth floor, I was ready to run down the stairs, but my 70-something-year-old next-door neighbor, Alex, was hailing the elevator. How odd to use an elevator at a time like this, I thought. But we entered, Alex taking my bag (he’s refused to let me carry it myself ever since), and down we went, all the way to the ground floor, proceeding to the few stairs that lead into the miklat, a large, fluorescent-lit room just under the building. The room had not been used since before the cease-fire with Hamas, but prior to that, it had been well-decorated with a sprawling, colorful rug, leather couches, a cushioned recliner, and several dining and lawn chairs. Not too shabby, but a bit dusty.

In the first day, there were 20 instances of missiles fired toward my area. The alerts came quickly. Sirens blared outside. Sirens blared on our phones, which incessantly flashed with light from the flashlight. Both Alex and Reuven, another man in his 70s or 80s, took it upon themselves to position at the door, calling, "Anyone else?" to the corridor, waiting for the last person to hurry in before they shut and locked the door. Then, we all sat, for at least 10 minutes at a time, waiting for the all-clear to return to our apartments, the all-clear that the danger of the falling debris of intercepted missiles was clear and over. That day, we learned to wait another two or three minutes before emerging from the miklat, as too many times, we would get back into our apartments only to get another alert and turn heel back downstairs and underground. "Uno Reverse card," one of my friends called it.

In the first week, we spent about 17 hours and 47 minutes together in the miklat, which is plenty of time to get to know your neighbors, enough time for them to start to feel like family, and enough time for you to, much like family, get tired of being with them so often!

After the first couple alerts of that Saturday morning, Alex told me he had a massive collection of books and invited me to do him a favor and take some. Happily! Entering his apartment, I found a twin of my own, except the walls were covered top to bottom with various collections ("my problems," he called them) of books, music players (CD players, a vinyl player, radios, a reel-to-reel), music discs (CDs, vinyls), movies (DVDs, Blu-rays), and what really caught my eye -- cameras!

Over tea, Alex introduced me to some of the highlights of his camera collection, including a tiny, old Soviet spy camera, while he recounted to me some of his life story. Born in Leningrad, he came to Israel when he was around my age (35). It was Alex who encouraged me to keep taking photos since the first day of the war. "This is history," he told me. "Every day, the photos will tell a story."

Besides visiting my neighbor, I had grand plans that first day of war, to use the day off from work to actually get chores done at home. But the intensity of running in and out of the miklat took my attentions elsewhere, as well as my energies. I was tired. The missile attacks continued overnight into Sunday. Around the 11 PM attack, I was over it and dragged my pillow and blanket into the miklat, making myself cozy on a corner of the couch. As everyone exited the shelter, I stayed burrito'd on the couch in my blanket and told Alex, who was reaching for my bag, that I would be sleeping there. "Are you serious?" he asked. I don't remember what I responded. I was half-asleep already.

The next alarm came at 2 AM, but cozy in my blanket burrito, I dismissed all my phone alerts and continued sleeping. Around 6 AM, I woke up and finally went up to my apartment to use the toilet. Finally, I dragged myself to my own bed and laid in it, comfortable and snug. Immediately, another alert flared up on my phone, and back down to the miklat we went.

DAY 2

This was the day we really started to play a fun game of "Is there time for...?"

The way it goes is you discover a need: to cook, to eat, to shower, to poop, and then you ask yourself, "Is there time?"

(Funny enough, a very clever web designer created a site this week called CanIShower.com.)

It was a groggy morning in which I learned how integral a good night's rest is in resetting the nervous system and getting ready to go all over again. The day was a little less intense, the missile strikes being a little less frequent (enough times that I could count and remember each one), but no less stressful with the constant anticipation of when the next would come.

And each time, we would rush back down to the miklat. "Boker tov" ("good morning") we would greet each other. Regardless of how stressful the day, I looked forward to seeing my neighbors. My city, Rishon LeZion, is not a place where you'll often get "hello"s from strangers, and though I'd passed my neighbors a few times before the war, we had never had a conversation with each other, not even small talk. I don't know if this is because my city is largely populated with people of Russian backgrounds or if it's just the culture of the city. But one of the things I've always admired about Israelis is their way of coming together like family in times of hardship.

