Sirens in Shiloh: Pesach in Israel, 5786

“What brings you to Israel?”

Any other year, the response to that question, asked by an old acquaintance I bumped into at minyan one morning, would have been obvious. But I knew what he meant. He meant, “With sirens blaring and rockets overhead, what still brings you to Israel for Pesach?” So in my response, I included the details that I knew would answer his actual question: I was there to spend the chag with my daughter while her husband is in miluim (army reserve duty). “Ah,” my old friend replied, “That explains it.”

In truth, with rockets from Iran and its proxies flying all over the country and the broader Middle East, having the opportunity to spend the chag in the Holy Land was not as simple as it might have been in the past. Between canceled flights, rescheduled flights, canceled rescheduled flights and rescheduled canceled flights, I was not confident we were going to make it at all. And yet, chasdei Hashem, we got there, and even while standing in the underground parking lot that became the makeshift shul so that we would not have to run to a shelter if the sirens went off during davening, I was elated to be there.

My son-in-law has been in and out of Gaza since October 7. As a sign of how quickly things have been happening since that awful day, I never thought I would ever say, “Thank G-d, he’s in Gaza” when friends ask me how he’s doing. But despite the relative calm where he is, I still felt the weight of worry fly off my shoulders when we learned that he would be getting a break from his army duty for Seder night and even a few days of Chol Hamoed. We were able to spend quality time with the whole family.

While we knew some other people who took the risk and flew to Israel to visit family during the war, tourism was definitely light and most places were closed. Tearing keriah on the stairs overlooking the closed-to-the public and inaccessible Kotel definitely took on an added meaning. Still, we tried to keep the trip as normal as possible. On one Chol Hamoed day, my wife, daughter, son-in-law and son decided to do something really touristy and go to Shiloh to visit the place where the mishkan stood for 369 years before the construction of the first Beit Hamikdash. When you walk into the ancient area of Shiloh, you see many excavation sites on your way to the mishkan platform: residential houses, the standard olive press, a system of hideout caves that Jews used during the rebellion against Rome, and various remnants of the colonizing forces that took control of our land at one time or another.

It was a beautiful day in the Samarian Hills, and knowing that we were standing in the exact place where Yehoshua apportioned the land to the tribes, and kohanim brought sacrifices to Hashem on behalf of the Jewish people, was inspiring. To pour out our hearts to Hashem precisely where Chana poured out her heart to Hashem, pleading for a son and having her prayer answered, is an experience not soon forgotten and not to be taken for granted.

And then, as happened often during our stay, our idyllic scene was interrupted. In unison, our phones blared and a notification in Hebrew, Arabic, English and Russian flashed on our screens, reading, “Alerts are expected in a few minutes. Find the best protection around. When receiving an alert, enter the protected space until further notice.” Within minutes, sirens blared as, we later learned, missiles were launched simultaneously from Iran, Lebanon and Yemen. We needed to find shelter, and fast. But where could we run? We were standing in an archaeological excavation, an open field surrounded by ruins and placards.

Then we remembered the placard that literally told us where to go for safety: the hideout system.

So we ran back to those ancient caves and climbed down. (Someone had constructed a newish wooden ladder so tourists could enter the caves.) We waited for the sirens to stop: my soldier son-in-law, my scientist daughter, my rabbi son, my wife and I sitting together in the same caves that Jews used two thousand years ago to hide from the Romans.

As we sat in the ancient structure, listening to the barrage of booms as the Iron Dome intercepted the missiles overhead, I thought about the irony of the situation. For two thousand years, people have been trying to remove us from our land. For two thousand years, we have fought back. Sometimes we won and stayed; sometimes we lost only to return later. But return we did.

Then, as quiet returned to the skies, our phones rang once again in unison with the “all clear” message. We emerged from our ancient refuge and back into the sunlight. A few days later, my son-in-law returned to his army post in Gaza. My daughter went back to her lab at the Weizmann Institute. And the American branch of our family, at least for a few more days before flying home, continued our own resistance by living our lives once again as free Jews in the land of our forefathers.

Stephen Glicksman, Ph.D., is a licensed developmental psychologist and director of clinical innovation at Makor Care & Services Network. He also teaches at Yeshiva University.