Victoria Braverman: The Storm before the Calm before the Storm
The vintage clothing shop across the street is gone.
Not just closed. Gone. Emptied out without ceremony. I didn’t notice it happening. It used to open unpredictably – once or twice a week – and when it did, I knew I could run down to the basement there if the sirens started. It was my informal shelter, courtesy of a stranger with a penchant for shoulder pads and faded denim. I met all sorts of random people down there, scurrying off the street, being shepherded down to wait for the booms, plus an additional 10 mins. That was back when rockets had become Rockets – with a capital R – but before they became Missiles.
Now the nice woman has vanished and the glass-fronted building is empty, with not even a For Rent sign on display. That feels like a metaphor, but I’m too tired to work out what for.
I’m living in a pigsty. Not the endearing kind of “creative chaos” people post about on social media. Just… evidence. That I haven’t had the energy, for weeks now, to do anything but feed myself (hastily), clothe myself (poorly), run for cover (constantly), and monitor the news (obsessively). There has not been much in the way of social interaction. Some people needed it. I needed the opposite.
I did go out to meet a friend for street food – sabich, and a good one too – on Thursday. It felt quite daring, sitting on the street, perched on high stools, at 9.30 pm, watching the world go by. Would we suddenly get a red alert, a siren, or even a missile with no alert? People passed by with a kind of jumpy grace. Tel Aviv, yet not quite. We saw small groups of people emerging, as we had, taking a stroll – maybe off to check out the damage they’d only seen on news reports. We saw a beautiful young dad holding his beautiful baby, clearly anxious to get home, trying to stop his dog from sniffing every unfamiliar smell.
Then three young men ordered food. They were lovely. Relaxed, cheerful, probably on their way from one party to another, grabbing the opportunity while they could. One of them overheard us speaking in English and asked, “Where are you ladies from?”
American accent, big smile. My friend replied, “Here! A long time. But I’m originally from America.”
And then, randomly, “Are you a medical student?”
He blinked, as confused as I was. “No… why? Do I look like a doctor?”
I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. It was such a weird question. My friend explained, earnestly, that he reminded her of someone she used to know – an American medical student here in Tel Aviv. The logic was bulletproof. To her. I was still giggling long after he left. And that felt good.
Today I found the energy to make a FaceTime call to someone who cares. In London. Where, aside from the extended heatwave they’re having, things seemed pretty normal. Wimbledon, strawberry season…
And then a very loud motorbike sped past her window. The noise broke through her voice in my AirPods and made me jump. Run-for-cover jump.
I ended the call, finding I could no longer focus on what she was saying, grabbed a cold drink, and took a few deep breaths.
I don’t remember what I did after that. Maybe some washing up, maybe I had another short sleep – I’m up to around two and a half hours now, which is an improvement.
I do know that I had decided to go out, because as I was changing my clothes, I received a WhatsApp message from another concerned person, also from the UK:
“I hear there’s a massive attack happening now. Are you OK?”
I ran to my computer, turned on the news, and searched my phone for any news alerts. There was plenty of news, none of it great, but nothing about missiles. I sent her message:
“Where did you hear that?!! When?!!”
A few minutes later, I got her reply. It was a mistake. She was mortified. She had just read a post from someone – a diary description from a couple of weeks ago – and assumed it was new.
And that was me. Done for the day.
Still living with broken windows. Unsure why I’m even trying to find someone to fix them. Who knows when they’ll break again?
