The Impossible Balance of Shielding Our Kids from Learning of the Horrible Tragedies While Keeping Them Safe

I still keep thinking back to that morning, and wondering how we’ll heal.

There wasn’t a hint of it the night before—we had beautiful Simchat Torah dancing with our diverse community at our rented shul space, round and round the bima until well past midnight, the kids on a sugar high.

We didn’t expect to be woken up by nonstop sirens and explosions, and to be honest, I thought I was dreaming, and didn’t even pull myself out of bed until several rounds in.

In the weeks that followed I only wished that it had been a dream, and thought that maybe if I’d pinch myself hard enough I’d wake up, and maybe then my children would no longer be terrified of being left alone for five minutes while I went upstairs to switch the wet laundry into the dryer.

The impossible balance of shielding our kids from learning about the horrible tragedies while keeping them safe and close to bomb shelters 24/7 stifled the sounds of laughter and play that used to fill our house and backyard as the kids jumped up and down and biked around. Instead I found myself hugging my three-year-old tight as she shook and sobbed uncontrollably with every siren, and every run to the basement, from where we sat and read Psalms together while waiting for the sound of explosions to pass.

I still pinch myself at night, while soothing my children back to sleep from nightmares, because we weren’t able to shield their innocent minds enough.

It was in those first two months, when we stayed in and around our bomb shelter, when I began to realize just how important our community is. I wondered about my friends who have no bomb shelter in their home, and instead need to run outside to the communal shelter, toddlers in hand—or just lay flat with their hands on their heads. I thought about the mothers who were home alone rushing three small children on their own, and my retired friend with weak knees who can’t run at all.

I thought about our community, and how we were each isolated in our own defined safe quarters, but without a shoulder to cry on, a friend to hug, and a heart to connect with over tea.

Then our friends made the brave first move, and hosted an upshernish in a park that had a large underground bomb shelter.

That joy of being outdoors with friends again—how can I describe it? The children ran around in circles, pushed high on the swings, and let go—laughing loudly, holding their cute little bellies. I walked around and caught up with friends, there was so much to say, so much to hear, but mostly—it was just being together, feeling whole. My husband read the Rebbe’s letter blessing the child on his birthday, as adoring friends and family lined up to give him his first snips.

And then suddenly, the siren went off.

The look of fear took over on the children’s faces as they ran, followed by parents, down the stairs, into the bunker. My husband and I grabbed our kids—we thought we had them all, until I realized that my three-year-old was still outside. I ran back outside, with barely five seconds left to go. Then I saw a friend run towards my son, bend down and grab him as though he was his very own, and bring him towards me.

The relief of making it inside before the explosions began was compounded by gratitude for friends who care, and love deeply, like a warm family does.

We went home after that. The siren stole the magic of the moment, but it didn’t steal the renewed energy and hint of healing that comes from being back with our community. The truth is, we’re grateful every day for what we have; that only two terrorists arrived in our city and didn’t succeed, that the rockets that landed around us didn’t hurt anyone, despite the destruction done. But the signs of PTSD are there, lingering, and we need to heal—together.

Right before the war began, we were blessed with a huge gift: A Chabad Center of our own. The city gave us the management rights to a very large underground bomb shelter, in an ideal location, that will make for a perfect shul, community center, and permanent home for our Ahronee Jewish Youth English Library of Be’er Sheva.

The space is fifty years old and neglected, lacking air conditioning, and with an interior that feels haunted. We had exciting plans to renovate it, and make it into a beautiful Chabad Center—little did we know just how much we would soon need it, as a place to heal together, and to feel safe emotionally, physically, and spiritually.

That same feeling of love and support I felt when someone looked out for my child during the chaos, that’s the feeling it’ll emanate, that’s the feeling that will pull us through.

With talks of a Lebanon war around Pesach time, and the possibility of sirens restarting again real soon, we know we need to be more prepared this time around for the sake of our children and community.

Can you help us? Can you help us build our Chabad Center into a place of healing? Can you be part of that huge hug and feeling of love and support from family and friends around the world?

We need to raise $62,000 more to complete the renovations, and your contribution will make all of the difference.

And soon, we’ll pinch ourselves again, this time hoping we don’t wake up—that too good can also be true.

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