‘Leave your bags and disembark immediately!’

I was settling into my seat when the shouting started. “Disembark now! Disembark now!” It took me a second to realise that the flight attendant wasn’t talking to an unruly traveller, but to the whole plane. “Leave your bags and disembark immediately!” she repeated over and over. And so, grabbing my passport, phone, and my bag, with my freshly purchased sandwich from Café-Café, I moved quickly towards the exit.

The pilot had exited the cockpit to hurry people along. The look on his face made it clear that he was seriously concerned.

In spite of this, the calming voice in my head suggested that this was merely a bomb threat or a bag that was unaccounted for. Irrespective of the urgency, I committed myself to the belief that the evacuation was of an “extreme-caution” approach. Which was slightly bizarre considering that I had just spent a week in Israel meeting survivors, generals, politicians, and soldiers.

It changed seconds later. I was several metres along the airbridge that connected the plane to the terminal building, when a massive explosion shattered the air. The bridge shook. Disoriented for a few seconds, I continued somnambulistically up the ramp as instructed. It took a moment for my rational brain to readjust. “Interception,” I thought, fully aware that the boom was too loud, and the air bridge had shaken too much for that explanation to have made sense.

I sped up and moved quickly back to the boarding gate, where we were ushered to the shelter. I was one of the last in, presumably as I had already boarded the plane, which meant that I had to remain at the exit and watch the activity around me.

I have no sense how long we remained there. Nor do I know how we knew that it was now safe to exit. The announcements were still going, urging us to return to the shelter, but somehow, we sensed that the danger had passed and that we were now safe.

Back at the gate, familiar faces gravitated towards each other, finding comfort in the shared experiences and shock of the past few minutes. One traveller, holding a plastic bag, said she had no idea if she had paid for the duty-free items she held in her hands. And others, desperate to make sense of what had happened, scoured WhatsApp groups and X. I recorded a quick video, and then inhaled my Café-Café sandwich, mozzarella and pesto, with grilled vegetables on ciabatta. I also found that I had a double espresso in my hands, but had no recollection of where it had materialised from.

It took moments to learn that a ballistic missile fired by the Houthis in Yemen had made it through Israel’s defence system and had hit an area of the airport not far from Terminal 3, where we stood. The realisation how close we were to the explosion came as a secondary shock, and even then, in the chaos of it all, I knew without doubt that this thought would be the torment that would keep me awake as I ruminated on the “what ifs” of this past Sunday.

My “fans” wasted no time in sharing their disappointment that the Houthis had missed their mark. “That missile had one job!” lamented someone called “Ishamplani”, having hoped that I would have met my end at the hands of the Houthis. “Burn baby burn!” danced another hopeful, while others, fond of calling me “Egg head”, contemplated if I would be best scrambled or poached. I responded that I still prefer, a “sunny-side up” approach. If that was ok with them.

I’m aware how deceptive the memory of a traumatic event can be. The realisation came to me some years ago a few hours after I was attacked when driving into my home. When recounting the events, I described how two of the perpetrators had weapons. One had a handgun and the other a shotgun. I explained that the handgun was held to my head with the shotgun handler keeping a watch from further away.

CCTV footage confirmed the glitch. It was the shotgun, not the handgun that had been held to my head. And although I would have sworn in court that this was the case, I had switched them out. Likely to protect myself from that memory.

Which is why each person has a unique response to an event.

An hour and a half after the attack, the airport reopened, and we were once again allowed to board. The pilot whose face is seared into my memory was back in the cockpit, and failed to mention the incident. The panic-stricken flight attendants were the picture of calm, and now greeted us as if we had never boarded the flight before. They behaved as if this was a completely new day, and soon, without so much as a word of reassurance, we were on our way.

As the plane was pushed back, I, along with other travellers, was glued to my window on the lookout for incoming ballistic missiles from the direction of Yemen. As I scoured the horizon, I said a prayer of gratitude to G-d, thanking Him for saving me so that I could continue my mission. I followed that with the traditional prayer for travellers that in future, I would probably say not when I was on the way, but while waiting for my pesto and mozzarella sandwich. With grilled vegetables. And then, I thanked the Houthis, not only for not doing their one job, but for reminding me that our job in this world is so important that it’s worth them sending ballistic missiles to try and stop us.

Which, of course, they never will.

• Howard Feldman writes a regular column for the SA Jewish Report and hosts the Morning Mayhem show on Chai FM.