Our Safest Shelter

RABBI YOEL BRIM

Sho’el umeishiv at Yeshivas Nachlas HaLevi’im

The Mashgiach now often recounts tales from soldiers, emphasizing the revealed miracles witnessed on the front lines”

Established in 1986 by Rav Yisrael Meir Weiss, son-in-law of Rav Chaim Shmulevitz ztz”l, and under the spiritual guidance of Mashgiach Rav Uri Weisblum, Yeshivas Nachlas HaLevi’im in Haifa’s Neve Shaanan district is a spiritual beacon in northern Israel.

Despite the ongoing challenges, there have been few significant changes at the yeshivah. When sirens blare, we retreat to the miklatim, the shelters. While there have been discussions about relocating the yeshivah, these plans have yet to materialize.

This isn’t the first time the yeshivah has found itself in a precarious situation. In 2009, there was a missile threat from Lebanon aimed straight as Haifa. At the time, while most institutions fled, Nachlas HaLevi’im remained, earning pride among the city’s residents and a grant of land for additional shelters as recognition.

For several months, Mashgiach Rav Uri Weisblum has been remarking that “HaKadosh Baruch Hu is preparing something significant.” Since the onset of the war, we have noticed small acts of piety and separation from worldly matters, which he seems to have adopted in solidarity with the abducted. Although he would rarely share stories in public, he now often recounts tales from soldiers, emphasizing the revealed miracles witnessed on the front lines.

On October 7, Simchas Torah, I urged the students to gather in the beis medrash to study. This was not out of some high levels in emunah, but rather about something I learned years before. As a bochur at Yeshivat HaNegev, I remember being conflicted when, while I was serving as shaliach tzibbur, sirens began wailing and bombs fell. I looked toward the mizrach and saw the rosh yeshivah, Rav Yissachar Meir ztz”l, unmoved. When I asked why, he said that although one could go to a shelter, he had learned from his teachers that the safest place is the beis medrash.

This is the message I conveyed to the talmidim after Simchas Torah, and it’s a principle we strive to uphold in times of peace, and in times of threat.

We’re Already at War

A soldier on the Lebanese border

We simply don’t know where a projectile will come from — from above, from the side — but we know it’s coming. We just don’t know when”

Since the tragic events of October 7, soldiers have dominated the headlines. While the heroism and bravery of those fighting in Gaza have been prominently featured, little attention has been given to the courage of those serving on the Lebanese border. Recent threats have led to a renewed focus to this area, although Y. asserts that even within the military, “The soldiers in the North have been forgotten.”

“I’ve been in miluim since October 7. The first three months were spent in Gaza, then I moved to the North, back to Gaza, and then returned to the North. My previous life came to a complete halt, replaced by the routine of miluim.

It’s not true that all the action is in Gaza and nothing happens in the North. While it’s correct that there isn’t as much face-to-face combat here, the danger and fear felt on the front lines are actually far greater in the North than in the South.

With drones and missiles constantly falling, soldiers in the North live 24/7 with a conscious awareness that a projectile could explode at any second. We simply don’t know where it will come from — from above, from the side — but we know it’s coming. We just don’t know when.

In the North, we constantly hear the buzz of the drones, hoping they’re ours and not Hezbollah’s. If it’s Hezbollah’s, we pray it lands far from us. We duck our heads, count to three, and wait for the explosion.

There’s a concept called “purple rain,” meaning a warning of a missile or drone attack. From the moment “purple rain” is announced, you have literally seconds to protect yourself. On the front, there isn’t always a way to shield yourself. All you can do is hope this time it doesn’t hit you.

A few weeks ago, a friend was injured by a Hezbollah drone. When I visited him in the hospital, his sister stopped me at the door, warning me that he was going through a severe post-traumatic episode. He was shouting, angry, throwing things in the room. When he calmed down a bit, I asked, “How can you be like this? You’re one of the strongest among us!” He replied, “This happens when you spend three months constantly thinking the next few seconds could be your last.” In Gaza, you can think what’s happening might be the end, but you have hours and you might think you can fight to stay alive. In the North, there’s an incessant feeling that at any moment, a missile could end your life. It doesn’t matter if you’re in a car or on the front lines — anywhere and anytime, you feel your life could end in seconds.

The worst part is that Israeli citizens don’t know this. They only hear when, G-d forbid, there’s a death. They don’t hear about the dozens injured daily on the front from drone or missile attacks. It doesn’t make the news. Every day, someone loses an arm, a leg, or their sight. It’s very difficult to explain to anyone not in the North.

