In the Shadow of Sirens: A Letter from David Rozenson

David Rozenson

June 30, 2025

Dear Friends,

It’s impossible to send out our July newsletter without taking a moment to first reflect on what Israel has just endured. For twelve days, missiles and drones from Iran filled our skies. Sirens emptied our streets. Ordinary daily life came to a standstill. Workplaces, schools, and all institutions – including Beit Avi Chai – were shuttered.

And yet, alongside the hardship and uncertainty, there was also pride. Pride in the extraordinary achievements of the IDF and the Air Force, who – thank God – rose to meet this moment with strength, precision, and resolve. This time, alongside the pain on the home front, there was also much to be proud of.

And amidst it all – almost immediately – life pushed back.

With everything disrupted, our team adapted almost overnight – offering a daily lineup of online programs for adults, children, and teens alike. Each morning, 150 adults joined a text-based class on Zoom – broadcast not from our studio, but from the educator’s home. Afternoons and early evenings were dedicated to younger audiences: hundreds – sometimes over a thousand – kids across Israel logged in to draw, sing, learn, and laugh together. Among them was a child released from captivity in Gaza. Now, he was once again a child of Israel – joining the others with quiet faith and spirit.

In the afternoons and early evenings, teens and young adults came together – studying texts, sharing reflections, and simply spending time with one another. All of it online. All of it open to the country.

Jerusalem – the city where I have the privilege to live with my family – offered moments of resilience as well. One morning, in between sirens, I stood in line at a neighborhood store to buy water for our shelter. A few people ahead of me stood Natan Sharansky – shorts, green cap, quiet presence. We exchanged a few hopeful words. Minutes later, I noticed a forgotten mobile phone on the counter. The screen lit up with a photo of Avital, smiling, her hand gently resting on Natan’s shoulder. I immediately understood who had left it behind. I called Avital. “Oh,” she sighed, “he’s done it again.” That small moment – so ordinary, yet filled with history – lifted my spirits.

And then last Thursday at 7 am, my son Moshe stood at his base near Eilat for his beret ceremony (טקס כומתה) – an important milestone for every new soldier. Because of the war, parents weren’t allowed to attend in person. And yet, the army made it possible for us to join remotely, broadcasting the ceremony live on Zoom. Just as the soldiers lined up, sirens blared in Jerusalem. We ran to the shelter. The Zoom didn’t cut. So there we sat – my kids in pajamas, huddled between bottled water, flashlights, and pillows – watching Moshe and 150 young soldiers stand tall, ready to defend our land. They had just completed an all-night march – hours of walking and running, without sleep – completely exhausted, yet singing Hatikvah with deep focus, emotion, and strength. It was the kind of moment that stays with you forever.

And just a day after the war with Iran ended, 100 new olim landed at Ben Gurion from France, Spain, the UK, and the Netherlands. Some headed straight from the airport – not just to unpack, but to enlist in the IDF.