On Purim we went upstairs to exchange mishloach manot with our neighbors. They invited us in for a drink.  Our host asked, “Do you know the song Od Yoter Tov!” (“Even Better!”)

I didn’t think so, but when I found it later on YouTube, I realized that I had both heard it and seen its lyrics stuck on car windows and bumper stickers. (“Hashem Ohev Oti” – “G-d loves me!”)  Its catchy tune has a pounding beat.  Depending on the version, you can see in the background smiley emojis or dancing young Israelis waving their arms with abandon.

Hashem Yitbarach tamid ohev oti                            Blessed G-d always loves me

Veyihiyeh li rak tov                                                   Only good will come to me!

Od yoter tov v’od yoter tov v’od yoter tov v’od yoter tov!

Better and better and better and better!

This is repeated. You get the idea.

The song was released in June 2023. Think about that.  And it’s still being sung now.  Think about that.

Listening to this song after spending a few days and nights hearing sirens and running down to a safe room may impart uplift leavened with a dollop of irony. Gee, can it really get any better than this?!

A few hours after we left our neighbors, we hosted family and some friends at a Se’udat Purim. The news reported that missiles and drones from Iran had “severely diminished.”

Good to know. The meal was interrupted four times, once after each course.

Traditional Jewish humor is sardonic and inflected with Yiddish shrugging irony.  Israelis don’t shrug. They square their torso and talk dugri, straight from the shoulder. Israelis cannot afford to be resigned. The stakes around here are too high. Besides, now Jews have an army, backed by technology and intelligence.

Once everyone is inside and the door is closed, the atmosphere in our miklat, ground-floor shelter, is relaxed, but complex. Of course everyone knows that the situation is serious. The radio drones on with reports and admonitions: beware not just missiles and drones but running to the shelter, or leaving too soon, before the All-Clear. Many leave early anyway. Israelis don’t like rules. But everyone knows the news, including the tragedies when missiles get through air defenses that are superb but not perfect. The general vibe is, “We got this,” or, rather, the ones taking care of us do: soldiers, medical personnel, Pikud Oref, the Home Front command.

Repeated miklat get-togethers help you meet your neighbors: The young family staying with their folks because their building has no shelter. A young mom with a toddler and an infant. An adorable toy dog with a soulful face and a maddening yap.

I can understand some of what the radio announcers say, but when Israelis talk to each other, I can barely tell the topic. Yet their manner and tone make clear that they are exchanging pleasantries, not grave forebodings. Not one krechtz from this bunch.

After some interception booms and several minutes for the debris to descend, those whose phones can access the internet tell us that the alert is over. We rise and file out.

Some nod and say, with a rueful smile, L’hitra’ot, See you.

Hebrew can also do sardonic.

The next day things started to loosen up. Airline flights were scheduled to resume: to repatriate the 100,000 (!) Israelis traveling abroad, or to evacuate Americans and others who prefer a flight to a bus to Aqaba and trek via Egypt.

Coffee shop patrons thronged outdoor tables, despite the nip in the air.

Walking home from the supermarket, I passed a neighbor, the mom with the cute children. We exchanged smiles. “Nice to meet you outdoors,” I said.

“Mamash,” she said. “You bet!”

An hour later we met again, back in the miklat. Her 2-year-old towheaded daughter was leaning on her, out cold. “She can’t sleep upstairs,” said her mother. “Too much noise, too many alerts. Down here she can rest. After the All-Clears, we sit here for a while, so both of us get some sleep.”

Israelis who stoically carry on are sometimes described as showing courage and resilience. I guess those words are apt, but they seem to strike the wrong tone. Calling someone “resilient” conjures a serious man or woman with a firm expression and eyes calmly gazing into the middle distance. People in the miklat have no time for the middle distance. They are focused on the here and now, getting through the day: Young parents wondering how their kids—and they—will survive days or weeks of no school and no structure.  Working stiffs gauging how they will do what needs to be done. Pensioners navigating infirmities.

Everyone knows why we are here in the shelter. They know that others are making sacrifices, applying great effort, deploying amazing talents, taking appalling risks to keep us safe. No one needs to say, or be told, what would happen if they didn’t. Everyone knows what could happen to Jews when they did not have a state, because it did happen, perhaps to members of their own families.

No one is surprised to learn that everyone on earth is entitled to a state to protect them and serve their interests. Everyone, that is, except the Jews, who are surrounded by many whose spiritual essence demands eliminating our state and all of us. They are supported by enlightened folks in their Amen corner who simply know that among all the states on the planet, only the Jewish one is doomed to eternal scorn by its original, inexpiable sin.

But those in the miklat have no time for any of this. If you’re here, you want to stay alive, and to stay alive here, in this land, having nowhere else to go. Since everyone here knows this, no one has to say it. The underlying vibe in the shelter is, “Hey, we got this.” Or, rather, the people taking care of us do.

Besides, things are good. And we hope–we expect–that things will be better. And even better than that. Od yoter tov!

For a small people in a tiny state, we certainly attract a lot of attention. In that, if in no other way, we seem to have been Chosen.

Thank you, World, for this honor. Perhaps you might take a break and bestow it elsewhere for a while.

Sorry for the windy asides. Tzeva Adom. Red Alert. Gotta go.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)