After watching from afar for years as Sderot and other Israeli communities bordering Gaza were bombarded non-stop by rockets and mortars, I always knew it was only a matter of time before more and more Israeli towns and cities came within range.

So as I sat in my office in Beersheva in the first days of Operation Cast Lead, I wasn’t particularly surprised to hear the air-raid siren begin wailing for the first time, followed by the sound of my coworkers rushing to the shelter downstairs.

But “rushing” might be the wrong word.  It was more like a focused meander … not unlike the fire drills we used to have back in high school.  Everyone knew where to go, but there wasn’t the urgency that comes with a real emergency.

Once we were all in the bomb shelter there was a lot of joking around and false bravado.  People were talking overly loud and those who had thought to grab their cell pones on the way out of their offices were busily chatting with family members:

Yes, I hear it too. … We’re all in the shelter. … I’m sure it’s just a test of the system, but best to be sure.

But after we’d been in the shelter for perhaps 30 seconds, there was a muffled boom from somewhere in the distance, and the ground shook slightly.  I didn’t think it was possible, but the volume of chatter in the shelter doubled with everyone suddenly screaming in unison: “Did you hear that?”

After another 15 seconds had passed, the siren trailed off and people began trickling out of the shelter.  Those with cell phones began calling home and those without dashed for their offices to check in with family. 

This routine has been repeated several times per day for the past two weeks — and continues even after the so-called “ceasefire.”

But the joking and false bravado of that first trip to the shelter is now mostly absent.  Now when the siren goes off we go to the shelter and stand or sit in the concrete room doing the silent math in our heads and staring at our watches. 

Unlike Sderot, which has barely 15 seconds from the sirens going off to the impact of the rocket(s), Beer Sheva residents have between 45 and 60 seconds to reach shelter; a leisurely timeframe by comparison. 

Or so I thought at first.

Without realizing it, I found myself leaving my office less and less between sirens. Where once I used to welcome the opportunity to walk across our office campus to speak with a colleague, I now found myself using the phone and email.  And where at least once or twice per week I used to go out to run errands or do some quick shopping at the local mall, I found that I didn’t want to risk being in an unfamiliar area where a shelter might not be accessible. 

I wasn’t alone in these thoughts.  Most of my coworkers began eating lunch at their desks or in conference rooms, and I noticed that everyone who arrived or left in a car had the windows at least partly opened so as not to risk missing hearing the air raid siren. 

And when the siren did go off, people went to the shelters and stood looking at the sweep second hand on their watches … picturing the Grad rocket roaring through sky towards us.  Only the explosion of the rocket’s impact could break the spell, and on the occasions when the missile fell too far away to hear, there was a missing “release” (for lack of a better word) that left everyone feeling even more on edge than the wail of the siren.

By the end of the second week of Beersheva’s inclusion in Hamas’ rocket range, a bit of the joking had returned to the shelters, but only because the rockets had been falling (miraculously) in open areas in and around the city and doing a minimum of damage.

Then this past Thursday as we were leaving the office and getting into our cars, the sirens sprang to life all over Beersheva. I was parked next to the building so I went back inside towards the shelter. But I was amused to see some of the people parked further across the parking lot pulling blankets out of their cars, spreading them carefully on the ground, and then assuming the Homefront Command’s mandated face-down position with their hands over their heads.

As I reached the shelter I thought to myself: “This must be ‘Sderot Lite.’ People have actually started keeping blankets in their cars so they won’t have to dirty their clothing when lying face down on the pavement.”

As if punctuating my thoughts, there was a distant boom from somewhere across town.  We were just about to leave the shelter when an enormous BANG! went off near our facility.  Apparently a volley of two or three rockets had been fired at once. 

After a few more seconds the air raid sirens trailed off, but were replaced within a minute by the scream of police and ambulance sirens.  We later learned that a woman and her seven-year-old child had exited their car and been prone on the ground when the rocket hit right next to them.  They were showered with ball bearings that had been packed into the rocket’s explosive head, and both were badly wounded (the little boy critically).

As I drove home (with my window open, of course), I thought about how today the people of Beer Sheva are coming to terms with the “matzav” (situation).  Next month it might be Tel Aviv or Jerusalem (actually, each has had their turn in the line of fire during the second Intifada).  

But up until now, none of us could really know what it has been like for the people of Sderot.  Our lives have been essentially normal, punctuated by brief periods of abnormality, while Sderot and the other communities bordering Gaza have been enduring a reality that is just the opposite. They have been doing so for years.

So yes, what we are experiencing now is dangerous, albeit a “Sderot Lite.” And yes, it may have the unintended affect of allowing us to look the people of Sderot in the face without embarrassment.  But the real result I feel has come from this latest chapter in the ongoing conflict is that it isn’t one or two border towns being bombed.   Rather, it has finally hit home that an attack on one community — or two or six — means the entire country is under attack.  

At long last, we all live in Sderot.