“Battlefields will turn into wheat fields—you’ll see. We’ll return and raise children here again.”
שדה הקרב יהפוך לשיבולים -עוד תראה שנחזור ונגדל פה ילדים.
Not in spite of the current reality—but because of it.
We are a nation who knows suffering, but also resilience. We’ve lived through exiles, pogroms, the Holocaust, countless wars. And somehow, we always rise again. Fear, grieving—but standing. Stronger.
These days are not entirely unfamiliar to us, but they are different. The Iranian missiles are not like those of Hamas or Hezbollah—they are more accurate, more destructive, more deadly.
Twenty-four civilians have been killed. Over 200 wounded. More than 2,000 families have lost their homes.
The lines have blurred—there is no longer a clear front and rear. Everything is the frontline now.
We, the citizens, are soldiers without uniforms. Planning when to leave the house. Timing travel. Preparing the protected space. Helping those in need. Living by a clock that ticks with tension.
And, as always in Israel, even in these moments—there is disagreement.
But when it comes to Iran, there seems to be consensus: We must deal with the threat. The real debate is how.
- Should Israel pursue a long-term campaign against Iran, knowing our civilians are now the frontline?
- Should the war continue when Washington still hesitates to step out of its observer’s role?
- Will Iran become Gaza 2—which has already claimed hundreds of lives and is still unresolved?
These are hard questions for a government that has so far struggled to function properly.
There’s deep concern here that the campaign against Iran will become another Gaza—dragging on endlessly, costing us our best sons and daughters, still waiting for our hostages.
I write to you from Haifa.
Two days ago, we endured a heavy missile barrage.
We are used to the sounds—the sirens, the interceptions, the thunderous noise. We’ve learned to distinguish between a direct hit and falling shrapnel.
But this time, we were among those hit.
Our home was hit. The utility balcony took the brunt. Not a total loss—but now we’re part of the statistics.
Abraham, my husband, didn’t wait for professionals. He’s already begun repairs. That’s how it is here: You don’t wait for it all to pass. You rebuild, even as it continues.
You, in Boston, may be far away—but your presence is felt deeply here.
Not only as friends, but as partners in this journey.
You are part of the wheat fields that will bloom again.
You are part of our family.
You are our backbone—at every moment.
And together, we will see a new generation rise, to continue building the Jewish state.
Bring them home—every single one.
This post has been contributed by a third party. The opinions, facts and any media content are presented solely by the author, and JewishBoston assumes no responsibility for them. Want to add your voice to the conversation? Publish your own post here. MORE
