The siren wails. Again. My hands shake as I grab my phone and water bottle, muscle memory kicking in as I run to the shelter.
But I'm not just running on adrenaline – I'm running on faith. Raw, unfiltered, sometimes-questioning-but-never-breaking faith.
You see, when you grow up religious, you learn early that Hashem isn't just some distant force – He's in every breath, every moment, every near miss. They taught me this in school, but now I'm living it. Between the booms of Iron Dome interceptions, I'm living it.
Sometimes I find myself davening in weird places. Yesterday, I finished Shacharit crouched in a stairwell. The day before, I said Mincha in a bomb shelter with strangers. And you know what? Those prayers felt more real than any I've ever said in shul. Because when death feels close, G-d feels closer.
I was raised on stories of Techiyat HaMeitim – the resurrection of the dead. As a kid, it was just another thing to memorize for tests. But now it's what gets me through reading the news. When I see the names and faces of the kedoshim, of our fallen soldiers and civilians, I cling to this promise like a lifeline. This isn't the end. It can't be. Hashem promised.
The rabbis never said faith would make us fearless. They said it would make us strong. There's a difference. I'm terrified every time I hear a boom. My heart races when my phone buzzes with another alert. But beneath the fear, there's something solid. Unshakeable. The knowledge that Hashem has a plan, that He is all-seeing and all-knowing and all-powerful.
They taught us that "Gam zu l'tovah" – this too is for the good. Easy to say in peaceful times. Harder to say when you're counting dead and missing.
One of the most difficult scenes I watched recently (and believe me when I say that there have been many) was the father of a fallen soldier reciting Mizmor Letodah (Tehilim ) at his son's funeral.
But here's the raw truth: without believing there's purpose to this pain, I'd break. So I choose to believe. Every day, I choose to believe.
Between sirens, I find myself muttering tehillim. Not because I'm so holy – because I'm so scared. But maybe that's what real faith is. Not the polished prayers in peaceful times, but the desperate whispers in dark moments. "Shema Yisrael" said with trembling lips.
So when I hear the boom before the siren, and as I run to find shelter, I find myself repeating what my teacher taught me years ago: "Ein od milvado" – there is none besides Him. Not as a calm meditation, but as a desperate mantra. Because when rockets are flying, you need to believe Someone's in control. And it sure isn't us.
This war is stripping away every pretense about faith. There's no room for religious performance when you're sharing a bomb shelter with strangers. No time for philosophical debates when the sirens are wailing. Just raw, primal faith. The kind that screams and cries and hopes and believes all at once.
They taught me about faith in school. But I'm learning about it for real now, between sirens and shelters, between tears and tehillim. This is faith with dirt under its fingernails. Faith with tears in its eyes. Faith that knows fear but chooses trust anyway.
Because at the end of the day, what choice do we have? Without the anchor of faith, the fear would drown us. So we hold on. We pray. We argue with G-d. We thank G-d. We cry to G-d. And somehow, between the sirens and the shadows, we find Him waiting for us, as He always has been.
This is my faith now. Raw. Real. Unpolished. Unashamed. This is what they prepared me for, even if I didn't know it then. This is how religious Judaism keeps me whole when the world is breaking apart.