My New Favorite Place
| March 10, 2026Hashem is my real safe room
MY
new favorite place is the dank miklat, lit by a single flickering bulb.
Sirens wail, and booms are close, then far, then close again. But inside the miklat, there is the warmth of neighbors. Those whose children are grown sit on old folding chairs murmuring Tehillim. Those whose children are young sit snuggled with toddlers, reading books, distributing snacks.
“Hashem will bang down the rockets!” the children cheer.
To them, this is a game, and we’ve done our best to create a fun environment in our little miklat.
“I want another siren,” my two-year-old shouts each time we leave the miklat. To her, it’s all one big party. What could be better than visiting with neighbors in your pajamas, or eating ice cream at 7 a.m.?
But nighttime is different. As per our rav, we don’t go to the miklat at night. Our responsibility as parents is to guard our children’s physical safety, of course — but their emotional safety, too. Waking young toddlers multiple times a night would not be productive.
So each time the siren pierces the silent night, my husband and I are out of bed, huddling in the safest corner of our little apartment.
The walls are just walls, I remind myself, Hashem is my real safe room, and whatever He wills will be.
Until last night.
The whizzing above was so loud that I felt it rattle in my bones. I looked at my husband in fear.
“Not a fighter jet,” I murmured.
“There’s probably an interception right above us,” he whispered back.
BOOM.
Not an interception. A direct hit.
Shaking, shaking, whispering Tehillim. Twenty seconds. Then a cacophony of ambulances and police cars roars to life. Soon the all clear sounds.
The missile hit the highway, a few minutes’ drive from our apartment. No casualties, a few light injuries. The images are astounding — a crater on the highway, a car hanging on the edge. The driver stepped out of his car and walked away with only small injuries.
Twenty feet to the left — Ramat Shlomo. A few minutes to the right — Ramat Eshkol.
At first, my heart pounds so loud that I can’t even hear my thoughts. I clutch my blanket, my mind racing. But eventually, I fall asleep, because when I wake up, it’s morning — and the siren is blaring again.
Snood, skirt, shoes, quick, grab the kids (my husband is at Shacharis) and three flights down to the miklat. We hear the booms before we reach the miklat door.
We’re in, finally, the door is closed, neighbors huddle close. And that’s when I process.
A miracle. We are living a miracle.
Hashem could have chosen that rocket to fall a few feet to the left, or a little bit to the right. Yerushalayim is so densely populated, and Hashem guided the rocket to one of the few places between buildings.
A miracle, and also a wake-up call. Was the hit in Beit Shemesh not close enough?
Apparently not, because Hashem brought it much closer to home. And so, huddled in the miklat, I do what we always do: read books, build Magna-Tile towers, hand out snacks.
Only this time, it is much more intentional.
Hashem, I think, This is my kapitel.
We’re here, in the miklat, and it may look like we are partying with the kids, but we are only trying to do Your ratzon — to tap into our bitachon and rely only on You, while simultaneously keeping the kids happy and calm.
My new favorite place is the dank miklat, lit by a flickering bulb.
Because even now… especially now…
You are holding us.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 985)
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