The Silent War Raging in Israel

On October 7, the world changed in an instant. Sirens filled the air, rockets streaked across the skies, and chaos descended on our lives. Families huddled in safe rooms, desperate for protection. But not everyone had a safe room to run to. For women and children trapped in abusive homes, the terror of rockets was matched only by the terror of what awaited them behind closed doors.

I know this war. I’ve lived it. Just five days before October 7, my daughter and I finally escaped the shelter where we had been hiding from our own battle—a battle not against bombs, but against the fists and fury of a man I once trusted. We thought we had found a measure of peace, a chance to rebuild. But when the rockets began to fall, I realized our war was far from over.

Domestic violence doesn’t stop when bombs fall. It escalates. Fear and chaos become fuel for abusers, giving them more power to control, more rage to unleash. Calls to domestic violence hotlines in Israel have surged by 50% since the war began. Shelters, already stretched thin, are at capacity. Women and children are being turned away because there is simply no room. These are not numbers—they are lives. Lives like mine. Lives like my daughter’s.

Living through domestic abuse is not unlike living through war. You are constantly on edge, bracing for the next attack. Every sound, every shift in the air feels like a warning. But while a siren signals the approach of rockets, there are no sirens for domestic violence. There is no warning, no time to prepare. The attack comes without notice, without mercy, and there is nowhere to run.

Israel is no stranger to conflict, but the war inside our homes remains invisible. While the government mobilizes to defend us from external threats, the battle against domestic violence is left to languish. Over 200,000 women in Israel experience domestic abuse every year. More than 600,000 children live in homes where violence is a daily reality. These numbers were staggering before October 7. Now, with resources diverted to the war effort, they have become a death sentence for women and children with nowhere to turn.

The connection between war and domestic violence is well-documented. In every conflict zone around the world, rates of abuse rise. Studies show domestic violence spikes by up to 40% during times of war. Economic strain, emotional stress, and the breakdown of social systems create a perfect storm for violence. And yet, this war—the war fought behind closed doors—receives little attention.

We don’t speak about it. We don’t report it. We suffer in silence because society has taught us that domestic violence is a private issue, not a public crisis. But let me tell you what silence does: it kills. It killed Michal Sela. It killed Maria Tanus. And if we don’t act, it will kill countless more.

This war doesn’t end when the rockets stop falling. Domestic violence leaves scars that last a lifetime. For children, the trauma of witnessing abuse becomes a blueprint for their own lives. Boys learn to hurt; girls learn to endure. And the cycle continues, generation after generation, because we as a society refuse to confront it.

I remember the shelter my daughter and I fled to. It was March 2023, and I thought I had reached the end of my rope. I was broken, frightened, desperate for safety. The shelter gave us that, but it also showed me the cracks in a system that fails women every day. Limited beds. Overwhelmed staff. A legal system that allows abusers to manipulate and prolong their control. Even after leaving the shelter, I remained trapped in a battle I could not escape—a battle to prove that my safety, my daughter’s safety, mattered.

And now, as the rockets fall, I wonder: How many women are enduring the same fight? How many children are hiding under tables, not from bombs, but from their own fathers? How many lives will be lost—not to war, but to the violence we refuse to see?

There is no ceasefire in domestic violence. There is no Iron Dome for the women and children who live this war every day. If we are serious about protecting our nation, then we must protect those who are most vulnerable. This is not a private issue; it is a public emergency.

We need action. Immediate funding for shelters and support services. Laws that hold abusers accountable. Education that breaks the cycle of violence. Awareness campaigns that shatter the stigma and bring this war into the light. Because if we don’t fight for them, who will?

The war outside may end. Peace may return to our borders. But for those of us fighting the war at home, peace feels like a distant dream. If we don’t confront this now, we will lose more lives—not to rockets, but to silence.

When the last siren fades and the world breathes a sigh of relief, what will remain? Will we continue to ignore the shattered women and children walking among us, hiding their pain behind hollow smiles? Or will we finally sound the alarm for them?

Because make no mistake: this is a war. And if we don’t fight it, we are all complicit in its destruction. The question is not if we can act. The question is if we will.