While we don’t have a mamad, we are fortunate to have a bomb shelter next to our driveway. Our bomb shelter bustles. On the first night of alerts, a Friday evening, a mother nurses her firstborn baby, just six days old, as a family member sings Shabbat songs. And any thought of anyone trapped reminds me of our hostages, whom I’ve been praying for 627 days, who don’t have the privilege of knowing this shelter. Our neighbor, Meir, quips, “Make the miklat (bomb shelter) great again!”The bomb shelter is stuffy and airless.