I remember when I left Gaza, everyone congratulated me and worried about my well-being. But when you say you’ve returned from the North, people think you had it easy. They believe in the North we’re just “preparing for war.” But that’s not true. In the North, we’re at war.

Leaving my Land

LEVAV WEINBERG

A farmer in Metula

“The crops don’t know there’s a war, and they still need water and care”

The northernmost point of Israel, bordering Lebanon, is the town of Metula, where 1,700 residents lived with a semblance of normalcy until October 7. The citizens, many of whom are farmers, were immediately evacuated due to the peril of living mere meters from the enemy. The concept of a “ceasefire,” often echoed in government corridors, holds no weight here, as residents insist it’s impossible to even consider returning while terrorists remain less than 200 meters away.

I was evacuated and have been living in Rosh Pina for some time now with my wife and two children, but every day I leave at 4:30 in the morning to tend to what’s left of my crops in Metula.

My son is in third grade, and my daughter is in first. Since October 7, they have changed schools five times. When we were evacuated from Metula, we were first moved to Teveria, then to another place, then a third, then to a hotel, until we realized this was going to be long-term and decided it was best to find a permanent solution. Even that was very difficult because there weren’t many houses available. Finding something was a miracle.

We are now building a new community. At first, all the displaced people from Metula were together in the same community in a hotel, but as time passed, there were problems, people left, and the community split up. As much as it pains me, we ask ourselves if we will ever return to Metula, and this is extremely difficult for me. For a farmer like me, just thinking about not returning home is huge. I was born in Metula, I’m the third generation there, I have my trees there.

In the midst of all this, we try to take care of our lives and our crops. The crops don’t know there’s a war, and they still need water and care. The crops are like my children: apple orchards, peach trees, mandarins. The missile attacks burned my orchards, destroyed 40 trees, and broke the water pipes. There is a lot of damage. In addition, my house is just 170 meters from the Lebanese border. One day, a drone from Lebanon hit my car, though thankfully no one was injured.

As for the ceasefire proposals, we must remember that there have been such agreements in the past, which are worthless unless there is some sort of guarantee that the Lebanese, for example, move a safe distance away from the border. Only then can an agreement be considered.

Personally, I actually wonder why Israel doesn’t just go in and conquer Lebanon. I understand the regional politics, but living up here, it’s much more than politics — it’s personal.

Deliveries under Fire

MIRI LEVINSKI

Midwife at Galilee Medical Center in Nahariya

Sometimes I see missiles flying, but then I remember that I actually work underground, which is probably the safest place to be”

Among the unsung heroes since the onset of the war are the doctors and medical staff who have given their all to meet the needs of the population. The Galilee Medical Center has treated over 1,500 soldiers wounded in combat and has adhered to the Ministry of Health’s directive to keep a high percentage of beds available “for any unforeseen circumstances.” Miri Levinski, a midwife at the hospital, tries to help mothers experience the special moments of childbirth with as much normalcy as possible, even under very abnormal conditions.

“Although I live in Carmiel, an area that has remained calm, I work daily as a midwife in Nahariya’s medical center, which has become one of the busiest hospitals since the war began.

The most significant change has occurred at the operational level, because just a few days after the war started, the hospital decided to move all departments, including neonatology, to the protected underground floors. This decision was made because, obviously, there are delicate cases that cannot be transferred at the last minute.

While I’m not afraid to go to work, it’s true that sometimes on the way, you see missiles flying and it can generate some fear. But then I immediately remember that I actually work underground, which is probably the safest place to be if, G-d forbid, something happens.

The area I work in is very sensitive, and naturally, many women who are about to give birth might find it strange not to be in the traditional delivery rooms, and are nervous about having to give birth in the context of a war. But I try to calm them down by explaining that there’s no better place to give birth today in Israel than in the hospital’s underground. It is the safest place, both for them and for the babies.

Better Prepared

DAVID RATNER

Spokesperson for Rambam Hospital

Back then, there was nowhere to escape, and we didn’t know what to do if a missile hit”

Rambam Hospital, the largest medical center in northern Israel, was the first to sound the alarm about a potential Hezbollah attack. With renovations and improvements since Hezbollah’s assaults in 2006, the institution knows it must remain vigilant for any developments in the conflict. 

“I’ve worked at Rambam for almost 20 years, and since the conflict began, our priority has been to maintain our routine as much as possible.

