While the Walls Shook

While the Walls Shook

By Ellie Azerad

We are living in dark times.

Since October 7, life has become a totally different kind of normal.

But now, ever since Iran launched missiles at us on Thursday night, there’s been a new heaviness in the air, an extra weight we’re all carrying. And still, I hesitated to write this.

Because who am I to speak?

I live in a mostly American neighborhood in Yerushalayim. Most of us are here temporarily as students. We did not make Aliyah , and that means our men are not being called up to fight.

I know what that means.

I know what it doesn’t mean.

So what I’m sharing here is not pretend it compares to what others are going through. It’s simply to give you a small, honest glimpse of what it looks like to live here right now , inside the tension of the ordinary and the unthinkable.

Thursday Night: Sirens in the Dark

It started Thursday night. The sirens wailed in the middle of the night, jolting us awake. We grabbed the kids and ran down to the miklat , the communal bomb shelter in the basement of our building.

Some buildings in Israel have a mamad, a private reinforced room inside the apartment. But ours is older. So when the sirens go off, everyone heads downstairs , in pajamas and slippers, clutching blankets, water bottles, and of course,Tehillim.

One child looked scared. And right away, another kid turned to him and said:

“Don’t be scared. Do you know how much chessed our neighborhood does? Instead of being scared, let’s daven for all the soldiers and for everyone in Eretz Yisrael.”

The children of Yerushalayim.

Friday: The Day of Waiting

Friday morning came, and with it came the whispers , maybe another attack was coming. Bigger. People stocked up on food and water. They cleaned and tidied their miklats. It was a day of waiting… and watching.

And in my building, something beautiful happened.

Our neighbor , a gruff, no-nonsense Israeli man who usually runs the building like a military base , told the kids they could turn the miklat into a carnival.

This is a man who doesn’t tolerate noise or mess. But he heard what may happen . So he gave them permission to take over the space , to laugh, to play, to eat treats and hang up signs.

They turned it into a place they wouldn’t fear coming back to.

Friday Night: Sirens and Singing

We were just about to wash for hamotzi when the sirens came again.

We dropped everything and went down.

The men sang. They handed out whiskey. The kids played and davened.

And while the walls of our building shook from the impact of explosions,

the walls of our miklat shook from Emunah in Hashem.

Because this is what we do here.

We cry.

We daven.

We make soup.

We clean our floors.

We sing.

We Are Not Fighting On the Front Lines

Let me say this clearly: we are not the ones sacrificing.

So many incredible families across this country have sent their husbands and sons to war. I have incredible friends whose husbands are fighting for us right now. They are living day by day, FOR OVER 1.5 YEARS, doing bedtime alone, holding down the home, while their husbands, their boys sleep in tents and tunnels, risking their lives for all of us.

We feel it.

And we don’t take it lightly , not for a second.

It feels almost absurd. To stand in our warm clean kitchens, chopping vegetables.

And that’s exactly why the women in my community started Eshet Chayal , not because it fixes anything. But because we had to do something. Anything.

Every single week since October 7, the wonderful women in my community packs up care packages for soldiers’ wives and children , toys, cakes, handwritten notes, chocolate, candles.

Not because it’s enough.

Because it isn’t.

But it’s the only way we know how to say: we see you. We haven’t forgotten you. We’re holding you close in our hearts every single day.

Living in the In-Between

And so here we are.

We make Shabbos. We wipe counters. We fold laundry.

And in the very same breath, we whisper Tehillim.

We think about boys in green uniforms.

We hug our kids tighter, knowing there are mothers who wish they could.

A friend of mine just had a baby.  She had to grab her newborn and run to the miklat in the hospital.

That’s what birth looks like here now.

Hiding with your hours-old baby in a shelter underground.

Another friend shared with me this: just a few hours before Shabbos, a woman was in labor. Breathing through contractions, one after another.

My friend overheard this woman, but instead of crying out about her own pain, she was davening aloud:

“Please, Hashem… let my pain take away pain from my brothers and sisters who are fighting for us.

Let my contractions be instead of whatever suffering You were planning for our people.

Please, Hashem… take this pain and turn it into a kaparah.”

She wasn’t praying for herself.

She was praying for all of Am Yisroel.

Even in her most vulnerable, agonizing moment, she offered up her pain for the nation.

Because this is who we are.

It’s a strange kind of life.

But maybe it’s always been this way.

We’ve been in galus for so long, we started to believe galus life was normal.

But it’s not.

This isn’t normal.

It never was.

So we daven harder.

We dance in the miklat.

We teach our kids songs of emunah and kapitlach of Tehillim.

We build organizations.

We bring food to neighbors.

We wipe tears and text each other “Besoros Tovos.”

Because even when the walls shake…

Even when we feel so far from peace…

Even when our role feels small compared to others…

We are still part of this story.

And we’re not letting go of each other.

Ellie