In Israel I Taught Them to Swim
By Rabbi Lindsey Danziger
After a beautiful evening at a playground in Tel Aviv with my three kids, I came back to our rented apartment in the city center and got everyone ready for bed: teeth brushed, showers taken, pajamas on. I threw in a load of laundry and climbed into bed with a cup of tea and my book, looking forward to the next morning—a relaxing beach day before heading out of town on a tiyul with friends. As I settled in for the night, I reflected with some satisfaction on how right I was to bring my children to Israel for an extended summer trip. We had spent the past week seeing Israeli friends, trying new foods, and acclimating to Tel Aviv life.
Zionism is central to who I am—as a Jew, a rabbi, an organizer at the RAC, and especially as a mother. I feel most alive and connected to God in Israel. My husband and I had been eager to bring our children here for years and begin their relationship with Israel as a living, breathing Jewish state—not just an idea they read about or hear discussed. They already have deep connections to Israel through their Jewish day school and their many summers at URJ Camp Jacobs, where they learn Israeli history, meet Israelis, and experience the connection between Judaism, Torah, and the Jewish state. But there is no substitute for being here: walking the trails, shvitzing through June, hearing Hebrew all around, and feeling the pulse of a nation speaking the ancient language of our people.
In our first week, it was wonderful to hear their own observations. Eleven-year-old Ben noted that some things in Israel are incredibly high-tech—the gleaming towers of Tel Aviv and the innovations coming out of them—while other things, like shower doors, seem determined to leak water across the entire bathroom floor. Seven-year-old Noa declared that the fruits and vegetables taste better here. Nine-year-old Aviva informed me that “the men in Tel Aviv are really buff.” All three were endlessly fascinated by the dual-flush toilets and spent an alarming amount of time discussing the respective merits of the two buttons.
So, as I settled in for a quiet Sunday night, I felt good about our decision and excited about the weeks ahead.
Then my phone started buzzing.
Rockets incoming from Iran. The entire northern half of the country was on alert.
Our close friends, who are like family, called immediately. “Pack a bag. If this continues tonight, we’ll come get you.”
In an instant, my mind shifted into go-mode. I packed what we might need for a few days at our friends’ apartment in the suburbs, where rocket fire is less frequent, and they have a private safe room instead of our shared shelter three flights down in the basement. I filled water bottles, charged iPads, and lined up three pairs of little shoes by the door.
In one moment, plans for a beach day became plans for protecting my children from incoming missiles intent on killing them.Once everything was packed and the phone stopped buzzing, my mind had room to wander. It filled quickly with fear, doubt, and guilt.
What business did I have bringing my children to a war zone when so many people here have no choice? How privileged were we to be able to relocate from a shared shelter to a private one when there are Bedouin communities without adequate protection and elderly people who cannot make it down the stairs in time? And then there was the question that lingered: in trying to give my children a deeper connection to Israel and the Jewish people, would I instead give them memories defined by fear? Would war obscure the beauty and magic of this place?
After a fitful night, I woke a little after five in the morning to a blaring alarm. Rockets were headed toward Tel Aviv. “Okay,” I thought. “It’s time.” I rushed into the kids’ room, trying to move them quickly without frightening them. My fears were completely unnecessary.
“I need five more minutes.”
“I’m tired.”
“Can I bring my iPad?”
“Guys!” I said. “There are rockets!”
Ben rolled his eyes and continued moving at the speed of continental drift.
Noa, meanwhile, was thrilled.
“Rockets? Can I go outside and see?”
“No, sweetheart. That’s actually the opposite of what we’re trying to do.”
Eventually, we made it to the miklat – shared bomb shelter- in the basement with the rest of our neighbors.
There was a large, friendly pug making the rounds, demanding belly rubs from every group in the room. A young couple sat huddled together over a bassinet, looking exhausted as they stared anxiously at their newborn. A homeless man was asleep in the shelter when we arrived. One child asked his mother why he was there if he wasn’t their neighbor. She responded, “He is another kind of neighbor, and he needs shelter too.”
Two elderly women spent nearly the entire day in the cold, leaking shelter because they couldn’t keep making the trip up and down the stairs.
Over the course of the morning, we went down several more times. Twice for missiles from Iran and once for a launch from Yemen. When neighbors realized it was “only the Houthis,” many immediately left the shelter with a collective shrug. Perspective is a remarkable thing.
By late morning, we relocated to our friends’ home in Hod Hasharon. The text messages poured in from Reform rabbis and IMPJ friends throughout the country, checking on me alone with my kids, offering homes to stay in, and resources to help out. There is no end to the hospitality of Israelis and the way our Movement shows up for one another.
The day unfolded with ten children, two dads named Shai, countless cups of coffee, and a steady stream of news alerts. One Shai’s wife was two weeks from giving birth and needed some rest. The other Shai’s wife was a physician who had driven to the hospital that morning, pulling over on the side of the road and covering her head with her hands as sirens sounded.
We spent the day moving between the playground—conveniently located beside a concrete shelter—and the mamad – a room in the apartment that doubles as a bomb shelter, a colorful room lined with mattresses. Neighbors and friends drifted in and out. Kids were assigned jobs: collect water bottles, wash dishes, and clean up snacks. It felt strangely familiar. Very COVID.
The question on everyone’s mind was simple: How long will this last? The two Shais spent much of the day refreshing Signal groups and news apps, tracking the latest statements from officials in Washington, Jerusalem, and Tehran whose decisions would shape the lives of millions of parents and children across the region.
Who would sleep peacefully, and who would run for shelter?
Who would go to school and birthday parties, and who would spend days at home in uncertainty?
Who would be called to fight, and who would remain with their families?
By afternoon, the prevailing assumption was that we were headed toward a prolonged war. Schools were canceled for another day. Flights out of the country were selling out. And then, almost as suddenly as it began, with one utterance from one of the men in power, it was over. One headline and the mood shifted. Schools reopened. Stores resumed business. People returned to the streets. That evening, we took the kids to the local sports club. As we stood beside the crowded pool, my friend told me to look around. Families were swimming, arguing, relaxing. A scout troop was gathered nearby for an activity. Teenagers were having a pizza party on the lawn. Our daughters had already found friends and disappeared into a game in the water.
My friend pointed at them. “Those nine-year-olds walked to the pool by themselves today. On the day of a war. Can you imagine that happening in America?” I could not.
I understood something about Israeli life that day. Israeli kids grow up quickly. They learn resilience early. They learn that life can change in an instant, and that when it does, communities adapt. A friend later referred to the entire episode as “the warlet.”
For me, it was easier to switch from vacation mode to survival mode than back again.
Standing by the pool, I found myself thinking about the Talmudic teaching (Kiddushin 29a) that one of a parent’s obligations is to teach their child to swim.
I looked at my children in the water. They had lived through a day of sirens, uncertainty, fear, sheltering, and disruption.
And they were swimming.
I do not regret bringing them here. I still want them to love felafel and Hebrew. I want them to hike this land and see its ancient stones.
But more importantly, they experienced something essential about Israeli society: its vulnerability and its resilience, its capacity to absorb fear without surrendering to it, its determination to keep living even under threat.
I taught them to swim.