Here, there is history of tragedy. Crusaders, tearing into Tzfas to build fortresses for themselves. A great earthquake in 1837 that killed hundreds. The threat of the British and then the Arab armies during the War of Independence, the bullet holes of war still embedded in buildings as we enter. And now, rockets and sirens and a city bare of visitors and customers.

We’ve promised the little ones ice cream as a reward for braving the heat, but it takes us a long time to find a store that’s open. When we finally do, the shopkeeper beams at us. “You came up here? Now? You must have the thickest skin!” he pronounces. “Look at this fearlessness!”

I don’t think it’s fearlessness that brought us here. I think it might have been ignorance, a lack of understanding of how the people here have been living. There are no sirens today, but there is a wariness in the streets. A man unlocks the Ari shul and slips inside. Our tour guide speaks to him in rapid Hebrew, asking if we might peer in, and he shakes his head and shuts the door swiftly. We stop in stores, spending more money here than we have anywhere else, but it never feels like enough when we’re the first customers they’ve had all day.

Our guide has warned our children. “If you hear a siren,” he’d told them, “it only means that you should stay calm and follow me.” We’ve been to some dangerous places over the past few days, wandering Area B and driving through the hilltops, but he’s never let the kids understand that before. In Tzfas, it’s inevitable that they might notice the danger. There are just so few people in the streets.

There are the people who still forge forward, who don’t speak about the dangers at all. There are women with babies in slings against their chests, and they give us brachos and help us through abandoned historic sites. There is a teenage girl who orders pizza and hurries out with three pies, still plenty of people to feed. A man in a jewelry shop lets my kids try out his shofros, smiling indulgently and offering us discounts on bracelets. At the citadel on the outskirts of Tzfas, I find dozens of girls on a camp trip, giggling at our tour guide’s antics and rushing excitedly through the ruins.

We’re a people of survivors. In 1948, when the Jews of Tzfas were outnumbered 20 to 1, even the elderly and children stood their ground. This city is sacred, the cobblestones drenched with our history, and through the silence there are still people who remain as sentinels who keep Tzfas ever-breathing, ever alive.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 902)