In a Fortified, Airtight Shelter, a Reporter Sits and Files a Story

This is probably the strangest war reporting I have ever done.

It is 3 a.m., and the alarm sirens have just gone off. I am sitting at my computer in my (hopefully) airtight room. But the difficulty is that I can hardly see the computer screen. Instead of my glasses, I am wearing my gas mask.

We awoke in Jerusalem, just as in the rest of the country, at 2:30 a.m. to the unpleasant sounds of the air raid siren, knowing immediately that war must be here. But so far, half an hour after my dreams have been interrupted, this is the only sign of war.

Until a few minutes ago, planes — friendly planes, I guess — roared over the Jerusalem skies, assuring us that the guardian angels are up there, taking care of us.

There is no panic. At most, disappointment. I went to sleep last night with the intention of having a good night’s sleep after a long day of work, quite confident that as far as Israel was concerned, war was over.

I brushed off my son’s speculation that an attack was imminent, that the Iraqis would not sit idle and let us get out of it unscathed.

And here it is: my conviction has proven wrong, and I find myself in the fortified airtight room, happy that it has not been too much trouble to put on the personal gas mask, which has been lying here for the put on the personal gas mask, which has been lying here for the past few weeks.

Indeed, it has proven easier than expected, and the next few minutes are devoted to retaping the window, double-checking everything is sealed.

If there has been an air raid, we in Jerusalem do not feel it. The radio plays music, and relaxed announcers assure us that some explanation is on the way.

An explanation soon comes: “Due to a missile attack on Israel, residents are expected to stay in closed rooms and put on their gas masks,” the announcer says.

CHILDREN TAKING IT MORE SERIOUSLY

Outside, the quiet continues. Here and there, a car can be heard passing. An ambulance has just passed by, sounding its horns, while all the while the assuring sounds of our planes are heard from above.

The children are taking it more seriously than we grown-ups. My daughter has thrown up in her gas mask, certainly a strong way of protesting the war. My 11-year-old son suddenly is suffering an unpleasant combination of head and stomach pain.

A half-hour later, it seems half over. The army announces on radio that gas masks can be taken off, so that as I reach this part of the report, my glasses are back in place. However, the instructions of the Air Defense are to remain in the sealed rooms.

A few minutes later, residents of the Tel Aviv and Haifa areas have been ordered to put on their masks once again.

So here it is. The war must be here, but so far, we here in Jerusalem don’t feel it. We just hear of it.

Now it is a matter of waiting. Nothing to do here beyond wait, and yearn to know what is happening there, a thousand kilometers to the east of us, where the real war is raging.