It’s been eight days since the war with Iran began. Like every family in Israel, we’ve spent these days under constant threat — running to shelters, explaining sirens to our children, and trying to hold on to some sense of normalcy.
But today was different.
Today, the war came to our doorstep.
We live in a quiet, close-knit neighborhood in the north of Tel Aviv. It’s a place filled with laughter from young children, strollers rolling down shaded sidewalks, and elderly neighbors who’ve built their lives here over decades. It’s not a military base. There are no command centers. Just homes, people, and lives.
And yet, during the latest Iranian barrage, our neighborhood was hit.
Families take shelter
The sirens sounded. We had seconds. I grabbed the kids and ran. The shelter shook — it felt like an earthquake. For a moment, we didn’t know if our home had been hit. We didn’t know if we’d be coming out.
We were lucky. Our house was spared. We are safe. But just a block away, the destruction is real. A missile tore through homes. Families were injured. Property destroyed. All of it — deliberate. Iran didn’t strike military targets. They struck civilians. Children. The elderly. Families like mine.
And now, like so many Israeli parents, we’re faced with the impossible: how do you explain this to your children?
How do you tell them that they were targets — not because of anything they did, but because of who they are?
How do you explain to a 6-year-old what a bomb shelter is — without terrifying him?
How do you describe hate, without passing it on?
This is the terrible burden of parenthood in wartime. We teach our children to be kind, to believe in peace, to see the humanity in others — even when those others are firing missiles at them. And we try to hold that line, even as we ourselves are struggling to make sense of it.
As a father, there is no greater fear than the feeling of being unable to protect your children. You can shield them from the cold, from sadness, from pain — but how do you shield them from a missile falling from the sky? From a war they never chose?
You do what you can. You hold them close. You run fast. You stay calm. You sing in the shelter. You smile when the siren ends and the “boom” shakes the walls. You tell them they’re safe — even when you’re not sure.
This is not the first time my family has faced hatred. Many of my relatives were murdered in the gas chambers — victims of Nazi Germany, abandoned by a silent world. The United States helped save Europe, but it came too late for the Jews.
This time, it’s different.
Under the leadership of President Trump, the U.S. came on time. The Iranian regime — the engine behind Hamas, Hezbollah, and the Houthis — was hit hard before it could fully execute its plans. This time, the free world responded. And my family, sitting in a shelter in Tel Aviv, felt that we weren’t alone.
Yes — we are still scared. But we are not helpless.
We are not the Jewish victims of the past.
We are resilient. We have an army. We have a country. And we have allies who stand with us.
This is just one story — but it echoes across Israel. Families comforting children between sirens. Parents explaining war while praying for peace. People standing tall despite the trauma. Homes struck, lives shattered — yet something deeper, unbreakable, still holding.
This war is not about borders or politics. It’s about people. About families like mine — and the right to raise our children in safety and dignity.
To those watching from afar: behind every headline is a father holding his child. A mother calming her daughter in a shelter. A family hoping to make it to the next sunrise, intact.
We are one example. But we are not alone.
And we will not break.
Sacha Roytman is the CEO of the Combat Antisemitism Movement