At some point in the last fifty years, ‘Profession’ stopped being one of the items of personal information that appears on a British passport. This is a shame, because I have always secretly wanted to have my profession listed, on my British passport, as ‘War correspondent’, and, in this week’s post, and almost certainly for one week only, I am adopting ‘war correspondent’ as my profession.

I have, undeniably, left this career move rather late. I’m not sure just how cut out I am these days for weaving my way across a live minefield, dodging sniper fire, and I no longer have much of an idea what I would be supposed to fill the multiple pockets of a fisherman’s flak jacket with. (I suspect these days it would be heart tablets and foot cream, one or two really useful lengths of string and yesterday’s unfinished crossword.)

Nevertheless, for what it’s worth, and in a considerably jauntier style than the last few days’ events would appear to call for, here’s my dispatch from the front.

Israel’s air force, in coordination with Mossad operatives on the ground, struck multiple strategic sites and carried out multiple assassination strikes on key personnel in Iran in the early hours of last Friday morning (which, as I write on Monday, is staggeringly less than four days ago, but seems like a previous existence). Literally overnight, the balance and nature of the war that Israel has been waging since 7 October changed. Instead of heart-rending stories, almost every day, of our youngest and finest falling in the service of their country, we now have equally heart-rending stories every day of civilians, men, women, the elderly, children, being killed in ballistic missile attacks in the heart of our civilian centres. We have, over the last couple of days, heard almost no news from the Gaza front; the news focus has been on Iran, 1500 or more kilometres away, and on our major cities, under fire.

Historically, the home front has been on the frontline in ‘peacetime’, with terrorist attacks carried out within Israel. In wartime, however, the front has almost always been beyond Israel’s borders. The burden on the home front has, even in the 20 months since October 7, been almost exclusively emotional and economic, being measured in the number of weeks families have been without their reservist spouses, parents and children and the effect of those absences on the workplace and the study hall. It is the reservists and the other serving troops who have faced the enemy on the battlefield.

Suddenly, in the last four days, the bulk of the military activity has been conducted by fighter pilots who appear to have total domination of the skies above Teheran, and the entire country has been under the terrifying threat of massive missile strikes. While we have become to some extent inured to rocket barrages, confident that, if we follow the Home Front protocol, we will be safe, we now know that a direct hit from an Iranian ballistic missile can destroy even a purpose-built safe room.

It is a measure of this change of perceived reality that Bernice and I, in common with several like-minded friends, have, in the last couple of days, moved from stupidly believing that we were safe enough in a windowless and entirely internal space within our house, to recognising that the only sensible action is to use the communal public shelter that serves our row of five houses. This shelter is not the most salubrious of living spaces, but it is clean, has a working fan and lighting, has been stocked by considerate neighbours with plenty of bottled water and enough chairs for everyone, and should withstand anything less than a direct hit from a ballistic missile.

Not the least curious effect of living in Israel in these times is how quickly the unthinkable comes to seem normal. It was only when rereading that last sentence that it struck me how I was calmly discussing our shelter’s ability to withstand a hit from a ballistic missile.

In the same vein, the updated Home Front protocol for using a safe room or shelter is bizarre in the way in which it turns what one might expect to be a panicky scramble to find cover into a mundane routine.

The new protocol is, if you can believe it, as follows:

1. Between 15 and 30 minutes before a missile attack is anticipated to land in our area, we receive a heads-up on the Home Front app, which reads, in part: ‘It is required to stay next to a protected space.’ Since the missile flight time from Iran to Israel is about 15 minutes, this message is, I assume, sent when there is some kind of intelligence information (either from aerial observation or human intelligence) of an impending launch.
2. About 15 minutes before a missile attack is expected to land in our area, we receive a follow-up message, which reads, in part: ‘Continue to stay next to a protected space.’ This message is sent as soon as the launch is observed.
3. A few minutes before a missile attack is expected to land in our area, we receive a further follow-up, which reads, in part: ‘In the next few minutes, alerts are expected in your area. If an alert is received, enter the protected space.’ This message is sent when the more exact area of the expected landing has been determined..
4. 90 seconds before the expected landing, sirens sound locally and we receive a further follow-up, which instructs us to enter the protected space immediately.
5. Subsequently, we receive follow-up messages, instructing us to continue to stay in the protected space, or informing us that we may leave the protected area.

Between steps 4 and 5, as we sit in our shelter, we usually hear, sometimes more clearly, often more faintly, one or more booms that signify either a successful interception or a missile landing and exploding.

You may well agree with me that this reads more like instructions for a charabanc outing than guidelines for coping with an air raid. I can assure you that the very matter-of-factness of the instructions, and generous time allowance, greatly help to reduce the feeling of panic. It also appears to be true that the number of injuries incurred while getting to the communal shelters has been reduced dramatically. Under the previous protocol (for rocket launches from Gaza or Lebanon), 90 seconds was the maximum time allowed. This induced panic and led to many cases of people slipping and bruising themselves or sustaining fractures.

So, this is the new reality we find ourselves in. I am well aware that this particular we – the inhabitants of Maale Adumim – have, so far, had a very quiet war. For the inhabitants of Sderot or Nahariya, the twenty months of the war have been nowhere near as quiet. For us, on the other hand, a succession of disturbed nights is a new experience. The new protocol renders it considerably less stressful than it would otherwise be; nevertheless, it is a somewhat draining experience.

Perhaps the greatest worry is not knowing how long this situation will continue. Official statements speak of the air force making faster progress than originally anticipated. There is talk of one third of Iran’s missile launchers having already been destroyed on the ground. At the weekend, there was talk of the campaign lasting two weeks. At the moment, the country seems to be more or less on hold: schools running on zoom; non-essential workplaces closed; significantly reduced public transport and health services. If this continues for much more than a week, recovery becomes much more complicated.

We will, as always, just have to suck it and see.

By the way, if the reference to William Boot in this week’s title means nothing to you, then find a copy of Scoop by Evelyn Waugh and treat yourself to a gentle, very English satirical delight, originally published, I am staggered and dismayed to discover, 87 years ago. Probably no longer qualifying as modern fiction, then. Heigh-ho!