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Karolyn Benger

The Music Still Plays: Israel in a Time of War

Machane Yehuda during the war

My family and I are in Israel — visiting loved ones, touring universities, reconnecting with the land that has shaped so much of our identity. We didn’t plan to be here during this war. Then again, I suppose the war between Israel and Iran didn’t begin this June; it simply escalated. Intensified. What was once a shadow conflict burst into the open.

We spent that Friday night in a mamad, a reinforced bomb shelter built into many Israeli homes. The wail of sirens became the soundtrack of our sleepless nights, while adrenaline and uncertainty shaped our days. At one point, desperate for movement, we stepped outside into streets that are usually alive with color, music, and crowds. But this time they were silent — not peaceful, but post-apocalyptic. A city holding its breath.

The shuk — Machane Yehuda Market — was still. I’ve never seen it like that. No shouting of vendors, no smell of spices or frying bourekas, no concern of being separated due to the huge crowd. Ben Yehuda Street, a pedestrian walkway that normally pulses with street musicians, teenagers, and tourists until well past midnight, was eerily quiet. My stomach tightened. I wondered, is this what it looks like when the music stops?

But Israel doesn’t let silence win.

Within a few days — even while missiles still fell in the south and the north — the piano at the corner of Ben Yehuda and Yaffo played again. A small sound at first. Then voices. Then footsteps. And then, life.

We are lucky. Lucky to be safe. Lucky to have friends and family who text and call to check in. Israelis who offer help with anything we might need, even as they, too, are running on empty. They apologize that we have to experience this, as if they themselves aren’t carrying the weight of it all — children drafted, businesses on pause, hearts breaking.

But in the midst of all this, we get to witness Israel’s greatest strength: her people.

The exhaustion here is universal. There’s a collective weariness in the way people speak, in the bags under their eyes. But there is also something else — something stronger. Determination. Tenderness. Resilience.

Israel is strong. Her people are stronger. The music still flows, and the people are returning to the streets. Life doesn’t pause here — it resists, it rebuilds, it rises.

I am grateful to be here — to stand beside these people in a time of such strain. To bear witness to their courage, their heartbreak, and their hope. And, in whatever small ways I can, to offer my presence as a form of support. To say: I see you. I am with you. And I believe in your strength.

And I am proud to be here. Not because it is easy, but because it is real. Because even under fire, even in fear, Israelis keep showing up — for one another, and for the life they refuse to give up.

About the Author
Karolyn Benger is a Rabbinical student at Yeshivah Maharat (2026) and former Executive Director of the Jewish Community Relations Council in Phoenix. Karolyn has taught Middle East Politics at Emory University, Georgia Tech, and Emerson College. She was a board member of the Arizona Interfaith Movement, a member of the Valley Interfaith Project’s 3rd Monseigneur Ryle Public Policy Faith Leader Institute, and a mentor in the Women’s Leadership Institute. She has served on the Human Relations Commission for the city of Phoenix and Arizona Jewish Life magazine named her among the Top 10 change makers for Tikkun Olam. Her writings can be found in the Arizona Republic, eJewish Philanthropy, Blue Avocado, The Times of Israel, and Ritualwell.
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