Opinion

The ravages of war have come close to home

I’ve never truly faced the reality of my own children’s fates.

A child holds an Israeli flag ahead of Israel's 73rd Independence Day at a kindergarten in Moshav Yashresh, April 13, 2021. Photo by Yossi Aloni/Flash90.
A child holds an Israeli flag ahead of Israel's 73rd Independence Day at a kindergarten in Moshav Yashresh, April 13, 2021. Photo by Yossi Aloni/Flash90.
Rabbi Hayim Leiter. Credit: Courtesy.
Rav Hayim Leiter
Hayim Leiter is a rabbi, mohel, wedding officiant and member of a private beit din in Israel. He founded Magen HaBrit, an organization that protects the ceremony of brit milah and the children who undergo it. He lives in Efrat and can be reached on X.

Life in Israel often mirrors the emotional ebbs and flows of rabbinic work—you can go from an emotional high to the lowest of lows in mere moments—and the war has only exacerbated this reality.

I’m blessed to serve as a mohel. These happy occasions feel like brief vacations from the relentless waves of rockets and bad news that have been plaguing the country. Shabbat Chanukah was much the same. Sirens blared at 2:15 a.m., jarring us awake, as part of the Houthis plan to ruin the “Festival of Lights.” As my family and I huddled in the safe room, we felt lucky. This was our first major disruption, whereas central Israel had sirens in the middle of the previous three nights. What would the remainder of the holiday be like?

The Shabbat attack made the next day’s brit milah that much sweeter. The event overlooked a breathtaking view of the Judean hills. All who were present sang together as the new baby was brought into the covenant. But as with all happy occasions, the time came to return to normal life. I had a shiva call to make.

Most days, I pray the afternoon service at the mall below my home. Many of the shop owners attend this gathering, and I’ve gotten to know them. One afternoon recently, someone pointed out that one of the shops was closed and that there was a sign attached to the window.

The owner’s son had fallen in Gaza.

As I made my way from the bris to the shiva home, I worried about what the experience might be like. My first encounter with tragedy like this was many years beforehand when I was studying to be a rabbi. The Merkaz HaRav Yeshiva in Jerusalem was ravaged by a gun-wielding terrorist who murdered many of the teenage students. One of the families who suffered that unthinkable loss lived near the school I attended. The students and faculty came to pay their respects, as did many across the country.

The parents of the murdered boy were long divorced but still lived next door to one another. We went from one home to the next and sat with both. Jewish law dictates that the mourner sets the pace. Those who come to comfort do not initiate conversation. The intention is to give mourners space to open the dialogue as they see fit, setting aside our own assumptions about what they might need.

We visited the mother’s home first. There were many people in attendance, both family members and visitors. There was an air of heaviness but much love as we heard stories of her late son. When the time came, we offered her the traditional condolences and made our way to the father’s home.

The two experiences couldn’t have been more opposite.

The father sat alone in a dimly lit room. No one else was there. He stared at us with pain-filled eyes for what felt like an eternity. Not a word was said. When it came time to leave, we offered the traditional condolences and made our way back to school. That particular interaction remains in the back of my mind when I now make shiva calls, especially tragic ones.

When I arrived at the fallen soldier’s home, I waited to see what conversation would ensue. Unlike the time I sat in silence, there was a constant stream of people approaching the parents and offering condolences. There was only one point when the father was able to tell us anything about his son.

Just then, an unassuming elderly gentleman entered and sat down. The mother turned to him and asked: “Does it ever get any easier?”

He must have lost a child in one of Israel’s wars. “You need to keep living. You have to keep living,” the man repeated. You could see the pain in his eyes as he instructed them. There was a momentary pause. Then he said, “one of my great-grandchildren just enlisted.” Not long after this back and forth, I offered condolences before heading to my next emotionally charged event.

As I drove away, I realized that I had been living in a state of denial since our first child was born. Through all that’s happened since Oct 7, 2023, this shop owner is the first person I’ve known to lose a child in war. Having lived in this bubble, I’ve never truly faced the reality of my own children’s fates. Of course, I knew it was coming, but it always seemed distant—like it was happening to someone else, somewhere else. I had this foolish vision of a peaceful world just beyond the horizon that would be ushered in before my firstborn’s induction into the army.

The combination of the shop owner and the elderly gentleman made everything clear. The time is coming when I’ll spend sleepless nights wishing I could protect what I hold most dear, though it will be entirely beyond my control. All I’ll have left is prayer. I’ll beseech the Almighty that they’ll return home safely and that one day soon this rollercoaster we’re all on will reach its final destination, and we‘ll find some respite.

The opinions and facts presented in this article are those of the author, and neither JNS nor its partners assume any responsibility for them.
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