TEL AVIV — In more peaceful times, the space under the Dizengoff Center, a mall in Tel Aviv, is simply a parking garage. Now, Rabbi David Benjamin said as air-raid sirens wailed outside, “There are a lot of people who actually live here. They made their homes here.”
On Wednesday evening, the start of Passover, members of this new underground community gathered for a seder. For many in Israel, back-to-back sirens leading up to the ritual meal meant rushing between kitchens, dining rooms and bomb shelters. But these ad hoc neighbors chose to avoid any disruption by planning their gathering here, four levels down.
Sitting on plastic chairs at long rows of folding tables decorated with string lights, they broke matzoh, read from the Haggadah and sang — with no need to worry about the next siren.
The military sends warnings when it detects missile launches in Iran, giving Israelis several minutes to prepare. When the siren goes off, they have 90 seconds to get to a shelter.
Since the United States and Israel started the war on Feb. 28, more than 2,000 people have been killed in Iran, which does not have a siren system or widespread access to shelters. At least 19 people in Israel have been killed in retaliatory strikes, according to Israeli officials.
In Tel Aviv, the number of missiles and alerts had waned in recent days, to none Sunday through Monday night. But four sirens sounded Wednesday morning within a two-hour period. In the evening, four more sounded within an hour. While President Donald Trump declared on Wednesday nightthat the war is “nearing completion,” Iran seemed intent on showing it is willing and able to continue hitting back.
Before Passover, the Israeli military had warned that Iran could send missiles “in an attempt to harm Israeli civilians during the holiday.”
Marivic Aguilar, 55, a Filipina caregiver who has lived in Israel for more than two decades, said she’s used to the strikes by now. She has been living in the parking garage for almost a month, she said, because her home lacks a reinforced security room — a legal requirement for all residential construction since the 1990s.
“Our bomb shelter is not safe,” she said. “It doesn’t have a door,” a child interjected.
Henry Manimtim, 50, another Filipino caregiver, said he goes to work in the morning and returns to the garage in the evening. “It’s very hard, dangerous, but what can I do?” he asked. “I need the work, the extra money.”
In Persian Gulf countries, a high number of civilian casualties have been among migrant workers who live in more vulnerable housing and cannot afford to flee.
In the Dizengoff garage, people have pitched tents, laid out air mattresses and brought chairs, fridges, desks and pets to mark their territory.
Benjamin, a Reform rabbi, was supposed to lead a seder in South Africa but flights have been canceled because of the war, and the parking garage celebration came up.
Hadas Ragolsky, a member of the city council, helped organize the event. Restaurants donated food and people brought water, wine and flowers.
Rivka Geffen — at age 94, “a young girl,” she said — has made a makeshift home in the shelter. “I don’t know if you know the story of the toilet,” she said. “You know it?”
The squat shared toilet doesn’t always flush. She goes to her high-rise apartment building nearby, she said.
Geffen hadn’t planned to be in the parking garage for the seder, but organizers invited her. “If I will be scared, I’m with other people too,” she said.
Roneat Shomai, 63, called the parking-garage seder her “least worst” option. “At least I am safe,” she said, with her 2-month-old kitten zipped in her sweatshirt. “Hopefully when I go up tomorrow, I will not find horrible things outside.”
She thought the war would end in two weeks. “I never thought it would be so long. I really miss my bed, really, really miss my bed,” she said. But it’s really scary, and here at least I can sleep.”
Sammy Westfall contributed reporting.
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