It was a quiet and peaceful morning in the town of Efrat, illuminating families donned in their festive attire, eagerly making their way to special holiday prayers. At our home, the scent of cholent, cooking in the oven all night, added to our festive feeling. The laughter and yelling of my children, playing and then fighting, felt as normal as can be. But the idyllic scene was suddenly shattered by a sound all too familiar to the older generation, yet foreign to the young ones—the jarring wail of a siren, or as it is called Tzeva Adom, code red.
Having grown up in Israel, memories of past alerts, of whispered reassurances, and of holding loved ones close, flooded back. But this siren felt different, more urgent. My daughter, her world limited to play dates and storybooks, looked up in confusion. I found myself grabbing her hand, my voice rising in panic as we dashed to our shelter.
Three times on Saturday, the ominous sound interrupted our festivities. Each siren, a grim reminder that the world outside our walls was not as serene as within. Synagogues halted their prayers, families abandoned traditions, and the once joyous atmosphere now carried a weight of unease. A kind-hearted neighbor, perhaps trying to hold onto the remnants of the day’s significance, handed out candy bags symbolic of Simchat Torah. My daughter, still trying to understand the morning’s chaos, hesitated to step outside our door, but was happy to accept a bag full of candies. “Are the soldiers good or bad?” She asked, as innocent as can be.
My twins, at seven, showcased an unexpected maturity. “They knew we’d be praying today,” one pondered aloud, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and concern. He later brought all of his “most important” belongings into our shelter. For a seven-year-old boy, it was all of his soccer balls, his tablet and a few snacks.
Throughout the day, an unsettling pattern emerged. Men received hurried calls, their faces turning graver with each one. They were being summoned to their IDF reserve units. We had prepared to host several families, and two husbands from our expected guests had to abruptly leave. The empty seats at our table bore testament to the unpredictable turn our day had taken.
Some of the children wanted to speak about what has happened and what is happening. But my daughter kept on complaining, “Daddy, please make them stop talking about the sirens.”
In these uncertain hours, the community’s resilience shone. Phones, usually set aside during Shabbat, buzzed with news. Some stories bore the exaggerated marks of rumors, while others, unfortunately, were all too real. As more men heeded their calls to IDF duty a spontaneous support system emerged, with neighbors stepping in to aid mothers suddenly left managing large families.
A Whatsapp group was created in order to assist these temporary single moms with food and emotional support.
The only man left at our gathering, except for me, shared, “It’s ironic. On Friday, debates raged about a potential gender-separated prayer service in Tel Aviv on Saturday night. And today, we find ourselves amidst the most significant conflict in recent memory.”
His observation resonated deeply. In times of strife, we rally together, setting aside our differences. However, our day-to-day interactions often lack this unity.
Ironically, all of the Hakafot Shniyot events on Saturday night have been canceled. Not just those which were planned to be with sex-segregated dancing. All of the events, including those that were supposed to be egalitarian, Reform, Conservative or secular, have all been canceled. This topic has been at the heart of our discussion for the entire week of Sukkot. Now we understand how stupid this fight was. What a waste of time it was to dwell on this issue.
We are all one
In the eyes of Hamas, we are all one. In the eyes of our enemies, we are all the Zionists that they were educated to hate. Our internal battles have weakened us. We aren’t as strong as we used to be. The divisions are deep. The hate is real. But when wars like this break out, we understand the reality of living in the Middle East. A reality that is complex, but also about survival. We have to get together and work out our differences. We cannot let our internal divisions cause us to be vulnerable.
If we achieve that, then perhaps, in the face of future challenges, our unity won’t be an exception, but the norm.