The Question Behind the Question
When “What’s Your Cancellation Policy?” Means Something Different
A few days ago, my wife sent a simple email to a Pesach program in the United States.
Like many Israelis this year, we have been thinking about leaving the country for Pesach. Not for vacation, not for luxury, but simply for a brief moment to breathe.
After more than two years of living through a deep and unrelenting war, and now since last Shabbat with missiles flying toward us from multiple directions, even the thought of a few days somewhere quiet can feel like oxygen. Leaving Israel for Pesach is not something we normally do or something that sits easily with us. But this year, like many Israelis, the idea of briefly stepping away from the constant tension has carried a different weight.
Because in Israel today, planning even a few weeks ahead sometimes feels like an act of optimism.
In the email, she asked a very straightforward question.
“What is your cancellation policy?”
There was nothing rude in the response. It was professional and direct. We were told that the cancellation window had already passed and that any cancellations would result in a full loss of the funds paid. It was probably the same answer anyone else would receive. And truthfully, as someone who runs a business myself, I understand it. Programs like these operate under contracts, deposits, staff, and commitments that must be honored. Clear policies exist for a reason, and businesses cannot function if those policies change for every circumstance.
And yet reading it still felt like a quiet reminder that the realities shaping decisions in Israel right now are very different from the realities most people elsewhere are living with.
Because here in Israel, the question of what happens if we cannot come carries a very different weight.
It comes from a life where sirens interrupt your day.
Where every building has a safe room or shelter, and you automatically notice where it is the moment you walk in, almost without thinking. You scan the hallway, the stairwell, the reinforced door. It becomes second nature, the way someone elsewhere might look for the exits in a crowded theater.
Where parents quietly calculate how long it would take their children to reach that space if the alarm suddenly sounds. Not in panic, but in the quiet mathematics of protection that has become part of daily life.
And the calculations do not stop there.
Before many of us even get into our cars, at least the few who still drive regularly these days, we find ourselves thinking through the route ahead and the possibilities that might interrupt it. If a siren goes off while we are on the road, where is the nearest place to pull over? If we are near an overpass, do we stop there? If we are in an open area, do we lie down beside the road?
We find ourselves thinking through different scenarios almost automatically. Is the alert likely to be a rocket from Gaza, where the warning window is seconds? Is it from Lebanon where the sirens can come in waves? Is it a missile from Yemen, where there may be a bit more warning but a different kind of fear? Or something coming from Iran itself, where the alerts ripple across the country, and everyone waits to see where it will land?
Even inside our own homes and communities, the mind sometimes wanders to questions that once would have seemed unimaginable. Has our gated and secured community been infiltrated by terrorists? Are we truly as protected as we hope we are?
And at the same time, we find ourselves witnessing what can only be described as miracles. Day and night, we watch as Israel’s defense systems intercept missiles, rockets, and drones in the sky above us. The distant booms echo overhead as interceptors streak upward and explosions light the night sky. Families step outside after the sirens stop and look up together, grateful for the technology, grateful for the soldiers operating those systems, and grateful that once again the danger was stopped before reaching the ground.
These are not conversations Israelis formally sit down and plan.
They are simply thoughts that run quietly in the background of everyday life. Contingency plans form almost automatically, the way someone might check the weather before leaving the house.
Except here, the forecast is not rain.
It is the possibility of a missile.
And yet we still hold on to the hope that tomorrow will bring a return to some version of normal life. Those offices will reopen, and people will go back to work. That children will return to classrooms rather than learn through screens. Just today, many children are only beginning to reconnect with school again through Zoom after days with no classes at all. In Israel, resilience often begins with hope for small things. A quiet morning. A routine day. A sky without sirens.
And it is from within this reality that a simple email about Pesach was written.
Not as a complaint. Not as a negotiation. But as a quiet attempt to plan something meaningful amid uncertainty.
Like many Israelis this year, we wondered whether stepping away for a few days might allow us to breathe a little more easily, even if only briefly. Yet when you live in a place where sirens can change the course of a day and where airspace can close overnight, even the smallest plans carry questions others rarely have to consider.
So we asked a very simple question.
“What is your cancellation policy?”
Not because we were unsure about coming. But because in Israel today, the ability to plan ahead always carries a silent second question.
Will the world still look the same when that day arrives?
Pesach, after all, is the story of a people who lived through uncertainty.
It is the story of leaving a place of fear without knowing exactly what lies ahead. A people who stepped into the desert guided by faith and by the hope that freedom would come.
Each year at the Seder, we begin with words that Jews have repeated for centuries.
Ha Lachma Anya. This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.
And then we say something remarkable.
Let all who are hungry come and eat.
Let all who are in need come and celebrate Pesach.
Those words remind us that the Jewish story is not only about survival. It is about responsibility for one another.
It is about recognizing that our people have always lived scattered across different places, facing different circumstances, yet still connected by something deeper.
This year, many Israelis will sit at their Seder tables carrying a mixture of gratitude, exhaustion, grief, and hope.
We will celebrate freedom while knowing that many in our country are still waiting for their loved ones who are protecting us to come home.
We will sing ancient songs while remembering that the Jewish story has never been simple.
And perhaps one of the quiet lessons of this moment is remembering that the Jewish people were never meant to face difficult journeys alone.
Sometimes solidarity appears in grand gestures.
And sometimes it begins with something smaller.
By listening carefully when someone asks a simple question.
And understanding the world that question is coming from.
