Swords of Iron, Iranain Threats, and Bomb Shelters

The war Israel now finds itself in—dubbed Swords of Iron—began with Hamas’s brutal surprise attack on October 7th, a day that was both a national tragedy and a profound religious date: Simchat Torah, the joyous conclusion of the Sukkoth holiday.

Sukkoth is a time when Jews leave the comfort of their homes to live in temporary huts—Sukkot—constructed with open roofs and fragile walls. For a full week, families eat, sleep, and gather in these makeshift structures, vulnerable to the elements and symbolic of our dependence on divine protection. On Simchat Torah, Jews return home in celebration, marking the end of this spiritual journey and dancing with the Torah in a culmination of joy, gratitude, and community.

It was on this sacred morning, as Israelis danced in the streets and synagogues, celebrating unity and divine shelter, that Hamas launched its unprecedented assault. It was a moment of profound contrast—joy shattered by violence, vulnerability exploited with cruelty.

The Modern Sukkah: Fragility by Design

In today’s Israel, building a sukkah is no small feat. Urban families sacrifice prized parking spots, balconies, and even playgrounds to construct them. New high-rises often host communal sukkahs, where multiple families eat and sleep together. Privacy is traded for togetherness. What emerges is a deeply human experience: shared meals, shared stories, and the shared belief that, even in impermanence, there is connection and faith.

This spiritual and physical vulnerability is not unlike the experience of Israelis in wartime. Bomb shelters—mamad (private) and miklat (communal)—have become the new sukkahs. Entire families huddle in cramped rooms, sometimes alone, often together with neighbors and strangers. The walls are concrete, but the emotions inside are raw, fragile, and exposed.

Sheltering Together, in Body and Spirit

Much like the sukkah, the bomb shelter strips away the distractions of everyday life. There is no phone signal, no Wi-Fi, and no room for ego. In my own building, 64 families share an eight-room shelter. Despite the physical discomfort and late-night sirens, there is an unmistakable spirit of unity. People bring food, toys, and stories; they offer comfort, not complaint.

In many cases, families with private shelters open their doors to those with limited access, the same way those who have Sukkoth open there’s to their neighbors.  These gestures—small, often unspoken—reflect something larger: a national instinct to protect, include, and embrace. Not just for survival, but for dignity and connection.

Beyond the Barrage: What Comes After

Since October 7th, Israelis have been forced to ask difficult questions: How should we fight Hamas? Should we remain in Gaza? How do we return our hostages, protect our soldiers, and ensure civilian safety? Meanwhile, internal divisions—between secular and religious, judicial and legislative, Haredi and Dati—continue to challenge our cohesion.

Yet, in the bomb shelters, those questions fade. There is no religious test to enter, no political vetting. There is only the shared experience of being human under fire.

And this is where Sukkoth and the bomb shelter converge—not in architecture, but in meaning. Both represent a temporary condition deprived of the hominess of our built up lavish homes.  Neither is designed to last forever. We are not meant to live indefinitely in vulnerability—whether in huts under the stars or in concrete rooms beneath the earth. But the bonds formed there can endure.

The True Shelter

As we look to a future beyond the missiles and beyond the shadow of Iranian aggression, the lesson is clear: unity built in crisis must be carried into peace. The solidarity formed in shelters and sukkahs—between families, between neighbors, between political and religious divides—is the true foundation of Israel’s strength.

The sukkah teaches us how to rely on something greater than ourselves. The bomb shelter reminds us how much we need each other in times of need Both challenge us to build something stronger when we emerge.

And emerge we must—not just from the bunkers, but from the divisions that weaken us. Together.  It is no coincidence that Hamas picked a time of division to attack, where during Sukkoth we felt more divided then glued together.  This time in the bomb shelter could mirror the Sukkoth that should have happened and hopefully let us become cohesive well beyond the duration of the war.