The mamad — the privileged, the bourgeois: in their house, they have a room called a mamad, built of cement, protection within reach, within a few steps.

Children sleep undisturbed in this room; parents only stumble in when there are sirens. No need for makeup, a bra, or anything beyond the tattered Mickey Mouse pajamas you’ve had since ninth grade, its only the close family resting at the mamad. It’s easy to spot those with a mamad roaming in our midst; we recognize them by their cheeks, rosy and flushed with sleep, their calm demeanor, the coherence of their speech. They are the most envied — and hated — people in the country.

A building miklat — for those with subterranean protection, one level below the ground.

Bras are a must, makeup optional and the Mickey Mouse pyjamas are hidden underneath a black oversized coat — thank God it’s still winter. In the morning, coffee in hand; in the afternoon, Bamba; in the evening, alcohol; during the night, just your phone. The same set of people, those you now see more frequently than your own parents. The nervous neighbour who has every type of siren from five different apps; the nice middle-aged lady who reads out loud the news from her phone as if we don’t have our own; the bored left-wing teenager who gets the bombing reels from Telegram; the sleepy couples who always (always) leave before it is allowed; the small children with their Nintendo Switch.

There is always a headcount, a knowing smile at the end — the silent understanding that you will see them again and again and again in this space.

The public miklat — which in some cases is far worse than being hit by the missiles.

Young people, unaware that death is an option, laugh too loudly, strutting through the space to mingle; junkies lean against the walls with their eyes closed; old people with dogs, young people with dogs. There is constant chatter. Claustrophobia. No one belongs here. It is a mix of people who live close by, people who were passing by, and people who were stuck with nowhere else to go. It’s dirty. The air is thick, unmoving. The gravity of the situation is marred by people here who treat the siren as an opportunity for a lame pickup line.

There is no headcount, no knowing smile, no one to notice who is missing. It is demographic chaos.

And then some idiot thinks it’s a good idea to start playing the guitar in this space, and like a wave, everyone hums along — and you find yourself joining, nodding at the junkie, laughing with the young woman in the revealing Mickey Mouse nightie, thinking this can only happen here, in this crazy land, in a public miklat with dog poo — or what you hope is dog poo — smeared on the wall.

And then you remember a news headline you read this week — a UN study: Israelis are ranked eighth in the world in happiness.

And as we count together the thudding booms of the missiles outside, you understand why.