As we emerged from the miklat, I commented on how warm and friendly everyone is. One neighbor looked ahead, at nothing, and said in English, “If only we could always be this nice to each other every day.”

The frequent volleys of missiles continued into Sunday. Between alerts, I would step into the sunlight to admire how beautiful the day was and what a shame that such a beautiful day with such great weather would be wasted by war. This time in Israel is lovely, all the flowers blossoming and thriving, the sky blue with barely a trace of clouds.

As the day went on, things started calming down. Hours would pass between attacks. (Plenty of time to shower!) But the anticipation remained. At first, I felt relieved, and then, uncertain. It reminded me of a scene from a childhood favorite video game, StarFox 64, when, before an enemy ambush, Peppy says, "It's quiet...Too quiet...Be careful; it's a trap!"

I wasn't sure if the silence meant that Iran had just talked a big game but didn't actually have the missile capabilities they claimed to have, or if the silence meant they were gearing up for more. In the previous war, after the first couple days of war, they had assessed how to be more successful in getting missiles through Israel's defense. I thought perhaps that was the case again, that they were assessing.

But given the long stretches of time between attacks, and given that I'd just learned that essential workers would be back to work (and therefore, grocery stores would be open), I decided to do a grocery run.

When there are incoming missiles and you hear the air raid sirens, you have about 90 seconds to get yourself to shelter. So, walking to the grocery store around the corner, about a two-minute walk, felt risky. But almost every building in this radius, including the store, has a bomb shelter, so feelings don't always imply rationale.

Perusing the fresh food aisles was reminiscent of hurricane prep. The bread stock was nearly depleted. There were no onions left in stock. Thankfully, though, there were plenty of non-perishables. I was not left wanting for food for the week.

DAY 3

Overnight Sunday to Monday was the first good night. There was one alarm around 11 PM, and the next one wasn't until 7 AM. And after that alarm, I went straight back to bed and slept for another two hours. I was so exhausted and expectant of another alarm that I slept with my shoes on.

This was to be the last school day before a little break from Purim, but school was canceled. I was supposed to meet up with two other photographer friends in Tel Aviv to go shooting. Purim is a popular, festive holiday when everyone dresses up in costumes, and large parades and parties would be spreading through the streets. Instead, people were home or in bomb shelters, finding the parallels between the origins of Purim, based upon a history of an intended genocide by a Persian king and his antisemitic advisor, compared to today, genocidal intentions by an antisemitic Iranian regime.

One way to maneuver through the hardships of this surreal reality is through humor. And there has been a lot of humor these days. In my opinion, it's the best way to make it through. (Stay tuned for a post just about this!)

Three days into war, with fewer missile attacks each day, and thereby, more space to breathe. My roommates had all gone away for the war, and I was left with rare silence and solitude (hard to find in a communal country with constant noise.....besides the air sirens). It was a rare time for me to hunker down and work on my photography and writing. I spent a lot of time talking to friends and family.

And all that time in the miklat meant I spent a lot of time talking to my neighbors.

My neighbors are wonderful. There are Reuven and Leah, an elderly couple, were often the first ones to enter the miklat whenever the sirens came. "Reuven is the most important guy in the building," another neighbor told me. To why, she answered, "He's just a good guy."

There are short-haired mother, Ilanit, and her five-year-old son, Omri, with eyes like a sweet cartoon character. Omri's dad was away in the reserves. He'd left as soon as the war started, and Omri kept a brave face and smiled a lot, but from the moment I saw him on the phone with his dad, I could see how much he missed him.

There are Nir and Yael, a young couple with their toddler, Alma, and their long-haired baby boy, Omer. They are monuments to the painstaking work that doting parents will do for the love of their children. May their children grow up to no longer know war.

There is Merav, the sweet short-haired woman who always wears a beanie or a fun hat in the miklat (because it's so dang cold) and who always offers us snacks.

