Sirens in Jerusalem

I couldn’t help but contemplate what my next trip to Jerusalem would entail. Of course, I’d spend time in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City, I’d go to the Kotel with my Bar Mitzvah Tallit, walk through the Mahaneh Yehudah Market searching for the best falafel, and admire the beautiful ancient foundation of the capital city. What I didn’t want on my next trip was sirens.

Last time I was in Jerusalem, I did all of my favorite things. I spent time walking the streets on Yom Kippur, and then on Simchat Torah decked out in white clothes for the holiday. I spent time in the markets and old city, gathered with friends and content as could be, but all the joy of the spiritual city didn’t last.

The last time I was in Jerusalem was October 7, 2023, when the sirens blared. We spent the holiday frantically running up and down flights of stairs in our hotel. Between sirens, my friends and I would try and celebrate the holiday, but often we were disrupted. Again, and again, and again, by sirens. 

Since Jerusalem and I last met, we said goodbye on uncertain terms. I greatly longed for the much-needed closure. My Birthright Israel trip back this summer was largely an opportunity to reconnect with our ancestral homeland, see family and friends, experience Jewish joy, but also to leave knowing the Jerusalem I know and love was more peaceful than when we last met.

My first day back in Jerusalem did not start serenely as I’d hoped. While the city itself was in a peaceful state, not far into the day, our phones buzzed with the headlines of the antisemitic attack in Boulder. That day, my friends and I held each other close. We talked about the growing antisemitism globally and saw in real time why a Jewish state and a Jewish safe space matter. I was pleased with the city’s crucial silence, but troubled with the terror back home in the States.

Throughout my first day back in Jerusalem, I also found joy. Ironically, I found myself back in Jerusalem for another holiday, Shavuot. We dressed in white, walked through the old city’s streets, spent time at the Kotel, and in the markets. But by night, an all too familiar sound. Just like a homecoming of terror and disruption, the sirens in Jerusalem sounded as a Houthi missile made its way toward Israel.

Now, I’m back in the States. A place, where fortunately, air raid sirens aren’t even a distant memory, but rather a paradoxical one. As Iran and its terror proxies continue to strike across Israel, I think about the raging sirens Israelis are experiencing thousands of miles away. The continual loud and booming disruption of everyday life. I think about the chaotic implications on the reality for millions of people who, for much of their lives, have never seen peace like I do in the States. While in America, I may be geographically detached from their reality, but I leave the red alerts on as a reminder of what life in Israel is like when I’m not there. I could choose to live ignorantly, and perhaps be more at peace by ignoring the conflict, but millions of people don’t have that option.

It is a privilege to know what peace looks like, and a curse to know what war looks like. For those of us who have seen both, we have an obligation to share our experience. We must be a voice for those in constant chaos, so that even those far detached and accustomed to peace, can grasp how horrible it is to live in a world with sirens. 

As a ceasefire comes into effect between Israel and Iran, we can’t just hope that this one lasts. We must act, speak up about the harsh realities of war, and the existential need for deterrents to prevent it and to uphold peace agreements. If we can do this, maybe one day we can live in a world where the sound of sirens once again becomes alien. A future where sirens in Jerusalem are nothing but a distant memory.