On the night of March 10, sleep ceased to be restful for Merav. It became only a brief pause between one siren and the next. Five times that first night, she woke in alarm, roused her two daughters aged 8 and 11, and led them down six flights of stairs to the building’s bomb shelter.
There, beneath harsh fluorescent lights, a collection of drowsy neighbors, children wrapped in blankets with phones in hand, and restless dogs waited for the danger to pass before returning to their apartments—only to repeat the same process again and again.





