I’m writing this three days before Pessach. The weather has been unpredictably cold, and once again, our lives have been turned upside down by war.

For the past month, the “Lion’s Roar” operation has been unfolding between Israel, the U.S., and Iran. Two weeks in, Hezbollah joined the fray. By Friday, the Houthis had entered as well.

Many of us had planned a joyful Pessach months ago. Tourists expected to visit loved ones in Israel, or to enjoy hotels and Airbnbs with catered meals. Olim had planned trips abroad to reconnect with family and friends.

All of those plans have now been canceled or drastically rearranged.

Yeshiva and seminary students spent hours pleading with El Al for seats on flights carrying just 50–100 passengers. Others, whose flights were canceled, have taken risky routes through Taba, Amman, or Aqaba—just for a chance at a semblance of normalcy outside Israel.

And for those of us who stayed—or had no choice but to stay—the stress has been relentless. Many of us have husbands, sons, sons-in-law, or close family members in the army. This war is not abstract; it is deeply personal.

Pessach is fast approaching. Purim was only a month ago. And yet, after countless sleepless nights—waiting for sirens or jolted awake by them—we barely have the energy to think about cleaning, cooking, menu planning, or Seder preparations. Add to that children who have been out of school for weeks, with little structure or routine, and the overwhelm becomes crushing.

In central Israel, life means constant movement in and out of the mamad (home shelter) or the miklat (communal shelter). Even in Jerusalem and other areas with fewer rockets, the mere thought of a siren is enough to send chills down our spines and drain whatever energy we have left.

For the elderly or infirm, the situation is even more precarious. You have about 15 minutes from the warning—and if you miss it, sometimes just 30 seconds—to reach shelter. Elevators are not an option. For those living on higher floors, navigating stairs quickly can be dangerous, especially in a rush.

With all of this, who is really thinking about Pessach preparation?

Ironically, there have been more injuries from rushing to shelters than from the missiles themselves.

Families with young children face enormous challenges—especially if the nearest miklat is several flights down or not even in their building. During the day, it’s difficult. At night, it borders on torture.

And then there are the miluim wives—home alone with multiple small children, no nearby support, and the impossible task of getting everyone to safety in the middle of the night while already exhausted. It is nothing short of excruciating.

Beyond the immediate danger is the constant fear for our loved ones serving in the army.

Many of us still carry the emotional scars of the Gaza war, when opening the newspaper each morning meant bracing for devastating news. That same fear lingers now—unspoken, hovering just beneath the surface.

For army families, this war is an emotional rollercoaster. Our soldiers move in and out of dangerous areas. The threat of missiles is one thing—but the fear of what might happen to them on the battlefield is something else entirely. It keeps us awake even when the sirens don’t.

As a parent of a chayal, I can say that homecomings are bittersweet. There is immense joy in having them home—doing their laundry (truly, even with the unbearable smell), cooking their favorite meals, letting them relax however they want.

While they are home, it feels like bliss.

But the hours leading up to their return to the army—sent to unknown places, for unknown missions—are filled with unbearable anxiety.

How do we cope with all of this?

For me, it’s a combination of emotional survival techniques: ice face immersion, Qi Gong, somatic experiencing therapy, weekly cranio-sacral sessions, weightlifting, painting, eating well, and the occasional swim—if I can even get a spot, given the current restrictions.

And beyond all of that, there is faith.

But even faith wears thin after nearly three years—other than the two month hiatus—of continuous war.

Trying to explain this reality to someone who doesn’t live in Israel is like explaining to an alien that humans need air to survive. It simply doesn’t translate unless you live it.

So to all of us here in Israel, trying to summon the energy for a Chag Kasher v’Sameach—good luck to us.

Who really has the capacity for that right now?

Here’s to a better Pessach next year.

And hopefully—not in Taba, Cairo, Aqaba, or Amman.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)