Pride Eve / The Iran Alert

 

Allenby Street was already humming the kind of pre–Gay Pride parade buzz you could feel on the pavement.

 

Rainbow flags hanging from balconies, catching the last of the light. Drag queens in full sequined dresses with rehearsal makeup leaned against kiosks, smoking and gossiping with shopkeepers who pretended not to stare.

 

The air was thick with June heat, exhaust, and the bass from a bar two doors down playing Ofra. Tomorrow was the parade.
Even with the Hamas war still happening in the background, Tel Aviv was getting ready for glitter.

 

It was late. I was digging through my bag for my bike key, fingers, grazing receipts, a portable charger, loose pens, a pack of gum that might have expired last year.

 

Across the street, a man balanced a tray of Aperol spritzes like it was a sport. Then it happened.
Every phone went off at once.

 

Not the siren app’s polite ping. Not the Home Front Command’s usual orange banner. This was harsher. Metallic. Something that grabbed the back of your neck.

 

The kind of alert that doesn’t just take over your screen, it takes over your body. Israel has struck Iran. Prepare for incoming.
Conversations stopped mid-word. The guy with the spritzes froze on the crosswalk.

 

Glitter hung in midair. One drag queen had just shaken out a boa, and it hovered there like the city had paused to admire it.
And then, from a balcony two floors up, the music came in as if nothing had changed. It’s raining men! Hallelujah! It’s raining men, amen!
The bassline thumped against the side of the building.

 

Somewhere, a man laughed too loudly. Someone else checked the sky above. I realized I was still holding my bike key, tapping it against my thigh in time with the beat. We were already in a war.

 

Turns out there was room for another one.
I went to bed with the bassline still lodged in my chest.

 

Cycle 1

The morning after Pride Eve was too quiet for Tel Aviv in June. No parade, no glitter on the sidewalks, just pale sunlight spilling between the blinds. The street below felt emptied, like it had already been evacuated while I slept.

 

I dropped bread into the toaster and leaned on the counter. Somewhere between the click of the lever and the hum of the coils heating, I caught myself humming.

 

It’s raining men! Hallelujah!

 

It wasn’t coming from anywhere. No balcony speakers, no party leftovers, just lodged behind my eyes from last night. I could almost feel the bassline in my ribs, almost see the drag queen’s boa hanging midair before the alert froze us all in place.

 

The toaster popped. The bread was barely warm when the siren cut in, swallowing the chorus in my head.
I grabbed the leash and the dog, the go-bag from beside the door: passports, phone charger, computer, radio, three protein bars, water, random medicine, toilet paper, Bamba, a hairbrush, because apparently my sense of vanity was stronger than my sense of survival.
I left the toast on the counter.

 

Down the stairs two at a time, sandals slapping concrete, my dog close behind. The shelter door was already propped open with a brick. Heavy air pressed into the stairwell.

 

Same faces every time there’s trouble:

The old man in his permanent seat by the back wall, leaning on a cane like it was part of his skeleton.

A woman with a faded gym bag, a silk kaftan scarf draped over it like she’d come from a party she hadn’t been invited to.

Two kids racing loops between the benches, sneakers squeaking.

Parents pretending to scroll their phones but really tracking the kids’ orbit. A younger guy in shorts tapping his phone like this was just another morning commute. The door clanged shut behind me.

Above us, the first thud hit deep, resonant. A sound you didn’t just hear but felt in your chest. The concrete walls shivered. Dust drifted in the light from the emergency exit sign.

 

No one spoke. The parents watched their kids. The old man tapped his cane against the floor, keeping time with something only he could hear.

 

After the all-clear, we filed out slowly, each person peeling off toward their staircase.

By lunch I’d convinced myself there wouldn’t be another. I chopped tomatoes, reached for the olive oil…..
The metallic tone burst through my phone again.

 

Ten minutes to get to the shelter.

I ate quickly and headed down.

Same people. Same seats.

The kids’ sneakers had picked up a smear of dirt but they kept running. Another thud, closer this time. The lights flickered once, then steadied.

 

An hour later we were out again.

 

I fed the dog, clipped his leash, and walked no more than three blocks, mapping every doorway that might hide a shelter. On the corner, the stray cat was where it always was, stretched on the hood of a parked car, tail twitching like it had all the time in the world.
Back home, I showered. Hot water drummed against my neck.

 

I had just worked shampoo into my hair when the siren blared again.

Ten minutes.

Water off. Towel on. Down the stairs.

No one looked surprised to see me dripping. The guy in shorts smirked and went back to his phone. The silk kaftan woman rubbed her feet. The kids were still running, now using the old man’s cane as a finish line.

 

All-clear.

Upstairs again. I rinsed my hair, made tea.

I hadn’t finished the first sip before I realized I was humming under my breath. It’s raining men! Hallelujah!

