The 28th Reverberates

There are some nights I cannot sleep. Monday night was one of them. The early warning signals beeped too many times, reminding me once again of the Scud missile attacks that started in mid-January 1991—days filled with fear and sleepless nights that stretched on for about six weeks. In anticipation of a chemical gas attack, bulky black rubber masks were donned each time a siren sounded. By the end of the war, I felt that four million Israelis had been humiliated by Iraq’s Saddam Hussein, who never possessed the chemical weapons to attack Israel. The entire war became an opportunity for my American friends to believe—and remind me—that Israel was saved from destruction by America, thanks to the Patriot system deployed to intercept missiles.

In fact, the Patriots failed to intercept any of the 39 missiles launched from Baghdad.

I wasn’t dreaming about Saddam or the Gulf War when a neighbor entered my bedroom at around 3 a.m. early Friday, the 13th of June, waking me from a deep sleep. Heart attacks don’t just happen—something triggers them—and my neighbor’s tap nearly did. The room was dark. I couldn’t see who had tapped me. For a moment, I imagined it was my daughter bearing terrible news.

My children had tried waking me when the first siren sounded. Both the landline and my smartphone rang, but to no avail. My hearing aids were recharging, and without them, neither the phones nor the siren woke me. So, they phoned my neighbor and asked her to use the key to my apartment and wake me with news that Israel had attacked Iran—and that my children insist that I sleep in the safe room.

That first night marked the beginning of the miracles. Iran did not retaliate with the full force of its deadly missile arsenal. And the miracles continued daily—warfare without boots on the ground, downed planes, or destroyed tanks. But wars always leave scars. This time, it was buildings and properties that bore the brunt, with too many civilians wounded, and sadly, some lives lost. Yet most of this war was fought in the sky—a war won in just 12 days against a once-powerful nation we no longer need to fear.

This is not my first, nor my fifth, war in Israel. Ten fingers are not enough to count; I have to bend over and use my toes for a more accurate toll.

I’ve been at home for 12 days, following the Home Front Command’s instructions, stepping out only to pick up a few basic items at the local supermarket—and a Shabbat meal with my daughter. Tuesday morning at 7 a.m., news of a ceasefire allowed me to doze off into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

Some dates repeat themselves—calendar dates—like the number 28, a significant figure in Hebrew numerology, where numerical values are ascribed to Hebrew letters. The number 28 is kaf-chet—the word “koach,” signifying strength.

Tuesday, the 28th day of the Hebrew month of Sivan, was a day marking Israel’s strength in concluding the “Am K’lavie” war with a ceasefire.

Countries at war are not happy or safe places to be, yet I feel truly privileged to be here, among my people—even when I have nothing in particular to contribute to the war effort. I believe that every soul in Israel is chosen, and the only people who are “stuck” are those abroad who were unable to return or have no desire to do so. We are witnessing the miracles performed by the Almighty, enabling us to share our story, first person, with future generations.

Israel is remembered for additional wars, particularly the miraculous war, fifty-eight years ago in June 1967. Egypt, Jordan, and Syria had attacked Israel expecting to wipe her off the map. Yet, on the 28th day of Iyar, East Jerusalem, the Western Wall—held by Jordan for 19 years—were liberated. That war ended in a glorious victory in only six days.

Perhaps history does not only repeat—it reverberates. And in the blare of sirens and the balm of ceasefires, I am reminded: “Lo b’chayil v’lo b’koach, ki im b’ruchi, amar Hashem—Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit, says the Lord.”

In this land of sirens and sanctity, it is spirit that endures, long after wars fade. Each one is a reminder, reverberating through time that Israel’s strength lives not just in numbers or dates, but in the unshakable will to endure, again and again.