I booked the synagogue hall two-and-a-half years ago. It seemed impossible back then to even fathom my twins becoming bnei mitzvah. But the planning began.
It was scheduled for Parashat Tezaveh – Shabbat Zachor. Before they even began studying to read the Torah (and haftarah), I was already envisioning the festive Purim party. It would be as gala as the opening soiree in Ahasuerus’s palace, with food from every land – India to Ethiopia.
When the bar mitzvah was a few months away, I began researching Ancient Persia. I wondered what it really looked like – bejeweled palaces, festive parties, lush gardens.
I hired someone to help me breathe life into my ideas. I wanted “Hanging Haman and his sons” and an Ayatollah Khamenei pinata that kids could smash, loaded with sweets. I wanted my guests to feel the megillah come alive so when they read it on Purim – two days later – they would experience the colors, palatial splendor, statues, and trees.
Along with the designer, I hired a photographer, DJ, and caterer. The menu would reflect the food influences of all the different cultures that had been conquered by Ancient Persia. I used my own Persian rugs to decorate the foyer area – envisioning it as the palace of Xerxes, the ruler believed to be Ahasuerus.
Each table was named after a Persian place or character – India, Ethiopia, Babylonia, and different Persian provinces, Persepolis, the ruins believed to be the palace of the Kings, Satraps, and the Royal Highway, the road that ran throughout the empire. I enjoyed watching history come alive as I planned.
I discovered Temu, the Chinese online vendor that delivers to points near my home. I ordered place mats that looked like Persian rugs, groggers (noisemakers), paper plates with Persian patterns, ornate ribbons that the event decorator turned into napkin rings, table toppers, runners – all with a Persian pattern. Soon, packages began arriving.
I couldn’t find a Khamenei piñata online, so I followed directions to make one myself from papier-mache. I decorated and painted it to create a reasonable semblance of the Iranian modern-day Haman. The supreme leader (RIP) of Iran sat on my dining room table for months, creeping out the family. On a trip to the United States, I purchased giveaways for the boys and funny little Cocomelon dolls to turn into my hanging Hamans. I dressed each little Cocomelon in crepe paper fashions with gold triangular hats, and painted evil scowls on the dolls’ faces, turning them into horrible Hamans.
Endless shopping expeditions yielded loads of candy to stuff into the piñata and to throw at my sons after their Torah-reading debut. So many details. Seating plans, paper goods, table numbers, and numbers for the caterer.
We fielded calls from their bar mitzvah teacher. “This one forgot his notebook, that one hasn’t been practicing.” Sometimes they completely forgot to go to their lessons. But I had faith in them and believed they would eventually get it right.
US, Israel, and Iran were making threats
As weeks of planning flew by, and shipments of paper goods got held up by Israeli customs, the United States, Iran, and Israel were threatening each other in between negotiations. The saber-rattling had been going on for months – so at first, like everyone else, I ignored it. Then I got information from a credible source that the attack was scheduled for Shabbat Zachor – the Shabbat of my twins’ bar mitzvahs.
In panic mode, I called the security personnel of our village and told them I was concerned.
“I am expecting 65 out-of-town guests who will be eating in our synagogue. What will I do if the war begins on Shabbat?” I asked.
They told me not to worry – that somehow Home Front Command would give us instructions.
“But I need a logistics plan,” I begged. “Just in case.”
After two months of “any day now” threats from Iran, my petition for Plan B was not taken seriously by local security.
I asked about public shelters – how was I going to protect my guests? They told me that the neighborhood shelters were for locals, and my guests would not be able to use them. “But my synagogue doesn’t have a protected space,” I begged. “If it happens on Shabbat and I’m responsible for feeding 65 people, how in the world am I going to keep them both safe and fed?”
The hypothetical situation didn’t concern them. “If sirens begin during prayers,” they said, “synagogue members will be instructed to run home.” “Run home? To the other side of town? Old people? People in wheelchairs? Before the missiles fall?” I asked. I pointed out that during missile attacks, most people are hurt by running to shelters, not by missiles. They promised to get back to me, but they never did.
Then I was on to my next hurdle, finding a dress that is fancy enough for a twin bar mitzvah but not too fancy for a Shabbat in the Shomron, and arranging for essentials for out-of-town guests the Friday beforehand. I consulted with construction experts familiar with the underground synagogue hall. They suggested that should a siren sound, we hustle the crowd to the area in the basement with no windows, a sizable area that we had just happened to outfit with two couches, a Persian rug, and an image of Persepolis.
And then it happened. As I sat pouring candy from bags into little baskets in preparation for tossing at the boys when they finished reading Zachor, a siren erupted – sending synagogue members into a state of confusion. Most don’t use their cellphones or even carry them on Shabbat, even on a Shabbat when Iran is expected to attack. Many were flummoxed as to what was happening and what to do next.
I helped shepherd the crowd downstairs with no clear instructions. It turned out that the siren just signaled the beginning of the war. We regrouped and the boys read beautifully, candy was thrown, and mazal tovs exchanged. I was immensely proud. I had been anticipating this moment for 13 years, but without sirens.
Just after one twin read the haftarah and the second completed the blessings, another siren rang out. This time it was the real thing – an Iranian missile attack. Once again, people shuffled downstairs. This time they completed prayers in the semi-protected space that we mapped out earlier. While most of the crowd enjoyed the carefully planned details of the kiddush spread, which included caviar, herring, cholent, cakes, nuts, and kugels, and stayed to congratulate us, others hustled home to shelter in place.
At one point, someone from Home Front Command stopped by to look in on us. He asked where we go when the sirens sound. I showed him our makeshift system and he seemed satisfied.
Meanwhile, the guests enjoyed shmoozing in front of our Persian Empire photo-backgrounds, admiring the artwork from the Persian period, laughing at the hanging Hamans, and the kids skipped by the Khamenei pinata, aching to take a swipe. The vibe was warm, and the family and friends enjoyed eating, mingling, and occasionally sheltering. Everything was running as smoothly as a celebration can during a war.
After sundown, the bar mitzvah boys sang the havdalah, and I was left pondering whether to continue to expect people to show up at the planned costume party with foods from different nations, or canceling and sitting home waiting for sirens and running to the shelter.
It seemed like a horrible way to end the bar mitzvah, into which we had invested so much time, energy, and money. Iran had not been invited to our party. But so many others had been. I told the DJ and caterer to go ahead. The photographer, who was due in from Jerusalem, opted not to travel.
Music greeted our guests, dressed in a colorful array with costume finery. Tables were set and people enjoyed the food that was starting to flow, returning the community to some sense of normalcy. The children were especially joyous – getting in the Purim spirit, dressed as Minions, dinosaurs, ducks, and other farm animals. My bar mitzvah boys, Shalom and Eli, were dressed as a monkey and a Starbucks barista.
Lively Purim tunes melted fears and anxieties that had been building throughout the day, repairing fraying nerves that had been shattered by alerts and ululating sirens. The boys danced and ate food from many countries. The fun peaked with the smashing of the Ayatollah Khamenei pinata – until a concerned synagogue board member insisted (rather loudly) that we end the party immediately.
At that point, a sweet and generous neighbor offered her protected space to allow the DJ to continue and the boys to dance. We packed up the copious foods and sent it to the center where a large platoon of newly called, very hungry army reserves were amassing – and ended the most memorable Zachor bar mitzvah with, of all things, a mitzvah!
Because if there is one thing that the megillah teaches us, it is that ultimately there is only ONE true planner in this world.