Prayers Under Falling Bombs

Would Jerusalem be the telluric heart of the world? The city attracts like a magnet. It is a place where people talk without speaking, hear without listening, pass each other without meeting. And yet, flashes of encounter appear and vanish, as if eternity brushed against time for an instant. Jerusalem, the so-called “Holy Land”, never ceases to draw those who search for inner life – or, conversely, those who cling to impossible dreams.

The city embodies the paradox of the Middle East itself: a place of dazzling beauty and inexhaustible holiness, as well as of suspicion, fragmentation, and hostility. In every corner, in every marketplace, in every whispered word or thought, the visitor can feel both a promise and a fracture.

Calendars That Cross

In 2011, the Muslim Ramadan (1432), the Jewish month of Av – called the “consoler” (5771) – and the Eastern Christian month of August ran parallel.

Since then, history has unfolded with shocks that reshaped the region. The Arab Spring raised hopes of freedom and dignity but was followed by repression and war. The Syrian conflict, beginning that same year, devastated a nation, displaced millions, and scattered Christians, Yezidis, and Muslims alike. The rise of ISIS in 2014 tried to erase borders and cultures, leaving behind scars of terror and destruction. The Gaza wars of 2014, 2021, and the most devastating round since October 7, 2024, deepened trauma and fueled cycles of hatred. The refugee crisis of 2015 and beyond tested Europe and the Middle East alike, forcing the question: is the foreigner a guest or an alien?

Meanwhile, new alignments shifted the landscape. The Abraham Accords (2020) opened doors between Israel and Arab states, but often left Palestinians more isolated. The COVID-19 pandemic disrupted liturgies and pilgrimages, making solitude both unbearable and revelatory. Warfare itself transformed, as drones and artificial intelligence entered the battlefield in Syria, Ukraine, and Israel, making killing faster than conscience. And the eruption of October 7, 2024, brought Israel into its deepest crisis since 1948, setting the region on edge and testing the resilience of every community.

What was once the convergence of calendars in 2011 has become, in 2025, a reminder of how far human societies can drift into hostility and alienation. Yet the same prayers continue to be spoken, stubbornly resisting despair.

The Seduction of Hedonism

Across the Middle East, hedonism and ego-centeredness flourish even in times of crisis. Consumer markets thrive in Tel Aviv, Dubai, Cairo, or Istanbul. The glitter of shopping malls and seaside resorts contrasts brutally with the wounded neighborhoods of Gaza, Aleppo, or Mosul. Pleasure is marketed as liberation, but often hides despair.

Ego-centeredness feeds hostility. Communities defend themselves against outsiders; foreign workers are tolerated but not welcomed; minorities are accepted but rarely integrated. Jerusalem itself – where peoples, religions, and languages converge – can feel like a city of walls: concrete walls, theological walls, and psychological walls.

Transgression as Principle

Where does the principle of transgression lead? In the Bible, to transgress is to cross a line established for life: the Commandments for Christians, the Mitzvot for Jews. Boundaries are not chains but conditions of freedom. “You shall not kill,” “You shall not bear false witness,” “You shall not covet” – these are limits that allow coexistence. But hedonistic culture valorizes crossing limits as if every boundary were oppressive.

The Middle East, torn by wars and revolts, shows what happens when transgression becomes permanent. Violence is justified in the name of honor, faith, or revenge. Hospitality – once the glory of Semitic culture – is eroded. The stranger is reduced to a threat, not a guest. The Commandments and Mitzvot call precisely for the opposite: “Love the foreigner, for you were foreigners in Egypt.” Yet, alienation continues to grow, and foreigners often live as shadows among shadows.

Remembering Destruction

From the beginning of August, on the ninth of Av, Judaism recalls the destruction of the two Temples, the fall of Jerusalem, the exiles and persecutions. The memory of catastrophe is seared into the people’s conscience. But it is not meant to paralyze. It is meant to prepare for renewal.

At the height of summer, when Abraham welcomed strangers at the Mamre’s oaks (Genesis 18:1), Judaism prepares for the new year of autumn. Rosh Hashanah: the head of the year, the time of creation and judgment. “Shanah\שנה” in Hebrew means both “to change” and “to repeat, to teach.” Time is circular and forward-moving. Ten days later come Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, rooted in the Akkadian kipuru – “ransom.” Six days after that, Sukkot arrives: the feast of Tabernacles, when humanity dwells in fragile huts to celebrate togetherness, the unity of study, history, time, and life.

Joy Beyond Alienation

In Jerusalem, the city of walls, Sukkot covers courtyards and balconies with branches, palm leaves, myrtle, reeds, and the citron fruit – yellow, fragrant, the size of the human heart. The joy is deep, communal, even universal.

The prayer of Yom Kippur already included the foreigner who dwells among Israel: “Forgive the sins of the entire house of Israel and of the foreigner who lives with them, for all have erred by folly, bishgagah\בשגגה.” The Byzantine liturgy echoes the same litanies of repentance. During Ramadan, Muslims also repeat similar words of forgiveness and reconciliation.

Still, hostility remains stubborn. In 2025, while these prayers are spoken, bombs fall in southern Lebanon and Gaza; displaced families crowd into makeshift shelters; sectarian militias re-emerge in Iraq and Syria; and artificial intelligence directs drones and propaganda faster than human conscience can respond. October 7, 2023/Tishri 22, 5784 Hamas raids aimed at erasing Jews and Israel. Entire societies feel fractured by mistrust and fear. Precisely here, the act of praying for forgiveness and universal renewal becomes not only liturgical but profoundly existential.

Here, the dream of an “eco-peace” system emerges as more than utopia. Ecology is not only about trees and water. It is about the house we share, the oikos (world as the house) that must be habitable for all: Jews, Muslims, Christians, Druze, Armenians, Africans, foreigners. Peace cannot survive without justice, and justice cannot survive without restraint from transgression. 

The Annual Podvig/exploit of Hope

At the heart of these festivals lies another Yom Kippur prayer of humility:

“Lord, forgive, absolve, erase the sins of the whole community of the House of Israel, as well as of the foreigner who dwells among them, for the whole people — the entire human nation — has erred through folly and unconsciousness.”

This is not a cry of triumph but of brokenness. It admits that insiders and outsiders alike stumble. It dares to include the foreigner, anticipating reconciliation that surpasses tribal or religious lines. The Byzantine litanies repeat the same words during the Great Fast. Islam, in Ramadan, joins the same cry for pardon. Here, alienation is not ignored but absorbed into repentance.

And yet, repentance alone is not enough. The liturgy presses further, lifting its eyes to a vision of ultimate hope:

“God of our fathers, rise up and reveal Yourself in Your glory to all creation. Thus every living being, every creature filled with the breath of life, will say: the Lord, the God of Israel is alive, and His reign has no limit.”

This is the language of cosmic reconciliation. It is no longer only Israel, nor even humanity, but the whole of creation—the galaxies, the stars, the very breath of animals and trees—that is summoned to confess God’s life. Here lies what the Orthodox tradition calls a podvig/подвиг: the exploit of continuing to hope when reasons for hope have long collapsed.

Year after year, despite wars, hatred, and alienation, these prayers are uttered again. They are not incantations but acts of faith. They carry the refusal to let transgression and hostility have the last word. Indeed, they point toward an eco-peace system where creation itself is embraced in God’s covenant.

Thus, Jerusalem, heart of the world, remains a city of both walls and promises. In its streets, people still continue along the ages to talk without speaking and hear without listening. Nonetheless, in its prayers, the whole cosmos is called to gather in repentance that includes the foreigner, hope that surpasses hope, the annual mental, spiritual effort of faith that refuses despair.