I live in a religious neighbourhood just north of Haifa, which means the siren goes off every Friday afternoon, half an hour before sunset. But for 11 months, the Shabbat siren has been silent, so people don’t get confused, even though the Shabbat siren is a steady tone while the rocket siren is an eerie rise and fall that invades every corner of your dreams.
We’ve been lucky so far. For 11 months, we’ve reassured relatives in Canada that we’re “not that far” north. Not like the 60,000 people evacuated from cities like Kiryat Shmona. Not living, like a friend near Safed, with thuds and bangs from Hezbollah’s daily attacks.
Despite a few sirens early on, despite a scary start to Pesach huddled in our shelter room, we’ve been OK.
But now, three days in a row, our “not that far north” neighbourhood has been shaken by sirens. By the heart-stopping crash and thump of explosions overhead, friendly missiles taking down scary ones.
Except there’s no such thing as friendly missiles, and kids here are petrified. They’re crying and refusing to come out of shelter rooms. Which is OK, because school is cancelled anyway. What did we expect?
The global media says Israel is “bombarding” Lebanon. That Israel must stand down, cease its aggression, play nicely with its friends in the region.
But right now, I couldn’t be prouder. Our government sees those lives lost, those homes and businesses wrecked, those children screaming in shelters, and refuses to be numb. They’re doing what every moral government must do: defend its citizens.
It was the wail of the siren, rising and falling, that woke me up this morning. It was the thud of Iron Dome interceptions that got my heart pounding like no cup of coffee ever could. But as I sat down at my desk, it was another sound that made me start writing.
A shofar. Outside my window, with war planes roaring and the ground shuddering on both sides of the border, it’s Elul and Rosh Hashanah is a week away.
It’s insane what you can convince yourself is normal.
Back in October 2023, when there’d be a rocket alert, you’d say, “Oh, it’s only Kissufim” or “it’s only Ashkelon.” Like that’s normal. Like sitting in Toronto and saying, “Well, what did those folks in Windsor expect? Look how close they are to Michigan.”
Over the months, as the war shifted north, you’d say, “Oh, it’s only Kiryat Shmona… Shlomi… Tel Hai… Nahariya… Majdal Shams.” Places even most Israelis don’t care about. Nobody blames the people there… but it can’t help that the government officially calls that area the “Confrontation Line.” What did they expect?
Jewish tradition tells us that Rabbi Akiva was convinced he could learn Torah at age 40 by seeing a hole carved in a rock by the steady drip, drip, dripping of water over the years.
This war has been like that, a steady drip, wearing us down in the face of what should be unimaginable violence.
Drip, drip, drip: a cluster of rockets, just a few, just 10 or 20 or 50. In places near the edges; not surprising at all. A home destroyed, or two, or five; who knows where? Moreshet, Kiryat Bialik, Kadita, Katzrin, there have been so many. A kibbutz worker killed, three soldiers, 12 Druze children, what did they expect?
Drip, drip, drip, like water on stone, the horror has numbed us.
The rest of the world pretends it’s not happening. Or at least, that none of it matters. Calling this “Israel’s war with Hamas,” like a schoolyard fight; like Hamas is the only player. Condemning Israel’s defense of its northern border; ignoring 20 years of Hezbollah’s systematic violation of UN Resolution 1701, which called for no armed personnel in southern Lebanon except the Lebanese army, and which was supposed to keep us safe.
What’s up there has grown into a monster over that time. The world’s most heavily armed non-state actor. The eighth-largest weapons arsenal: 150,000 to 200,000 rockets and missiles pointed not just at Kiryat Shmona but at Haifa, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Be’er Sheva, and even Eilat. A seasoned army of 50,000 soldiers, battle-tested during the Syrian civil war, with infinite supply lines through friendly neighbouring countries. Tunnel networks that would put Hamas to shame, built up one drip of water, one sack of concrete, at a time.
There’s a reason we’ve been trying to avoid a third Lebanon war. We didn’t win the first two, and it’s bound to be a big, scary mess. Our army is tired. We’re not ready. And anyway, it’s just… it’s just… it’s just.
Drip, drip, drip.
But now, it may have started anyway.
Because last week, our government woke up. The world is never going to support Israel. Only Israel can support Israel.
We had a couple of days of fun pager memes, chortling over the sheer chutzpah. Except we were also cringing, waiting to see what would happen next.
Now, our army has swept in to do what it does best. After warning Lebanese civilians to get out of homes where missiles are being stored (In attics! In living rooms!), it’s picking apart that monster — one village stronghold at a time.
The monster is wide awake now, lobbing heavy barrages not “just” to the usual places, but all over the heartland of the Galilee, Tiberias, Haifa, and points southward.
Like Jews throughout history, we have no idea how the coming days will play out.
So we do what we’ve always done. Stand and face judgment. Pray for life. And sound a blast that heals shattered souls and gives us the strength to carry on—through whatever might come next.
Am Yisrael Chai.
Jennifer Tzivia MacLeod is a Canadian journalist and children’s writer who moved to northern Israel in 2013. Click here to learn more about her writing.
