The Blogs: The Prayers We Didn’t Know Were Answered

It is entirely possible that we missed it.

Erev Rosh Hashanah, we were busy. There were meals to prepare, clothes to iron, tables to set, last-minute errands to run. We were thinking about the year that was ending and the year that was about to begin.

And somewhere in the midst of all that, the story of Ali al-Taher was unfolding in the news.

Perhaps we didn’t realize what we were looking at.

Ali al-Taher is not simply the story of another military operation. It is a glimpse into a world that most of us will never see—and into the extraordinary lengths our soldiers go to in order to protect us.

For months, IDF forces worked to take control of the ridge and uncover what lay beneath it. What they found was staggering: an extensive underground network that had been built over roughly two decades, with command centers, weapons storage, generators, living quarters, kitchens and even operating rooms. The tunnels stretched for kilometers. At points, soldiers encountered terrorists at distances of only a few meters. The fighting took place both above ground and deep below it.

This was not a single raid.

It was months of painstaking work—intelligence, engineering, combat and extraordinary courage. Soldiers had to map tunnels hidden beneath rock and vegetation, locate entrances and underground routes, prevent supplies from reaching terrorists trapped below, and confront an enemy fighting from a fortified underground system.

And while we were living our lives—working, shopping, celebrating birthdays, preparing for Shabbat and Yom Tov—our soldiers were there.

Some of them are young men barely out of their teens. Others are older, married men with large families. Many have already spent years serving, fighting and protecting. And still they remain on the front lines.

They miss birthdays. They miss family celebrations. They miss holidays. They miss their children.
And they keep going.

Because somewhere in their minds is a different calculation: Am Yisrael needs me more than I need to be home right now.

There are no words adequate to express the debt of gratitude, the immense hakarat hatov we owe them—and the families who carry the burden alongside them.

But there is another part of this story that has been occupying my thoughts.

One of the phrases we say three times a day in the Shmoneh Esre is:

מֶלֶךְ עוֹזֵר וּמוֹשִׁיעַ וּמָגֵן.

Hashem, our King, helps, saves and protects.

So many different words are used to describe the ways Hashem guards us.

Because sometimes He helps us, and things go exactly the way we hoped they would.

Sometimes it takes a little time for our prayers to be answered in the way we requested.

Sometimes a situation seems to be unfolding in exactly the opposite way from what we begged for—only to discover later that it was, in fact, for the best.

And sometimes we will never know why something played out as it did.

Sometimes we don’t even realize that we were in danger. We only discover much later what was happening behind the scenes.

The Ali al-Taher story makes me think about all the things we don’t know.

Did we know what was underneath that mountain?

Did we understand the extent of the infrastructure that had been painstakingly constructed there over twenty years?

Did we know what was being planned, or what could potentially have been carried out from those tunnels?

The military has described the underground complex as a major command center and part of an infrastructure intended to facilitate attacks against Israeli communities and forces.

We didn’t know.

Some of our soldiers did. And even they were only discovering more as they went deeper.

And perhaps that is part of what it means when we say:

מלך עוֹזֵר וּמוֹשִׁיעַ וּמָגֵן.

Perhaps sometimes Hashem’s protection looks like sending His children into the darkness to uncover a threat before the rest of us even know it exists.

Our soldiers were going deeper and deeper into enemy territory, fighting a battle we knew almost nothing about.

And that is probably true every single day.

There are things happening all over Israel that we will never hear about. Threats that are intercepted before they become headlines. Missions that remain classified. Soldiers who spend weeks or months in places we don’t know exist, doing things we may only learn about long after the fact—or never learn about at all.

So why did this particular story become public?

Why did we suddenly receive this glimpse?

And why did more details emerge around the very days when we were approaching the end of 5786 and preparing to stand before Hashem once again?

I don’t know.

But perhaps we can allow ourselves to wonder.

Last Rosh Hashana, we stood in shul and asked Hashem:

תַּעֲבִיר מֶמְשֶׁלֶת זָדוֹן מִן הָאָרֶץ.

And we asked:

וְכָל הָרִשְׁעָה כֻּלָּה כֶעָשָׁן תִּכְלֶה.

We asked Hashem to remove evil from the world. We asked for protection. We asked for salvation. We asked for the enemies of Am Yisrael to be defeated.

We asked Hashem to hear our tefillot.

And then we went home and tried to live another year.

Perhaps some of what we asked for was already happening—quietly, underground, beyond our field of vision.

Perhaps the tefillot, the teshuva, the tzedaka, the acts of kindness, the extra mitzvot and the tears of the Jewish people accomplished far more than we will ever know.

We tend to look for proof that our prayers were answered in dramatic, obvious ways.

But maybe sometimes Hashem gives us only a glimpse.

Just enough to remind us:

You are not forgotten.

You are not alone.

I heard you.

I am protecting you—even when you don’t see it.

And perhaps that is the message we need as we close 5786 and embark on 5787.

On one side of this story are our soldiers: extraordinarily skilled, courageous and determined men willing to enter tunnels, confront terrorists at close range and remain away from their families for months because they understand that the safety of the nation comes before their own comfort.

On the other side is the Ribbono Shel Olam—the One who protects us in ways we see and in ways we don’t.

The soldiers did their part with unbelievable determination and mesirut nefesh.

We have a responsibility to recognize it.

To thank them.

To daven for them.

To thank their families.

And perhaps, just as importantly, to recognize the Hand that guides what we cannot see.

As we stand at the threshold of a new year, perhaps the story of Ali al-Taher is more than a story about a military operation, as it’s one of hundreds of our modern history in this blessed Land

Perhaps it is an invitation to look back at the year that was and ask:

How many times were we protected without even knowing we were in danger?

How many prayers were answered in ways we never recognized?

How many times did we think nothing was happening, while Hashem was quietly moving things into place?

We may never know.

But perhaps this little glimpse is enough.

Enough to strengthen our emunah.

Enough to deepen our gratitude.

Enough to keep praying.

Enough to keep doing.

Enough to keep believing that even when we cannot see the salvation, ה׳ מלך עוֹזֵר וּמוֹשִׁיעַ וּמָגֵן.

And perhaps that is exactly the message we need to hear right now: