I was born and bred in Sderot. My father was the first Chabad shliach here, and I’ve been honored to carry on his legacy. The wail of the siren warning impending rockets has been a part of my life since I was eleven years old. Back then, the sharp sound of the siren filled me with an excitement that only a child could misconstrue.
“People are going to know we exist!” I announced. “Sderot will be on the news!”
It didn’t take long for that excitement to evolve into fear, and fear to evolve into terror. But nothing compares to the heartbreak of watching my children learn that same terror.
Although war has become our “normal,” we were just as surprised and devastated as the rest of the country on Simchas Torah. Instead of the joyful dancing we’d anticipated, our family was woken by sirens at 6 AM.
We already knew then that something was different. Instead of the usual one or two booms, dozens of thunderous blasts reverberated throughout the house. While we huddled in the bomb shelter, I planned the rest of the day.
“I know we won’t have as large of a crowd,” I told my wife. “But I’m scheduled to meet your father later at the Chabad house for the meal we planned.”
Once the sirens died down, I prepared to leave for shul. I was almost ready, when my phone rang. It was unusual enough to get a call on Yom Tov, but I was shocked to see my father-in-law’s name lighting up the screen.
“Why would my father call on chag?” my wife asked.
I knew he wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t an absolute emergency, so I quickly picked up.
“Where are you?” my father-in-law’s voice roared from the phone.
“About to leave for mikvah,” I responded.
“DON’T!” he screamed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
My father-in-law breathed deeply on the other end of the phone.
“Terrorists are roaming the streets and breaking into homes, killing every Jew they find,” he explained, his voice quiet and serious. “You need to hide. Now.”
I looked at my wife, my eyes wide with fear. We gathered our kids into the bomb shelter, locked ourselves in, and started calling anyone we could. We knew most people had turned their phones off, but we still kept trying. My father-in-law’s call saved my life, and I hoped my call could save another.
Once we were eventually released and returned to our shul, accompanied by soldiers, our real work began. I learned over 100 of our friends and neighbors had been killed in a few bloody hours. Dozens of families needed support, soldiers needed chizuk and supplies, and many needed help escaping the south for the relative safety of northern Israel. Every shlichus requires mesiras nefesh of one kind or another. We’re here to provide whatever aid we can.
