When you live in the Middle East, there’s always a part of you that understands you’re hanging out in a ‘rough neighbourhood’. After the easy living of San Francisco, hipster vibes of Berlin, nightly strolls in Rome, museum hopping in Manhattan and architectural delights of London, many people ask me why I ended up putting down roots in Tel Aviv? The answer: there’s something about this city (and country) that just got under my skin.
That doesn’t mean to say living here is easy. Actually, it’s anything but - and that’s on a good day. Israel is Levantine - no-one is on time, bureaucracy is hellish, everyone answers back, drivers on the road have no manners - and that’s before you factor in the ‘matsav.’ Yep, the conflict that surrounds us or, as we say in Hebrew’ the situation.’ It’s always there, hovering in the background, as much as you try and block it out in the bubble that is Tel Aviv (and I go through phases where I do purposely block it out, because otherwise I wouldn't get out of bed in the morning). But sometimes you simply can’t. Particularly when you;’re being bombarded with rockets.
Photo courtesy of Amir Cohen/Reuters
I don’t want to get into the ins and outs of the Israeli-Palestinian situation in this post - I have my opinions but they aren’t for now. But what I will say is that when Israel goes to war with its neighbours (in the Second Intifada in 2000, the Second Lebanon War in 2008, the Gaza war in 2014 and the latest round of hostilities with Hamas) I end up losing just a little bit more of my sanity. Round-the-clock news I try to avoid, because it gives me anxiety attacks. Conversations at dinner with friends about what’s going to happen next I zone out. But rockets being fired from Gaza in the direction of Tel Aviv - that’s not something I can pretend isn’t happening..
Since last week, like much of the country, I haven’t slept much. When the sirens sound (or wail) I know it’s ‘Code Red’ time. I have precisely 90 seconds (one and a half minutes) to take cover and, since I’m working from home (and avoiding open street spaces at night) that means getting to my stairwell. Like thousands of others in my city, I live in a building which has no sealed (bomb proof) room, nor a functional shelter in the basement. Yes, it beggars belief. Ours is filthy, mouldy and full of furniture that people have discarded in the last 15 years. It’s a veritable dumping ground and, frankly, I think I’d end up with a respiratory illness if I spent more than 10 minutes in there. So, along with all my neighbours, I’m left with the stairwell.
When the app sounds on my phone (setting off another wail, in case I sleep through the city siren) at 3am, the routine is now predicable: I throw on the nearest clothing I have to hand, grab my phone and, without even looking for my keys, run out into the hall. I hear other doors slamming, then see the familiar faces of my neighbours.
I‘ve known most of them for a few years already but, in the last week, I feel I’ve really got to know them.
I know that one loves cotton pjs with little red hearts. Another sleeps in an American Eagle t-shirt and leggings. The cute guy down the hall prefers boxer shorts (he’s got a killer body, by the way). Occasionally, if someone’s run out of the shower, I’ll see them with nothing but a towel wrapped around them. My upstairs neighbour is fond of her blue duvet, which is the ultimate ‘comfort blanket’.
As for me, it’s a toss up between the dishevelled look and a long, rather elegant looking black dress which I purchased a while back in England and which, for some reason, has now become my go-to item of clothing for the stairwell.
As I sit there, on the stairs, waiting for the ‘booms’ which signal that Israel’s Iron Dome has intercepted the incoming rockets, I wonder if I should invest in something a bit more snazzy - perhaps a Calvin Klein t-shirt and shorts, or even silk pyjamas.? After all, should I really let my standards drop in the midst of rocket-fire? My grandmother’s words echo in my head: “Always try to look your best.” I make a mental note to call my hairdresser for a cut and colour tomorrow, as well as pick up some body moisturiser . The grey of my roots is showing through and my skin is dry. I could live with all this in Corona times but now I’m having to socialise again, albeit in a stairwell, I really need to make more of an effort.
I sit there with my neighbours, chatting, sighing, exchanging looks. After a while, we lapse into silence. On our faces are all kinds of emotions - sadness, confusion, exhaustion, fury. We don’t want to live through this any more than the civilians in Gaza. We want to return to our friends, our coffee shops, our beds. This is a misery for us all and it can’t end a moment too soon.
I look down and to my horror I realise that my elegant black dress has been put on inside out.
I really need some sleep…
I turn to my neighbour, wearily.
“Any room under the duvet?”