Those who know Israeli war protocol know that when the siren sounds in Tel Aviv, you have 90 seconds to get to shelter. But my mum wasn’t well versed
Heart pounding, I ran to the humble hotel where my mum was staying. I opened her door to find her sitting in a nightgown, looking confused. Those who know Israeli war protocol know that when the siren sounds in Tel Aviv, you have 90 seconds to get to shelter. But my mum wasn’t well versed. I barked orders at her in an attempt to get her moving. “GET UP!” I said. “GET A DRESSING GOWN! WE NEED TO GO UNDERGROUND, NOW!”
I dragged her to the car park opposite. Despite a bad knee, she hobbled down two flights of stairs to level 2, where a black plastic chair was found for her to sit on. For the rest of the day, we sheltered with my friend Jessie, hundreds of locals and dozens of dogs, listening to sirens and occasional missile interceptions on a loop. Luckily, my mum couldn’t hear well enough to notice the explosions. And when I examined her face for traces of fear, all I saw was frustration. Somehow, as she’d promised, she really wasn’t scared. Yet despite her calm demeanour, I worried about what the extra stress would do to her blood pressure and cardiovascular system. This wasn’t a one-day event – it was ongoing, with no differentiation between day and night. Sirens could sound at any time and you had to be ready to run. Her vacation had become a war-cation yet with all flights cancelled – there was no way out.
On Day Two we moved, as per the holiday itinerary, to the Fabric Hotel on Nachalat Binyamin. The chic hotel had an excellent basement shelter (“miklat”) and a safe room (“mamad”) on her floor. It should have been enough, but I quickly realised I couldn’t leave my mum alone, so I moved in too. Having not shared a room in decades, we slept alongside each other for the next two and a half weeks. Despite the situation, Mum fell asleep easily every night at 9pm, clinging to the duvet with surprising force, while I lay awake for hours, WhatsApping El Al and trying every trick I knew to get my mum a rescue flight back to the UK.
A week passed. Mum’s exhaustion escalated. The Fabric Hotel closed due to a lack of customers. They moved us to sister property The Backstage Hotel – it too had an excellent shelter, but a few days later, it also closed. Meanwhile, my mum was running out of prescription medication. Missiles were hitting Tel Aviv. Would she have to go on an overland adventure to Borehamwood via Taba, a border crossing in Egypt?
I was edging towards despair when El Al updated me that a flight had been found. Yet a few hours before take-off, this one – like so many others – was cancelled for “operational reasons”. She was re-allocated a flight in a week's time. I expected my mum to crumble at this news but she didn’t, and we managed to make the best of our bonus week. In between sirens and laundry loads we drank Thai soup in the shuk. We sat in the park next to public shelters with my friends’ kids. We had Shabbat dinner with friends in Jaffa.
Carol with a cappuccino at Carmel Market, in Tel Aviv, during a break from the sirens[Missing Credit]
Carol with Natalie's friend's daughter Miri, five, having Shabbat lunch next to a bomb shelter in Gan Meir Park, Tel Aviv[Missing Credit]
And we talked more deeply than we ever would have on a normal short visit. When I got upset after seeing an ex-boyfriend with his new girlfriend in a bomb shelter, my mum was there to comfort me (where could she go to get away from me, really?). I realised that having her with me, while stressful, had also insulated me from the loneliness and terror of war.
When the day finally came for her to fly home, it felt like my whole neighbourhood was cheering her on. A pre-dawn siren sent us into the shelter with her suitcases, where people lined up to shake her hand or hug her to say goodbye.
We travelled in darkness to Ben Gurion Airport (the scariest taxi ride of my life) and navigated our way through chaos at check-in. We were both too tired to have a tearful goodbye, so I handed her over to an airport aide at security, went back home – and then cried. Mum was safe. She said she would sleep for 48 hours when she got home. During that time, missiles continued to fly towards Tel Aviv. And all anyone would talk to me about was my mum. “How is Carol?” my neighbours asked. “Does she miss us? Will she ever return?”
Today I asked her if she regretted coming. She said no. “It could have been a lot worse,” she said. “All the people I met were lovely – very friendly and helpful, and from different parts of the world.
"I love Israel and I shall be back to continue my adventure – hopefully in quieter times.”
