Night Watch

I’m not religious. Jewish, Latino, Israeli, atheist. And yet, I can’t ignore the phrase: *“Behold, He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.”* (Psalms 121:4). Maybe because, in the solitude of the night, I understand what it means to stay awake while the world rests.

My shift begins when the city turns off its lights and surrenders to sleep. I walk through empty corridors, listening to the silence stretching out. There are no gunshots, no explosions, no rush. Just the sound of my footsteps and time seems to hesitate between one second and the next. The risk I take here is small, almost nonexistent. But out there, there are others. Boys and girls who, while I walk through safe shadows, face a different kind of darkness. They watch over their lives; each breath counts, each step measured between now and what could be the end.

While many celebrate Rosh Hashanah, they run. Not through deserted streets, but perhaps escaping a bullet that arrives without warning. The distance between our watches is vast. I guard what is simple, the soft silence. They guard their very existence.

At night, time seems to slide unhurried. The city sleeps, unaware of what happens beyond its borders. And while I watch the quiet, I can’t help but think of them, carrying the weight of a watch that never ends.

There’s a certain irony in it. I, who don’t believe in divine protection, am the guardian of those who will never have to fear real danger. The silence here is accessible, almost comforting. For them, it’s always broken by uncertainty. Yet still, we are connected by something invisible, as if only those who know the night can truly understand.

When morning light begins to draw lines on the horizon, I feel time unraveling. The night hands itself over to the day, and with it goes the intimacy that only darkness allows. I guard, yes, but I guard what is simple. They guard everything.

When my shift ends, I head home. The tiredness is familiar, but there’s a lightness, a certainty that lingers. As long as I’m here, the silence will remain. It’s not a matter of faith. It’s just what I do—night after night. And maybe, just maybe, it’s enough.

Shana Tovah