Sleepless in the "Safe Room" – A Menacing Missile Story
- 2 days ago
- 4 min read
By Stan Fischler / North Golan Heights, Israel
It's about a ten-step walk from the kitchen to the Safe Room, but sometimes it feels like a mile.
The sirens that blare around our little kibbutz in the North Golan Heights have become dissonant music to our ears–three year’s worth so far. Who knows how much longer?
For the elderly in Israeli cities, the run to the nearest shelter can be a life and death sprint because the odds are not kind to arthritis, especially for elders.
I did my basic training in the protection business a dozen years ago when the enemy du jour was then-dictator Assad, who ran Syria like a miserable two-bit Mussolini. A handful of parents were having a coffee klatch on a sunny afternoon when a pair of unpleasant sounds almost simultaneously disturbed the peace.
The first–by five seconds–was not the “Habanera” from “Carmen” but more like the screech of the Brighton local as its wheels ground around the 90-degree curve at the Stillwell Avenue terminal. In a trice, all hands at the coffee table orbited in the direction of the nearest home, notably not a shelter, just a plain clapboard house.
In a startling moment such as that, somebody has to be first and, alas, Fischler had to be last; so last in fact that the follow-up emission from above was one that became news to me–yeeeeee–and then an explosion directly at the kibbutz entrance and without a written invitation.
Since there were no air raid sirens in those early war days six years ago, I never made it to the (alleged) sanctity of the hallway where all other kibbutzim were huddled. No matter, the explosion did no harm since no one was at the main entrance. Nor was I harmed in any way.
But I did learn from the experience: the shell had come from Syria, supposedly by accident. That said, we learned to be extra careful of death via the sky. But neither my younger son Simon nor I could be careful in the next adventure-by-shell.
This time we were on a late afternoon stroll around our community's perimeter. Two BOOMS left no doubt. "That's not us," said Simon. Dissatisfied by his reply, I shot back: "So now what do we do?"
He didn't have to answer. The forest from which the blasts came turned quiet and we finished our walk unharmed. But as we soon learned, this was just the start of something big and three years later the war is more intense than ever.
With that in mind, we learned that there were a few rudimentary things to remember:
1. THE SANCTUARY: Our home has a Safe Room that has extra protection and is a good "cave" within the house where we should be.
2. THE ALARMS: Israel has a warning alarm which everyone can get on his or her phone. If the enemy munition is directly heading our way, the kibbutz siren lets us know without hesitation to get the hell into the cave, presto pronto.
3. INSIDE THE ROOM: Mattresses and pillows adorn the room; one that holds five "duckers" with reasonable comfort. Room for napping, sardine-style. The all-clear usually comes in from 10 minutes to an hour -- and then a return to normal duty.
Our modus operandi has changed little over the years. Our fears alternate like our electric outlets which change with the fortunes of war.
Exhibit A: After a few weeks, I moved my personal annex (sleep space) to the cave. Ergo: The Safe Room overnight became my bedroom.
Partially because I'm partially deaf and partially because the cave is hermetically sealed, I never can hear the siren. But once the family piles into the cave, that's the signal that something is up -- and unfortunately -- is coming down.
Throughout this whole ugly mess, our morale has maintained what my U.S. Navy Seabee Uncle Joe called "revolutionary decorum." Ever since Uncle Joe blurted out that line -- while annoyingly pinching my cheeks -- it somehow has stuck in my head.
The other thing that has remained in my cranium is a song from the poignant musical, "Oh! What A Lovely War."
It was ironic when I heard it on stage in London (September 1963) and it fits now like two perfectly meshed gears as the (grrrrrr) warning signal broke our silence with another wah, wah warning alert.
The song lyric was -- and is, 63 years later:
“When this lousy war is over.…Oh, how happy I will be!"
Stanley I. Fischler (born March 31, 1932) is an American historian of hockey and the New York City subway, as well as a broadcaster, author of over 100 books, and professor. As a broadcaster with MSG, Fischler has won seven Emmy Awards (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stan_Fischler)