There is Alon, a single (I think), blond guy in his 40s, who often takes the corner of the couch and chooses not to say much.

There is Alex, my next-door neighbor, who began to bring his Nikon to the miklat on Day 2 and has been shooting ever since.

There are the blonde mother, and her son, who is always in sweats and a hoodie, who also chooses not to say much, but the one time we spoke revealed that he's fluent in English.

There is Michal, the single mother with a daughter and son, who never married and chose to have kids just because she always wanted to be a mother.

And there is the woman whose name I don't know, who doesn’t know English but nevertheless offered me food on Day 1. On Day 2, she left to her family's house.

The perception of time was becoming an illusion, a mirage. "Hi hi good morning, just wanted to check and see how you're all doing after the past three years, I mean, 27 hours," my city coordinator texted our program's group chat on Day 2. I couldn't have said it better myself. Between the lack of sleep, and all the action, and all the inaction, and the samey days, the days have felt very long.

DAY 4

Overnight, around 12:30 AM, we got an alert. That one was the toughest so far. Before going to bed, I had been feeling sick and super tired. Hearing the pre-alert sound from my phone, it felt like being ripped out of sleep, like my soul had been torn from my body, and I felt sick to my stomach. Jumping immediately out of bed and grabbing my go-bags, I coughed and coughed because it was the only way to keep myself from actually vomiting. Down into the miklat, I went. And after waiting out the booms and missile debris falling, about 10 or 15 minutes later, I was back in bed, sleeping it off.

This day became more of the same as the last, meaning there were still plenty of missile attacks, but seeing as there had been fewer every day, there was time for me to think, "Who knew war could be so boring."

The first few days of having a break with nothing to do were great (besides there being war, of course). I'm not one to sit idle. I don't know how to be bored. But I was learning. And part of that was because I was becoming what I like to call "stressy-depressy" from being inside all the time. And like I said, the weather has been so nice that it felt like a shame to waste it.

So, I grabbed a lawn chair from the miklat and brought it to the sunshine on the sidewalk in front of my building. Why not be strange in a strange world? Out there with my go-bag on the floor, my camera beside me, and my iPad on my lap, I typed away, documenting all that was happening. Memory recall is tough when you're sleep-deprived, but sunshine is great medicine.

Neighbors walked by, most of them with their dogs. They smiled at me as they passed, the silly sight that I must've been out there. "Shalom," they greeted. A golden retriever pup and a yellow lab came to greet me, too. (The highlight of my day.)

In Judaism, the calendar days begin at nightfall. That means that Day 4's nightfall was the start of Purim! But the celebrations began early! Taking a walk around my block, I saw plenty of kids in costume, walking with their families. I passed the school two blocks away and the large public playground beside it. Kids and parents were all about. Music was playing from the school soccer field. A boy dressed as Batman and a girl dressed as a princess chased the ball. Kids were going down the slides and shouting and laughing with glee. You wouldn't know anything else going on in the world.

I noticed the streets getting busier. With fewer missile attacks, people were feeling bolder. It is safer. It's just that we don't know when another attack will come.

That evening, when I was back home, there was a knock on my door. There stood five-year-old Omri, handing me a tin of homemade baked goods he and his mom had made. "Mishloach manot" it's called -- a Purim gift to ensure everyone has food to enjoy the holiday.

DAY 5

Looking at the statistics of missile attacks in Israel, you begin to feel optimistic. You realize that even if Iran hadn't just been talking a big game, their missile capabilities were severely crippled. The Israeli and American militaries had decimated large amounts of Iran's missile launch equipment. The air defenses in Israel, such as the Iron Dome, have been doing an incredible job of keeping us safe and mitigating strikes and damage.

Yet, from the human side, your body takes a toll from the constant disruptions and the need to be on guard throughout the day. You wait for an attack before taking a shower because it feels like a clock reset, so you don't have to run down to the miklat in a towel.

Looking at the statistics now, I see there were only six alerts in my region this day, but my journal entry shows it was a busier day (in terms of attacks). Perception is everything.

