Israel: Under Attack
The vibrant atmosphere of a random street in Geula had transformed into an urgent scramble for safety. The initial joy of choosing the perfect Rosh Hashana gift for my family we were visiting was abruptly overshadowed by the reality of an air siren blaring above us. As we sought shelter, it became clear that the streets, once alive with holiday cheer, were now filled with an unsettling tension.
Inside the crowded stairwell of a random building we ran into, the sense of community emerged amidst the chaos. We found a mother with three young children struggling to make her way down the steps. My children sprung into action assisting the woman in getting down the steps. My teenage daughter grabbed the young toddler from her distressed mother. She held the smallest child so the mother would be able to comfort her other young children. As we crouched together, the fear in the children’s eyes reflected the gravity of the situation, yet the presence of our small group offered a flicker of hope. We had never met, yet the feeling of protectiveness did not even take seconds to kick in. We needed to help this young mother and calm her three crying children. One had been pulled from his bed. The other yanked from her bedtime routine.
At the bottom of the steps the young woman’s face turned to surprise when she realized the meklat was locked. We all crouched in the already crowded staircase as we asked her in Hebrew if she knew how to get in the meklat. She explained that only one family had the key and she was hopeful they would be coming shortly. Moments later another woman arrived …with a KEY! We were thrilled. The emotional mother apologized for the delay and explained that her 10 year old daughter had just run to the store and wasn’t back yet.
When the door to the meklat finally was opened, we were met with a disorganized space, but it became a refuge. The act of reorganizing the area transformed our panic into a shared purpose. “Bo nereh ma yish kan m’anyan” (Come let’s see what we have here that’s interesting) I called out to the 11 children all wide eyed and waiting for an adult to take charge. We began to pull and push and clear spaces. Watching my husband and son dive into learning from the old sfarim found in a dusty box hidden under a broken chair and wooden panels for a sukkah brought a semblance of normalcy, while my 11 year old daughter’s determination to find something for the very young children to do (a yo-yo she randomly found in her Lululemon fanny pack!) helped make the space feel more welcoming for the frightened little ones.
I looked around the room. Every loud boom caused the kids to jump. One little girl tearfully asked “mati ze ye’he esrim dakot” (when is it going to be 20 minutes). I watched my 11 year old carefully whisper to her “hashem etanu” (hashem is with us) “anachnu lo levad” (we are not alone). Before long, my husband announced that twenty minutes had passed. “Anachnu bseder” (we are ok) one of the young children called out. Suddenly my husband’s phone started to emit a loud sound. It was the app that he had downloaded letting us know when it was safe to exit the bomb shelter. We started to hear loud sounds from outside. It wasn’t over. It had started again. The 20 minutes would be reset. The little girl’s innocent question about time, coupled with my 11-year-old’s comforting words, reminded us all of the importance of faith and togetherness. Even as the situation escalated again, with the siren resounding and the sounds of rockets overhead, we found small moments of connection. My younger daughter’s yo-yo tricks drew laughter, helping to bridge the fear that gripped us.
The mother of the missing young girl came close to me and whispered in a mix of yiddish and Hebrew that she was panicked that her daughter was still outside of the safe room. Panicked that her petrified daughter would be walking the streets. Panicked that her daughter was in danger. After multiple attempts to reach her husband on our cell phone it suddenly went through. In hurried breaths she explained to him that she was in the safe room but their daughter was missing. Her husband said he would leave the meklat in the Shul and look around the deserted streets. Now this panicked mother stressed about her husband too. Was he going into danger to try to find his daughter who might already be in a safe zone? Should she ask him to return to the safety of the Shul or risk staying outdoors as rockets were being hurled over our heads?
In those tense moments, it became clear: even in chaos, kindness and community shine through. Our focus shifted from the outside world to the bonds we formed in that cramped, makeshift safe haven. We were not just individuals caught in a moment of terror; we were a group, united in uncertainty, supporting one another.
Over the course of an hour we prayed and talked. Suddenly an urgent knock on the safe room door caused us to run and open it to reveal the missing 10 year old daughter and her father. Relief flooded through us all. Both were shaken but safe. The father took the extra moment once his daughter was in the meklat with the rest of her family to run upstairs and in moments returned with cold drinks, sweet rugeluch and crisp cucumber slices.
My mind suddenly recalled the world of September 12th 2001. Living in NY and attending college in Manhattan many have asked me “where were you on September 11th?” Although I can clearly recall the second myself and my college classmates watched the plane hit the second tower on the small TV outside of the security officers door, although I can clearly recall the smells of burning around me, although in my mind I see the bits of charred papers that fell around us, the cries of one of our classmates whose husband was on his first day of an internship in a law office in the twin towers…. I remember September 12th. It’s the day my mind clings too when I think of that terrible time. I remember the doors that were held open for others, the pay it forward moments in grocery stores, the kindness we gave strangers as we all felt sheer shock at what us NY’ers had just been through.
I recall the world of Oct 8th,9th,10th 2023 (and honestly the world has never felt whole again..). Yes, I can’t forget the second I learned about the tragedy of Oct 7th. The sheer terror of waiting to hear from my children, grandparents, cousins and friends. The horror at learning what had happened and the hostages that still were in Gaza. Upon returning to my job right after the Sukkot holiday last year the school announced that we would say tehillim and sing Achinu in the hallway after Tefillah. As we sang together I noticed a non religious teacher who worked for the county but was assigned to our Jewish Day School come into our hallway. I noticed tears in her eyes and I approached her and she whispered to me “here everyone gets me. Here I know we all feel the same pain.” Later she explained that after learning what had happened in Israel it seemed like the rest of the world was just going about their business. Nobody at her work said or asked her anything. When she walked into our school for the first time since hearing the tragic news she felt like there were others feeling her pain.
Why does it take tragedy for us to recall that NO MATTER our differences we really are ONE people. In times of pain we remember that the clothing we wear, the languages we speak and the places we live have no true importance. We want our hostages home! We want Israel safe! I overheard a woman in the pharmacy discussing the situation in Israel and she commented to a friend “my neighbors actually have family members in Gaza. They have a lawn sign that says ” bring our family home.” Have you seen those signs? THEY ARE ALL OUR FAMILY. Our PEOPLE.
As we walked out of the meklat hugging our new family I was reminded of the essence of the holiday—family, community, and wishes for a sweet new year—may we never need fear and tragedy to remind us this.