So far, thank G-d, we haven’t had any attacks, but I can say that I was here during the Second Lebanon War in 2006, and I remember missiles falling all around us. I remember the nerves and the uncertainty of not knowing how the conflict would evolve. Comparing those times, I can affirm that as a hospital, we are much better prepared than we were in 2006.

Back then, there was nowhere to escape, and we didn’t know what to do if a missile hit. After that, protected underground facilities were built. That doesn’t mean we aren’t nervous about the possibility of Hezbollah attacking Haifa. But I do know that we are better prepared.

I live in a town near Haifa, and like everyone else, I have mineral water and non-perishable food stocked. But beyond my personal safety, my main concern is the safety of my children. They’re students in Tel Aviv, and there are many old buildings there without shelters. I know they worry about me because Haifa is supposedly at greater risk of attack, but I tell them that we’re actually safer here and I’m more worried about them.

Personally, I don’t get too nervous about the current situation. Of course, precautions are necessary, but a bit of adrenaline doesn’t scare me. What I do is try to convey calm to my colleagues, encouraging them to remember that we’re safe in the hospital and that we should focus on providing good service to our patients.

Waiting and Watching

Around the country, a nation holds its breath

Wednesday

Euphoria. My baby wakes up at six thirty, and I absently check the news while I tend to him. And I see it. “Ismael Haniyeh dead in Tehran,” says the headline. When my husband comes home from Shacharis, before he’s even closed the front door, I’ve already shared the news, and his mouth drops open.

My kids are overjoyed. A few days ago, I’d told one of my preteens, who’s been resentful about going to cheder while his sisters are already on vacation, that in the zechus of his Torah learning, iy”H big things would happen. When do you ever get a chinuch opportunity like this, to show your child the possible results of his efforts?
“Two assassinations in less than 24 hours!” I tell him. “You’d better run back to the beis medrash.” He smiles for the first time in a few days.

Thursday

Anxiety. A coordinated attack on five fronts is expected within the next 72 hours. My oldest son is graduating tonight from Talmud Torah. How can I leave my teenager in charge? What if there’s an air-raid siren and he has to get the five kids under him into the safe room on time? I arrange with a neighbor that she’ll come in and help him if that happens.

The divide between the atmosphere inside the graduation hall and outside of it is stark. Outside, I’m tense. Inside, the kedushah, the simchah, the ahavas Torah embrace me. I don’t want to leave the hall afterward. It feels so safe in there, so at peace.

Friday

Stressed. Regular Israelis may be resilient, filling cafés, streets, and supermarkets, but clearly, I’m not very Israeli. I’m distracted, my hands shake slightly, and by two in the afternoon, all I’ve done for Shabbos is peel a pile of potatoes, sweet potatoes, and carrots. I force myself to focus on the cooking, to forget about the axe about to drop onto my neck, and when the Shabbos siren sounds, I’m just taking the roast chicken and London Broil out of the oven. I’ve never brought in Shabbos when the house looks this upside down, not even when I had newborn twins.

Shabbos

Jitters. There’s a clip of Ayatollah Khomeini nervously scanning the sky during Haniyeh’s funeral. I do the same on Shabbos. Whenever there’s a warplane overhead, or a door slams, or an upstairs neighbor bounces a ball, I’m drawn to the mirpeset by a magnetic force and look up at the sky, expecting to see a ball of fire, a missile streaking across the sky, a plane and a drone playing cat and mouse. It’s been 48 hours already.

Sunday

Dread. The waiting game is excruciating. It feels like the day my father-in-law had delicate brain surgery, and I felt a cold dread as the hours limped by and we waited, waited the eight hours until the double doors of the operating room would slide open and the doctors would appear, telling us he’d survive the operation, that it was successful.

But this time, there’s no end time. The news reports change. It could happen anytime between now and a few weeks. On Tishah B’Av, says one newspaper. By the weekend, declares another. Monday, says another. By the time you read this, you might know what I don’t know now… or we’ll still be deep breathing expectantly.

I think of a song we used to sing at camp when it took too long to move between activities: “We’re waiting, we’re waiting, it’s getting aggravating.” And that becomes my mantra to keep me calm. Weirdly, it’s quite soothing.

The timing of this whole event also gives me comfort. The Three Weeks. The Nine Days. We’ve been waiting for Mashiach for two millennia. Could this wait be the culmination of it all?

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1023)