Anyway, I was tired of cooking, so I ventured out to the pizza place around the corner, next to the school, for an Italian treat. It's my favorite place to eat in my local neighborhood because you can get two slices of pizza and a can of Coke for 15 shekels ($4.87). What a steal! Why wouldn't I just eat this every day? It's cheaper than groceries!

I ate a couple slices from the restaurant, at the outside table, people-watching kids walking in costumes, hand-in-hand with their parents. I watched the road traffic pick up. Taxi drivers had continued working throughout the war, and now, everyone else was picking up movement between family members' houses. Locals were walking their dogs. One dog was leashed outside the next-door grocery store, with a pastel-colored Pop-it fidget toy hanging from his collar, peering inside the store at his owner.

I took the rest of the pizza pie home with me, just in time for another missile attack around 2 PM. The girls in the shelter (Michal’s daughter and her best friend from a nearby apartment) set up all their squishy fidget toys on the sleeping mat in the miklat, as if they had a toy store, pretending to sell the toys to the brother.

Israel is the only place in the world I've experienced culture shock, and it's because of the people. (Ironically, it's also because of the people that I feel so at home here.) Israelis have a survivalist mentality, as they are largely Jews and descendants of Jews who have been at war for their entire lives, let alone the generations before (wars and pogroms throughout Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East). Since the foundation of Israel, and especially in the last three years since October 7th, Israelis have only known a life of hardship. (Of course, there is plenty of goodness in life, but largely, there has been trauma.) What I'm learning personally through the experience of this particular war is how hard it is physically, as well as mentally. You lack sleep. You forget things. Memory recall hurts your head. You lose your filter. You don't want to mask your emotions. In the routine of running down to the bomb shelter, you have moments of lucidity that deranged, hate-filled people are targeting you personally, you -- a civilian population, just because they hate your people. It's a lot to carry and process.

And then, you sit in the bomb shelter, your neighbors smile and joke with you, and the kids set up a pretend toy store. And this is normal, and it is good. It is wild what becomes normal for us. It is amazing how we adapt.

DAY 6

Overnight Wednesday to Thursday was intense. There were constant alerts between 2 AM and 4 AM. Alex, always chipper, carried my bag for me and made sure everyone was inside the miklat before locking it shut. The booms rang overhead, particularly audible because everyone was sleepy, and in my case, sleepy-cranky, and quiet.

During the last alarm, I noticed a man I had never met before, to whose leg Omri was clinging tightly. His dad had returned.

Back to sleep and back up a few hours later. It was Thursday, the first day back to school -- online learning. As always, we were living in uncertainty. I'm in Israel on a Masa program. I'm an English teacher, yes, but on paper, I'm a volunteer. I'm the oldest of my program, at 36 years old. My roommate is the youngest, at 20. Being that there's a range of age and experience, and seeing as professional development is always a fantastic investment, Masa hosted a Zoom session about online teaching in order to provide us with some expectations and advice.

What was meant to be a 20-minute Zoom meeting turned into an 80-minute one, in part because of the content, and in part because of a missile interruption in the middle. Down into the miklat.

Alex shut the door when we were all inside. I once again thanked Omri and Ilanit for the delicious sweets they'd delivered to me.

"Guess what," Omri said. "What?"

"You're having lunch with us today."

So, after my other Zoom webinar about geopolitics that afternoon, I went downstairs for lunch. Ilanit, Omri, and his dad, Shlomi, had just finished preparing a homemade meal of mostly vegetables (knowing I'm vegetarian) and a side of protein for themselves. While they prepped the food and set the table, Omri showed me all his toys, which consisted of a huge collection of cars. On the console below the TV was an unopened box of an off-brand Lego car. It had arrived before Shlomi went into the reserves, and Omri had been waiting for him to return ever since so they could build it together.

Being a miluim (reserves) family is tough, and I could see that Ilanit was stressed from being the only parent while her husband is away. Thankfully, Shlomi had gotten a 24-hour leave to visit his family. He was the one who had cooked, and the relief on Ilanit's face was obvious, as was the relief in Omri's eyes. I could see how much he had missed his dad.

