At two minutes to twelve on the first Monday of the month, I stand beneath a warning siren on the roof of a school and wait. Below me, the street carries on as normal: a delivery driver double-parked, two women arguing cheerfully outside a bakery, a child on a scooter weaving through the crowd.
Twelve o’clock
At noon exactly, the siren begins. It starts low, rises into a long wail and holds, loud enough to feel in your ribs. For a minute and a half it fills the street completely.
Nobody looks up. Everybody checks the time. The delivery driver glances at his phone. One of the arguing women pauses mid-sentence, then carries on at a higher volume. The child on the scooter does not even slow down. It is the most alarming sound in the city, and it is also the most ordinary. Everyone knows it is a test.
After
When the siren stops, the silence feels enormous for a second or two. Then the street floods back in: the traffic, the voices, a tram bell in the distance. The siren sits on its roof, silent for another month.
There is something comforting in the ritual. Once a month, the city rehearses for a disaster that we hope will never come, and then, collectively and very deliberately, goes back to lunch.
Nobody looks up. Everybody checks the time.