 

Cycle 2

 

The morning after Pride Eve was quiet again. Too quiet for Tel Aviv in June.

The blinds filtered the same washed-out light. The street below sat still, emptied like it had already been evacuated while I slept.

Bread into the toaster. Lean on the counter.

 

Between the click of the lever and the hum of the coils, it came again. It’s raining men! Hallelujah!

 

Same pitch. Same rhythm.

Like my brain had been paused overnight and someone hit play.

I listened for a difference.

There wasn’t one.

The toaster popped. Barely warm bread.

The siren cut in at the exact same point in the chorus, swallowing hallelujah whole. Leash. Dog. Go-bag. Same absurd inventory as yesterday, down to the hairbrush. Down the stairs.

Same brick holding the door open.

Same faces.

The old man’s cane in the exact same position.

The silk kaftan scarf without a single thread out of place.

The kids running the same loop, sneakers squeaking at the same spots. Parents scrolling, eyes flicking up in the same rhythm.

The thud above landed on cue.

Dust drifted exactly as before.

The old man’s cane tapped the floor in perfect time.

 

All-clear.

 

Everyone peeled off in the same order.

Lunch: tomatoes again, this time in quarters.

The siren mid-prep.

Back downstairs.

Same seats. Same two thuds. Even the flicker in the lights happened on schedule. Dog walk: same cat, same hood, same single tail flick.

Shower: didn’t bother pretending to finish.

The siren right on time.

Downstairs, hair still wet. Same smirk from the guy in shorts. The silk kaftan scarf woman rubbing her feet. The kids sprinting with the cane.

 

All-clear.

Upstairs. Tea.

The song again, same part, like it had never stopped.

 

It’s raining men! Hallelujah!

 

It was starting to feel less like a memory
and more like a recording
I couldn’t turn off.

 

Cycle 3

 

The morning after Pride Eve was too quiet for Tel Aviv in June.

The thought arrived before I opened my eyes.

Same weak light leaking through the blinds. Same street below….empty, except for the sound of… nothing.

 

No toast this time. The bread sat in its bag like a prop.

Coffee in hand, I waited for the hum of the toaster that never came.

 

Then….
“It’s raining…”

 

A pause. The kind you lean into without meaning to.
Then slower. Heavier.
“…bombs…”

 

Muffled and warped, like it was echoing through a rusted pipe. Maybe a bad remix. Maybe the original played through too many cheap speakers. Behind it, faint thunderclaps,the kind from children’s soundtracks.

I stood still, coffee in hand, waiting for the siren.

It came on cue.

This time it didn’t interrupt the song. It folded into it.

Go-bag again. Same contents, but the water was warm and the protein bars squashed. Down the stairs.

Same brick at the door.

The shelter felt smaller.

The old man began a story, then stopped mid-sentence, staring ahead like the next line had vanished.

The silk scarf sagging . A few threads out of place.

The kids still ran, but slower. Sneakers dragging.

They didn’t take the cane.

One sharp boom. No echo.

Dust fell and settled too quickly, like it was tired.

Lunch: tomatoes again, collapsing under the knife. The siren arrived exactly on time, as if it had been waiting outside the window.

Dog walk: the cat was gone. The hood bare. The street longer without it.

Shower: no shampoo this time. The siren still came.

In the shelter, the guy in shorts wasn’t smirking. The woman rubbed her feet without looking up. The kids sat against the wall, knees pulled in.
The all-clear was quieter.

Upstairs, I made tea.

I didn’t hum.

The song came anyway, curling at the edges of my hearing.

“It’s raining bombs… hallelujah.”

 

And for the first time,
it didn’t sound like a song at all.

 

Break from Loop – Uneasy Freedom

 

The next morning, the song didn’t come.No bassline in my ribs. No phantom chorus mixed with the smell of coffee. Just the scrape of a chair from the neighbor upstairs and a pigeon pacing my windowsill.

I waited for the siren anyway.

The go-bag stayed by the door; my hand brushed the strap every time I passed it. Nothing.

By mid-afternoon, I clipped the dog’s leash and walked farther than I had in weeks, past my “safe” radius, past the corner with the bare car hood.

No cat this time.

My legs felt heavier with each block, like I was carrying the shelter with me.

Kerem Teimanim was almost too bright in the late sun. At Allenby, the air thickened, carrying the smell of something burned long ago but not gone.

The café was rubble now. Tables reduced to splintered wood and twisted metal. Glass swept to the edges of the street.
People moved carefully around the wreckage, speaking in low voices.

A child climbed a mound of brick like it was a jungle gym, holding up a bent spoon in triumph. Another dug through plaster and pulled out a fidget spinner, pocketing it like treasure.I stood at the edge, the dog beside me, watching how quickly ruins became part of the neighborhood.

 

Apparently, the trick to surviving here is to keep living. Even when every day feels the same.

 

Even when you’re not sure the loop has really ended.