Dayton Daily News writer, currently in Israel, describes life between missile warning sirens

Later that night, I headed with other family members to the stunning Jerusalem Theatre, a cultural complex that brings together dance, music, movies, art galleries and more.

We were there for a sold-out “Candlelight Concert” featuring a string quartet playing classical adaptations of music by two popular rock bands: Coldplay and Imagine Dragons.

The steps leading up to the darkened concert hall were lined with candles and the entire stage was covered by flickering candles as well. So beautiful.

All is to say that since my arrival a week ago, life has felt normal in Jerusalem.

That all changed dramatically Saturday morning. I’d just finished getting dressed for Sabbath services when I heard pounding on the door of my brother’s apartment where I was staying.

“Aunt Meredith, it’s a siren and we need to go down to the bomb shelter right away.”

Although I’d been to this apartment complex often over the years, I had never been here during a missile attack and had never realized there was a bomb shelter for every four units in the building located on the way down to the garage. My nephew and his family, including their adorable dog, are in one of the other three units. (My niece and her family live in the same complex but are a few doors down and have a different safe room.)

I’d always been told that Jerusalem was less likely to be targeted than other areas of the country. But that’s obviously untrue this time. We’ve spent much of the last 24 hours in the shelter.

Here’s how it works: We first get a phone alert stating that we should be expecting a siren. Minutes later, the siren begins to wail throughout the city and we have one minute to get to safety.

Our shelter is a small room with thick cement walls and a heavy door — too heavy for me to manage. It’s got a rug on the floor, a number of plastic chairs, a bathroom and it’s stocked with water and games for the kids. At the moment, the inhabitants include a two-day-old baby with her parents, older brother and sister.

The atmosphere in the shelter isn’t at all what I’d expected. In the daytime, it’s a relaxed social setting with neighbors chatting, singing with the kids, offering home-baked treats and snacks, playing games. The stress and worry everyone is experiencing isn’t so evident; I’m sure that’s partly to shield the children and allay their fears. And partly a reflection of Israeli resilience.

It’s different at night. The young family with the new baby has brought mattresses and sleeps there all night so they won’t have to keep waking their kids every couple of hours. The rest of us head back up the stairs and try to sleep until we receive the next alert, then head down to the shelter in our pajamas. It’s dark and no one talks; the teens and adults are on their cellphones, checking the news and reassuring family and friends that they are OK.

The most surreal aspect of this whole experience is that when we’re not being sheltered, in many ways life goes on as usual.

For example, on Saturday afternoon my niece and her husband hosted a beautiful luncheon and birthday party they’d planned for their son who was turning 10.

In the middle of singing “Happy Birthday” (in both English and Hebrew) the siren sounded and we all headed to their bomb shelter. We waited ‘til we got the all-clear, headed back to their home, gathered around the table and finished serving and enjoying the birthday cake.

Another example: the kids here have all been eagerly anticipating Purim, the joyous Jewish holiday on which the biblical Book of Esther will be read this week. Like Halloween in America, everyone dresses in costumes and there are lots of parties, games, carnivals.

Prior to the holiday, there’s a half-day school celebration where there’s a costume contest, treat-trading and games. Sometimes the kids make hamantaschen, the traditional Purim cookie.

The last time I was in Israel on Purim, the streets were filled with costumed revelers. That’s unlikely to happen this week when everything but grocery stores and pharmacies are closed and everyone is asked to stay inside and close to a bomb shelter.

With schools closed and so many disappointed kids, the parents in our complex organized a last-minute impromptu Purim party in our courtyard. The children donned their costumes, there was lively music, a table of yummy goodies, make-shift games. Large plastic drink bottles were set up as pins for bowling. When the celebration was interrupted by a blaring siren, everyone headed to their shelters. When it was safe to come out, the party resumed.

The airport is closed and I have no idea when I will be able to fly home.

In 1966, when my husband and I were newlyweds, we spent a year living in Jerusalem. It turned out to be one of the highlights of our married life.

We had only one regret about that year. We had plane tickets to leave on the first of June in 1967 and though there was talk of an impending war, no one was sure that it would come to be.

We used our plane tickets, came back to America, but always felt guilty that we had abandoned the country we had come to love when it needed us most.

So as strange as it may sound, in some ways it seems meaningful for me to be here at this critical time, with family I love and a people and country that mean so much to me.

Meredith Moss is a Lifestyles writer for the Dayton Daily News. Her “Make a Difference” column publishes Thursdays and “On the Arts” publishes Sundays.