At one point during lunch, Shlomi had to leave for a short Zoom meeting. He bent down to explain to Omri that he had a meeting and that he would be back soon. Omri's eyes went large and his eyebrows furrowed at the idea of his dad leaving the table. While Ilanit made us coffee, I played with Omri and his RC car in the living room.

When Shlomi re-emerged from the room, he and Omri sat at the dining table and finally unboxed the "Lego" car set. We got into a conversation about the war, about how the air defense systems and the alerts work (the mathematics and polygons behind it), and the work he's done with his military unit in search and rescue in international emergencies, like the earthquake in Turkiye. He was humble in admitting that his unit is #1 in the world. As we spoke, Omri started getting visibly frustrated with constructing the toy set. Shlomi, an architect by trade, explained to me that Omri would often take shortcuts in construction. I was feeling guilty, as I don't think it was just the corner-cutting that was frustrating Omri. I had reached a point of overstaying my welcome. An alert interrupted our conversation, and when we exited from the miklat, I excused myself back to my own apartment, carrying a container of leftover food that they'd so kindly provided.

At home, I worked on my geopolitics blog post and navigated through the exhaustion and sleep deprivation. "This war is making me jet-lagged, and I haven't even traveled anywhere!"

DAY 7

It was a miracle. We were able to sleep uninterrupted through the whole night! Unfortunately, I still woke up a few times to phantom sounds -- imagined alerts and phone vibrations. But I managed to get enough sleep for one night, despite still feeling like I needed to catch up on sleep from the other night.

We had one alarm that morning. I shuffled down looking ruffled. In the miklat, I saw Shlomi was still here. He had gotten another 24-hour extension to stay home a little longer. Omri proudly showed me the "Lego" car they'd completed together and all the cool functions of it (the doors and trunk opened!). He held it as if he were holding a tangible representation of his father.

In the afternoon, I was craving some goodies I could only get from the supermarket about seven minutes' walk away.

Before I left, I got a message from my co-teacher, Ronit, that her husband's mother, who lives down the street, would be delivering a mishloach manot (Purim gift bag) to me, and that I should wait just outside my building. The gift was on behalf of the English department at school (which consists of four of us). Wow -- the gift was beautiful! It was a huge basket full of sweets, especially chocolates. Perhaps more dangerous than the missiles. I thought I might keep my figure during the war.

I put the basket away and then braved my way to the supermarket "far away." Friday morning is always a special time in Israel, as the stores all close in the afternoon, and everyone is preparing for Shabbat meals. On Fridays, I usually go to Tel Aviv. Usually, Jenny and I meet at Shuk (Market) HaCarmel for lunch and a photo walk. I really miss that routine. I really miss bus rides and the beach and just generally being able to get out of the box of my neighborhood.

The supermarket was packed, and perhaps that's how it usually is right before Shabbat. People were cramming their shopping carts chock-full, as if there would be a prize for emptying the store.

There were no alerts that afternoon, which meant I could enjoy the jaunt to the store, cook myself a nice lunch at home, and take a much-needed nap.

Upon waking up, my head felt much better, though prying myself out of bed was like taking a frying pan to each individual atom between my body and the bed. I lumbered to my computer, slumped onto the chair, and began working on the photos featured here in this piece. They're grainy photos from the low lighting in the miklat, but every photo tells a story. It was difficult to choose which photos would make the cut. But I know the impact needs to be strong. This is war, after all.

After a long day without missile attacks, I was afraid Iran had forgotten about us. Not after everything we've been through! But they love-bombed us again in the evening (three loves total). After the first attack, while exiting the miklat, my neighbor, Michal, beckoned to me from her apartment just upstairs on the 1st floor. (Yes, it's the British floor numbering system here.) I entered her apartment, and she invited me to stay for dinner -- Papa John's. It was perfect timing. I was tired, but I had been feeling off from being alone so much and inside all the time. And I figured she was in the same boat. Being a single mother with two kids during wartime can't be easy.

