I can’t talk about it. 

Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m not allowed to. Not in a “if I told you I’d have to kill you” sort of way — I’m not privy to classified secrets.. But I do live here in Beit Shemesh, and when things go boom around us, unless they’re on the news (which means they were cleared by military censors), even ordinary citizens are forbidden to talk about the details.

As the old saying goes: “Loose lips sink ships.”

It’s a legitimate concern. The fear is that enemies could learn where rockets landed and adjust their aim. The last thing we want is better aim next time. 

It’s no secret that a direct missile strike hit Beit Shemesh and killed nine people a few weeks ago, in what we hope will have been the deadliest incident of the war with Iran. My cousins, who live nearby, felt their house shake. My wife’s coworker, who lives even closer, heard windows shattering in the homes around her. 

Other incidents have happened far too close to home, whether it be from shrapnel damage of intercepted missiles, or outright hits that got through the formidable defenses that help protect us from the daily barrage hurled by our enemies.

If I can’t talk about that, let me talk about something else. 

Following October 7, 2023, my eldest, Avi, was desperate to find ways to help the war effort. Having not lifted a rifle in the 13 years or so since his service in the Israel Air Force, the IDF wasn’t so interested in him at the time. So he joined his dear friend, Avi Goldberg, and worked day and night helping the shell-shocked, displaced families from Israel’s south, whose lives and homes had been overturned — sometimes quite literally.

There was no shortage of work — furnishing apartments, buying clothes and bedding, and helping families navigate medical and emotional crises in a new city. 

But the gnawing feeling of longing to rejoin the IDF in one capacity or another never faded. Avi kept replying to postings for open positions, trying to get his foot in the........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)