from the moment the warning sirens go off, our motions are automatic.  If they are indeed warning signs, we have five whole minutes.  We slip into shoes, grab our bags and separate to the two bathrooms in our flat, then meet at the door for the speedy descent 2 floors to the shelter. 

On the way, I open the door to the building so passersby can join us, and totter the last 13 steps with increasing relief. 

I don’t care about what I’ve forgotten.  I’m focussed on escape.

And I’m grateful when I go back up the steps and I can try to go back to sleep, or have breakfast, or rewarm my lunch, or go back to my crossword.  Nothing else is possible for me – not reading, not writing, not cleaning.  I can do laundry, I can cook simple meals – especially those that can be cooked in a timed pot, like my rice cooker.

I could go on like this indefinitely, even with the insufficient sleep that is imposed on us by the rockets – last night at 11:30 and this morning around 4 for example.

But my life – like the lives of all Israelis, Lebanese, and Persians – have been reduced to minimal survival at best.

AT BEST