Michal is a tough and intense woman, very Israeli. Like many others here, even when she talks normally, she's loud and intense. She loves to bake and even put herself through baking school long ago, a famous baking school in Israel where chefs and military cooks all go to study. While we talked, her daughter made mini pies, filling them with a variety of flavored fillings that would later be topped with chocolate ganache.

There's a saying: One Jew, two opinions. Michal opened the conversation with talk about the war and politics. Israel is a complex place with a lot of nuance and difficulties. Every single person here carries trauma from their life experiences, especially from the past few years since the October 7th attacks. The people are tough (native Israelis are called "sabras," named for their prickly, tough exteriors and soft interiors), but mental health has greatly suffered, and I think people sometimes just need someone to talk to.

Amongst many other topics, Michal mainly explained how unfathomable it was to see Hamas inside Israel on October 7th. (For you Americans, it's a lot like the answering the question of "Where were you September 11th?") She told me her story of that morning, grabbing her kids and calling her family while running into her bomb shelter. She said something I've heard many Israelis say when talking about October 7th: "Something broke inside me." Ever since then, before she goes to bed, she looks outside to make sure there are no terrorists.

I'm starting to understand more what people mean when they say Israel is a tough place to live. I thought it was just the emotional toll and the grief, but no, people really do break, and additionally, they don't get a break.

Michal explained her worries for future generations. Her mom is a retired nurse who cut her teeth in the way that most Israeli nurses do -- through combat experience. She had trained during the Yom Kippur War in 1973. Now, the number of young people -- in their late teens, even -- who have lost limbs and became disabled is worrying, and Michal is concerned about the mental toll it'll take on the future. "Everyone has trauma," she said. "There has been no break for the past three years [since the war with Hamas]. There has been no rest." And this war isn't helping. People must be exhausted.

"People don't understand," she told me. But what she was saying with her eyes as she looked into mine was that people don't care or don't want to understand. "They don't understand us." They don't understand what a small country Israel is, or how much war, terror, and trauma there has been. They don't understand that Israelis want peace.

I peered into her daughter's room, all the pink and white, the canopy sweeping over the bed. The conversation eventually lightened as Michal told me about her dream to visit New York with her sister one day.

Israelis are very into American TV and movies (as it goes around the world). The most popular ones here are Friends and Seinfeld. But Michal loves Sex and the City and The Sopranos. She doesn't like Seinfeld. ("What does he want?? I don't get it!") It's too expensive for her to travel to the US right now, and with the wars, it's difficult to travel, but she's seen NY from every angle of American entertainment and can't wait to see it with her own eyes.

She also raved about all the American bits of the US, like Target and Costco. "They think of everything," she said. Israel is a young country that doesn't have all the conveniences of the US. Everyone is cooking and cleaning all the time, especially cooking, for Shabbat and the holidays. If you're American, imagine having multiple Thanksgivings a year, and doing a mini-Thanksgiving once a week. I remember vividly the year my mom decided enough was enough with the multi-day Thanksgiving food preparations, when we started buying pre-made food from Publix that you could just shove into the oven the morning of the holiday. Unfortunately, Israelis don't have that luxury. I'm exhausted just thinking about it!

After the third alarm of the night, I thanked Michal and her kids for inviting me over and for the first Papa John's pizza I've had in years. Alex picked up my bag and escorted me back to my apartment, placing my bag on the floor. It was finally time to wind down, process everything from this day, and head to bed. Tomorrow would be Day 8, one week since the war started. Awaiting me overnight were 17 phone alerts that I didn't yet know I would receive.

As Alex predicted, every day has had a story. The days blur together, and what once felt surreal, walking into a bomb shelter at any hour of the day, has become normal. And despite the fact that I'm entering the miklat because someone somewhere wants to kill me, I feel so loved. The amount of love and support I've received from family and friends around the world is meaningful beyond words. And the sense of community filling this building is warm and resonant.

If you have any questions, please feel free to leave them in the comments below or send me a message. Thank you!