As the sirens wail again, Family First writers reflect

Before the sirens wailed…

The past few weeks have been a waiting game, our fingers on the pulse of the news, every sound an imagined alert, and every possible outcome considered. Will Iran attack is the loudest question in the park circle, today or tomorrow is the analyst’s biggest debate, and the what ifs are blaring through all our minds.

Every ambulance that drives past my apartment makes me jump, every noise is questioned as a siren, and every buzz of a text message sends panic through my body. Is that an alert from the Homefront Command? A friend told me that she wished Iran would just attack already, so we could at least know what will be. Long-term planning has been put on hold: I can’t book a trip for a week’s time because who knows what will be then. We might be under lockdown. It might all be over. Even shopping is different.

This mindset of waiting was filling me with anxiety; my thoughts ran wild, imagining all the worst possible scenarios. As I began to reprimand myself and remind myself to tap into the reservoirs of emunah and bitachon I hold inside, I stopped myself.

I need this all-consuming mindset. But instead of an unnerving anticipation of an Iranian war, I should be consumed with thoughts of Mashiach’s arrival. Instead of anxiety, I should be filled with anticipation.

How I wish that every siren and buzz would make me jump, hoping it’s the sound of the Shofar. If only I couldn’t make plans for the future because I was so sure Mashiach will be here. I have never had a friend casually mention, If only Mashiach would come already, with such desperation and longing. It’s something we only hear in shiurim, something we whisper in specific tefillos. Mashiach isn’t a discussion for the park bench. But now, I understand what it means for the wait to be real, what it means to genuinely live each day, going through mundane tasks, wondering, “When is Mashiach coming?” What it means to really want and believe he will be here each day.

Trump’s ultimatum and the hum of fighter jets linger in my head as I try to make supper. But anticipation has taken on new meaning. I know he’s coming. My only question is when.

Adina Lover

This time when the sirens wailed…

I had the same feeling of dread in the pit in my stomach.

But this time, it’s a different kid I’m worried about.

At home, there is that here we go again feeling, and I’m not too worried. The kids are used to it; even though I feel them shaking when I wrap my arms around them, I know it’s the adrenaline a siren brings; they’re old enough to understand they’re safe. And sirens are almost the only time I see the neighbors when we meet in the building miklat. I enjoy the camaraderie of shared kvetching over what we’ve left unfinished in our apartments above.

But while I do a mental headcount of my family in the bomb shelter to ascertain they’ve all made it down, I also know I have one child in the yellow zone in Gaza. I know he has no shelter to go to. I worry whether an attack on Iran will chas v’shalom inspire Hamas. I ask Hashem to keep an eye on Yehoshua.

When I have a child on active duty, there’s always a tightness somewhere in the back of my mind, a slight holding of my breath. But when there’s a ceasefire in effect, I’m calmer.

Shlomo drafted just before Simchas Torah. I spent over two years with that pit in my stomach whenever there were sirens and I didn’t know where he was (or when I did know where he was, and it wasn’t somewhere reassuring.) Now Shlomo’s finished his service — but Shua has started.

When I hear that siren — same pit. Different Kid.

Hashem, protect us all.

Penina Steinbruch, Bayit Vegan, Jerusalem

I wasn’t surprised. We’d been hearing about the upcoming attack for so long that some internally clenched muscle almost unwound when the siren finally sounded. It’s like waiting for a contraction during labor — you know it will come, you know it will hurt, you know it will take away your breath and whatever fragile sense of control you thought you had — and still, you’re waiting for it to start because then you can finally wait for it to end.

But I hope that when this round ends, that it will be the real end, the final end. Because if we are learning anything from the rounds of missiles we’re living through, it’s that there are no mortal solutions to our problems.

As I look at my children, I hope they’re feeling gratitude for these outright nissim they are living through. It’s become so normal to watch murderous missiles intercepted right over our heads that we don’t always remember to feel gratitude for this lifesaving technology that Hashem has granted us. I hope they feel His love and embrace during these very fraught moments as we literally see Him diverting and dissolving the missiles, protecting us from harm.

