Sad to say, apparently the Houthis are not big fans of my writing. Either that, or they just really do not give a hoot (Houthi?) about my feelings.
Case in point, I have confessed multiple times that I am totally not a morning person. So I admit to being less than thrilled that said Yemeni terror group decided to launch a UAV attack at my neighborhood early this morning, triggering a siren (aka rude awakening) while I was deep into my much-needed beauty sleep.
Thankfully sirens remain a rarity in my neck of the woods, but this morning’s premature wakeup call brought back vivid memories of a far more protracted series of sirens that we endured just over a month ago, courtesy of our main nemesis, Iran.
The two images that I recall most starkly from that memorable night are: challah and cold storage. The challah association is fairly straightforward, and an experience I ostensibly shared with many other frum housewives on that unforgettable Tuesday night. Because that was no ordinary Tuesday night. It was Tuesday night erev Rosh Hashana, and a very rare three day yom tov in the Holy Land at that. Which means that I, and many thousands of other Jewish women like me, were elbow-deep in challah dough on that very busy evening.
While my dough was rising, I had what at the time seemed like a brilliant idea of multi-tasking by picking up a few last-minute food items at the nearby supermarket, and returning home in plenty of time to separate challah with a bracha, and form and bake the loaves for Shabbos and yom tov before heading to bed.
As you may have already surmised, that stroke of Einstein turned out to be a mistake of colossal proportions indeed. Instead of a quick jaunt to the local store for a handful of groceries, I ended up virtually imprisoned in the back of the supermarket for upwards of an hour or more, while the evil empire trained nearly two hundred ballistic missiles on the tiny strip of land that I call home. So much for my lightbulb moment shot at Mensa genius status!
In retrospect, I really should have been clued-in as soon as I entered the store. Despite the fact that it was erev a three-day yom tov, the store looked more like a regular Tuesday night than what should have logically been a typical Thursday night on steroids.
This phenomenon was no doubt due, at least in part, to the dire warnings on every newscast regarding an imminent retaliatory attack by Iran on Israeli soil. Admittedly, I too had heard those warnings throughout the day. However, I assumed that the attack was most likely to take place later at night, and foolishly expected my neighborhood to dodge the proverbial bullets, or in this case, missiles.
So there I was, blissfully finishing the process of selecting my purchases, mere minutes from heading to the register and then out the door, when the unmistakable wail of the siren shattered the quiet. That shrill summons was followed by a recording over the public address system urgently instructing all shoppers to quickly proceed to the “merchav mugan” (protected space aka mamad) at the rear of the store.
I left my groceries and hurried to the back, along with (shockingly organized) streams of fellow shoppers. Several times over the next hour, following a reasonable lull in siren and impact/interception activity, the impatient shoppers began to wend their way out of the bomb shelter and back into the store. But the missile barrage kept coming, and the homefront command orders were to remain sheltering in the safe space until the all-clear sounded.
So we hunkered down for the duration, about one hundred of us in total, mostly teenage girls, with a handful of youngsters sprinkled in, as well as some middle-aged shoppers and store employees.
Now is probably as good a time as any to mention my earlier reference to cold storage. Simply because, when it was not serving double duty as an oversized bomb shelter, that is precisely what this rear section of the supermarket was used for on a daily basis year-round. Picture scores of somewhat anxious (and increasingly impatient) supermarket patrons, standing packed together rather closely, with countless green plastic crates full of fresh produce, dairy products, and packaged poultry taking up virtually every available inch of space.
One benefit of this protracted war is that I now know dozens of chapters of Tehillim by heart, so I spent most of my forced “confinement” reciting Psalms for the safety of our soldiers, hostages, and for all of Klal Yisrael, ourselves included.
Long story short, the all clear was finally issued, and my husband belatedly arrived to rescue me and help me carry home my groceries. Needless to say, by the time I was mafrish challah, my dough had risen quite significantly, and my dream of an earlyish bedtime went up in smoke, along with the charred challah I had separated.
However, there were many positive associations to that memorable experience as well. Aside from the most obvious and miraculous one, that HaKadosh Baruch Hu had protected us and spared us from harm, there are likewise any number of minor images seared into my brain.
My favorite revolves around an adorable young boy and his even younger sister, whom I got to know “up close and personal” during our mutual stay in cold storage. The youngsters had been in a nearby shop, buying a machzor and new tzitzit and shirts for yom tov, when the siren blared. They were told to run into the supermarket’s safe room, and that is where I made their acquaintance.
Unlike 99% of the people in the room, who remained surprisingly calm throughout the ordeal, the little girl was somewhat traumatized and teary-eyed. I was beyond impressed by how incredibly sympathetic and supportive her older brother was. He maintained his equilibrium, and even his dimpled smile, joking that he was all set for yom tov with his purchases, and pointing at all the crated food we had available in our bomb shelter, enough for a three day yom tov for all of us! He even was kind and chivalrous enough to offer me one of his new shirts to wear if I got too cold!
Once again, even in the most dire circumstances, when confronted with the most evil and barbaric enemies imaginable, Hashem affords us magnificent glimpses of light and salvation, from our spectacular redemption from untold devastation to the delightful smile of a ten-year-old gentleman.
