On Being Here While Everything Is Happening There

Watching a war unfold from a distance while my kids are in it, trying to process what’s happening, and the relentless pull to be there

Being a Jew is complicated. Being an Israeli Jew adds another layer. Being an American-Israeli Jew, far from home while a war is going on, is a different kind of complicated.

I keep going back and forth on what I’m supposed to be feeling right now. Part of me knows that something genuinely important is happening, and a long-standing threat is finally being confronted in a serious way.

For decades, a small group of deeply ideological leaders has held the Iranian people hostage while exporting violence far beyond their borders. The Islamic Republic of Iran hasn’t just been another hostile regime. It has been the central engine of terror in the region, funding proxy wars, arming terror groups, and deliberately spreading instability across the Middle East and beyond.

And I think it’s important to say that out loud. If someone can’t appreciate that, and sadly there are many who cannot, if they can’t see this as something that actually moves the world in a better direction, then something in their moral compass needs recalibrating.

At the same time, there’s fear, there’s anxiety, and there’s the reality that every step in that direction comes with a price that real people are paying.

The Israeli neighborhood of Beit Shemesh brought that into focus in a all-too-real way. It’s not a front-line city. It’s a regular place where people live their lives. And then suddenly there’s a direct hit and so many lives are lost. We’ve gotten used to a certain level of protection, especially with the Iron Dome. Beit Shemesh is a reminder of what Israel’s security would look like without it.

All throughout the country, people are running to shelters.

As I am writing this, my Homefront App, set for my home address, is sending off an alert to immediately enter the shelter.

Soldiers are once again leaving their homes, saying goodbye to their families, and heading out. Lives are being disrupted in ways that are hard to fully grasp from the outside.

So I find myself sitting with both of those reactions at once, and it feels uncomfortable to even admit that. Who am I to sit here and process my own emotions when so much bigger is happening and people are actually paying the price for it?

But the honest answer is that it’s both.

There’s also a personal piece to all of this that I almost feel guilty even bringing up, but it’s real. Once again, we were out of the country when it happened, and we can’t get home.

We had everything ready before Shabbat. Suitcases packed, food prepared for the flight. We even scheduled the Uber for right after Shabbat so we could head straight to the airport. I remember thinking maybe I would hold off on putting avocado on the turkey sandwiches because something in the back of my mind said, this might not actually happen.

When I got to shul Shabbat morning, I saw the security guard outside, which in itself is a quiet reminder of the reality Jews live with even here. I said good morning and asked him if he knew anything. He didn’t hesitate. Israel and the United States had initiated a coordinated attack early that morning.

I won’t repeat what I said in that moment, but it wasn’t what he expected to hear from someone wrapped in a tallit.

And then everything hit at once. Part of me immediately thought this could change everything, that this might actually shift the balance in the region in a meaningful way. At the exact same time, I realized I’m probably not getting home anytime soon, and my thoughts went straight to my kids. Are they going to be called back to fight? Where are they right now? What does this mean for them?

That’s really what this moment is. It’s personal, national, and historical all happening at once, and there’s no way to separate those layers.

And then I realized what we were about to do in shul.

It was Shabbat Zachor.

Once a year, on the Shabbat before Purim, we read about Amalek, the archenemy of the Jewish people, always poised to strike at the most vulnerable moment. Haman, the villain of the Purim story, who hatched a genocidal plan to annihilate the Jews and served as the architect of an original “Final Solution,” was the chief advisor to the Persian king, second in command of the empire, and a descendant of Amalek.

This all goes down in Persia, 2,500 years ago. Haman, operating from within an empire, working toward total destruction.

The Jews fight back and assassinate Haman, their Supreme Leader, as well as his ten sons, the IRCG of the time.

Illuminated Scroll of Esther: the Ten Sons of Haman hanging from the gallows.

And then you look at today. Iran is Persia. The rhetoric is not that different. “Little Satan.” “Great Satan.” Decades of building toward confrontation and trying to position themselves as the force that would ultimately destroy Israel.

This isn’t history moving forward in a linear fashion; it’s a pattern repeating itself, just with different names and weapons.

And then there’s the timing.

The Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Khamenei, gets taken out on Shabbat Zachor, the very day we read about Amalek, just days before Purim. It’s not something you would write into a script because it would feel too Hollywood. And yet that’s exactly when it happens.

All of this was happening while we were in the middle of Shabbat, which creates its own kind of tension. On a normal week, being unplugged is a gift. But in a moment like this, it’s difficult. You’re sitting there without information, and your mind keeps going to the same questions. What’s happening? Are my kids okay? Is everyone okay?

Your body is in shul, but your attention is somewhere else entirely.

And underneath all of that is something that’s hard to explain but very real, which is the pull to go home.

It doesn’t make logical sense. There are rockets, there are sirens, there is real danger. And still, everything in you wants to be there. Not somewhere safe, but there. Because it’s not really about safety. It’s about being with your people when they are going through traumatic events and not watching it on CNN and Fox News. It’s the exact reason why we picked up and relocated to Israel in the first place.

It’s a form of FOMO, I guess you could say. But we sacrificed so much to be able to be a part of the nation just for these moments, and instead we are locked out, watching it from afar.

My kids are in shelters. One is heading north with his IDF unit toward Lebanon. My son-in-law is anticipating being called up to bolster forces in Gaza.

And we’re not there. We’re not in the house, not sitting around the table, not physically present for any of it. That distance makes everything feel heavier.

And still, even with all of that, there is an awareness that something huge is happening.

It doesn’t remove the fear or the real trauma that so many are going through.

It just sits there with it.

We don’t know how this ends, and there’s still a lot we don’t see. But it does feel like one of those moments that could lead to something different.

Hopefully something better.

For now, we’re here, waiting, trying to hold all of this at once. And, of course, praying like crazy for all those who are missing, wounded, and fighting on our behalf.

Thanks for reading,

David