Shana Friedman

Home. We were on our way home from Shabbos in Maaleh Adumim when the sirens went off. We raced toward the nearest tunnel and joined car after car that had pulled into the shelter bays carved into the concrete walls. We stayed inside, engines off, windows closed. I sang “Shir Hamaalos,” my go-to Tehillim in times of stress.

Home. Just days earlier, I had moved up my flight from New York, where I was visiting for a wedding. A blizzard was forecast, and I was afraid I wouldn’t make it back in time. Back to my home — to this. To sirens. To tunnels. To Israel at war. I knew there is no place I would rather be than in a shelter bay with my people, singing to Hashem, listening for the all-clear, knowing that whatever comes, we would face it together as a People. At Home.

Emmy Leah Zitter, Beit Shemesh

I looked around angrily to see who was daring to wake up my baby. Yes, I knew it was an air-raid siren, but the level of annoyance didn’t change. I used to be afraid. I used to wonder how I was going to be able to protect the innocent children I’d brought into this world. But now our family’s Rebbe said those in Yerushalayim don’t need to go to the miklat. Just avoid windows, and go indoors if you’re outside when a siren wails. And just like that, the fear melted away.

Sirens to us now mean saying a perek of Tehillim for Am Yisrael and then continuing whatever it is we’re doing. It’s like existing in a bubble. I hear the doors slamming, the racing footsteps of my neighbors as they hurry to the shelter, but I don’t join them — not because I’m separating myself from the tzibbur, but because I’m connected to one.

B. Frank, Jerusalem

As the sirens wail…

AT this point, my childrens’ sentiments are all focused on their Purim plans, and disappointment at the school Purim parties being canceled. One of my sons who follows Trump news avidly (as do many Israeli bochurim) went into Shabbos saying, “Trump’s annoying me now, why does he have to mess with my Purim?”

When we were sitting in our mamad at eight this morning, my half-asleep high school girl was mumbling, “No! This can’t be! We have production in ten days! You think this can be over by then?” (She has a leading part.)

Only half of our Purim stuff came from the US; the other half was supposed to come tomorrow. Obviously it won’t now. We’re working out Plan B for the one child whose costume didn’t arrive, and also getting used to the idea of braving the stores.

As all of these major world events swirl around us, as we watch nissim giluyim unfold, I hope my children absorb the message: Rabbos machashavos b’lev ish, va’atzas Hashem hi sakum.Hashem’s plan is always the best possible scenario for everyone. But beyond that, I hope we can convey that in the “small, everyday details” we can adjust to plan B — we can, embrace it, do it with enthusiasm, and make everything as Purim’dik and exciting as could be under the circumstances. And when this is all behind us, hopefully with only good news for the Jews, they can continue to use these tools for the rest of their lives.

Naomi Schwartz

The lion roars, and our hearts quake.

That would sound so nice and poetic if it were true.

What’s actually happening is lots of things are broken.

The beds, for one. I let the kids jump high and scream “machoh timcheh es zecher Amalek” as loud as they can. The five-year-old is devastated to miss shul with two sifrei Torah open and everyone stamping on the floor. So we stamp here instead. It’s good to get angry at something.

Hearts, for another. My ten-year-old is beside herself — her costume sitting so carefully folded next to her bed for days now, waiting to wow her classmates. The costume she wanted — one that no one has ever seen, one that maybe no one will see.

Promises, lots of them.

This year Mashiach for sure has to come, I’ve told the kids so many times. Last summer, as we sat for 12 days as the lioness rose. And the year before. And after the darkest Simchah Torah of all time, and after a world ground to a stop due to a pandemic.

I’m scared to make another promise — that this time it’s Adar and our Haman was just killed in Persia. That we’re ready for a Purim miracle and a Geulah in Nissan.

Hashem, will You make that promise for us?

Rachel Newton

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 984)