Reflections from the Bomb Shelter

The Bag in the Cupboard

Last Friday morning, we woke up in the reinforced room of our apartment (the “mamad”) with all three of our daughters by our side. We had scooped them up at 3 a.m. when the siren began to wail.

My five-year-old sat up, blinking in confusion.

“I thought I slept all night in my own bed,” she said. Her face fell. “Now I won’t get a sticker.”

My middle daughter asked why she wasn’t having her third birthday party. I promised her she would still get a purple Tinker Bell cake.

Each evening begins the same surreal routine, soundtracked by alerts on our phones:

Stay near shelter.
Iran has launched a barrage.
GET TO SHELTER NOW.
It’s over for now, but don’t go far.

We watch the news on mute and text our friends throughout the night, checking that this round of Iranian roulette didn’t land on their homes.

My oldest lies on a mattress on the floor, clutching her pink lion. My middle daughter sprawls across our bed, arms around her Dumbo. How much of this will they remember? I wonder. The baby sleeps in her bassinet, chest rising and falling, blissfully unaware.

I lie under the steel window shield with the white noise machine on full blast, hoping to keep the sound of the explosions at bay. Will they remember the weird night they still got a sticker, even though they woke up in our bed? Will they remember that their third birthday party got canceled?

When these thoughts began to spiral, I am comforted by the thought of the bag in the cupboard of the mamad. I packed it after October 7, when the threats began to pile on top of each other: Hamas, Hezbollah, the Houthis. And, always in the background, Iran. We didn’t know if we would be sent to the shelter for an hour, or a night, or a week—only that we had to be ready.

The cupboard door jams because the bag is so big—stuffed with supplies and memories. This war, like every war, pulls memories to the surface. Not just our own, but the ones we’ve inherited. Some are passed down like unwanted heirlooms. Others are sewn into our minds before we even understand what we’ve lived through.

Throwing tins of fruit and chocolate biscuits in the bag, I think of my grandmother. She grew up in London during the Blitz, sleeping in underground tube stations as bombs fell overhead. She used to tell me about the whistling of the Doodlebug just before it hit. Even into her nineties, living in Australia, she kept a laundry cupboard stocked for the next Blitz: tinned fruit and chocolate biscuits, just in case.

My husband adds to the bag a spare light and a battery-powered generator. He was five years old, in Israel, during the Gulf War. He remembers the gas masks, the sealed rooms, the rolled-up towels pressed under the door. He remembers his baby brother, too small for a mask, being placed inside a plastic box with holes punched for air. He remembers long hours of darkness when the power went out. He packs all of that into the bag.

I feel triumphant as we pack diapers, wipes and formula. In April 2024, during another Iranian attack, I sat in the mamad, preparing for an embryo transfer. We survived, and so did the embryo. In October, Iran attacked again. This time, I was pregnant, and could feel the baby kicking. Now, in June 2025, that baby is here, sleeping peacefully in a bassinet. Despite everything, we have brought new Jewish life into the world.

I don’t know if this war will last days, weeks, or months. But I do know this: there’s a bag in the cupboard, packed with reminders that we have been here before and have made it through. If my kids remember anything from these terrifying nights, I hope they remember this too.

Am Yisrael Chai.

This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.

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Rachel Caplin, originally from Australia, has called Israel home since 2015. Married to Eitan, she is the proud mother of three girls—Leora, Eliana, and Gabriella. A tech executive with a chronic writing habit, her debut novel The Spoon and the Sea was a finalist for the Vogel Literary Award and is set for release soon.