Rabbi Rinat Safania Shwartz serves the Ve’Ahavta Reform Community in Shoham, Israel. Here, she shares her experience serving the Reform Jewish community in Shoham during the twelve days of the war with Iran, part of the ongoing war they’ve been living through since October 7, 2023.
Living Without a Shelter
To protect myself emotionally, I tried to disconnect from the reality of what might happen to my family and me. Still, on the first morning of the war with Iran, Friday morning, I joined hundreds of Israelis at the supermarket—stocking up as if for a world war. I spent 2,000 shekels buying food and water, feeling that familiar sense of hysteria and dread. That’s how we cope here.
My home has no shelter room. We run to my brother-in-law’s when sirens sound. Two weeks prior, just as we sat for Shabbat dinner, the first siren sounded. The evening was over before it began. We hardly slept. We got up three times during the night because of the missile alerts. When not in the shelter, we sat in fear, watching horrifying images from Ramat Gan and Rishon LeZion—the first two cities to be directly hit by deadly missiles.
And yet, in a strange way, the missile fire from Yemen in recent months has developed in us some kind of resilience. The kids know the drill, but the fear has only grown deeper. The destruction is massive. The uncertainty is endless. And through it all, I’m checking on our community, leading Zoom-based Kabbalat Shabbat services, trying to keep us spiritually connected.
I worry not only for us, but for our Jewish brothers and sisters abroad, facing growing threats. It’s heavy. I try to function through distance, but it’s hard.
A House Destroyed
It was a terrible night: eleven dead, three missing, dozens injured, and thousands without homes. People emerged from rubble in pajamas. The trauma is everywhere.
As a community, we canceled events due to safety regulations. We have no shelter room in our synagogue. Instead, we called every member, making sure they had shelter. Then, I received a message from a young family in Rehovot—a couple I married—whose home was destroyed. They made it to the shelter just before the explosion. Now they had nowhere to go. I talked the mother through what to pack. I drove over to be with her. She was having a panic attack. We sat in the shelter together, along with others waiting to be evacuated. Volunteers, social workers—everyone helping each other. Eventually, the family was sent to a hotel in Jerusalem.
That same day, we opened a joint relief center with Shoham’s city council to gather donations. And, like every afternoon since October 7, we stood at the intersection, holding photos of the hostages.
Each night brought with it the same uncertainty. And we were afraid.
Our Community Response: Acts of Love and Solidarity
In the face of crisis, our Ve’Ahavta Reform community in Shoham is motivated by compassion and purpose.
We turned our synagogue into a center of compassion, in partnership with Shoham’s welfare department and the Yad MiShoham volunteer organization. We collected clothing, toys, and baby items for displaced families. Teens sorted donations. Volunteers delivered supplies to hotels.
Our youth baked challot and cookies for families of people called to reserve duty. Others prepared meals for these families. Women crocheted dolls for evacuated children. We also supported children with special needs whose routines collapsed, offering relief to their parents.
This is what a community looks like: presence, partnership, and compassion in action.
Holding the Soul
Amid the chaos, we held onto our spiritual core. Each evening, after praying for the hostages, we opened a quiet Zoom space. No expectations. Just presence. On some days, five people attended. On some, fifteen. I was there each time— not to preach, but to be with whomever needed it.
We continued our Beit Midrash. We kept singing, even through tears. Board members called every elder just to ask “How are you today?:
Shabbat continued—on Zoom, or around a single candle. We made space for grief, fear, resilience—and for one another.
Small Hands, Soft Clay
Sometimes healing begins with something small—like soft clay in a child’s hands.
Ronit Hana Golan, a member of our community, opened her pottery studio to parents and children. Schools were closed. Fear was high. Most families were stuck at home. The workshops took place near a bomb shelter. Kids could create. Parents could breathe. It wasn’t just art, it was therapy. A reminder: we are not alone.
Standing with Displaced Israelis
Nearly a hundred buildings around the country were completely destroyed or severely damaged, and tens of thousands of Israelis have lost their homes and had to be displaced. Many lost everything. Others had only ten minutes to retrieve whatever they could
In Bat Yam, we met evacuees living in hotels. They face emotional trauma and bureaucratic chaos. Most are not even officially recognized as displaced. Some were instructed on Saturday night to leave their rooms by Thursday—with nowhere to go. Agreements extended hotel stays until Sunday, but the future is unclear. We’ve started visiting hotel rooms, offering presence, comfort, and dignity.
Now is the time for Jewish solidarity. To listen, to support, to act.
Rabbi Rinat Safania Shwartz is the founding rabbi of the Ve’Ahavta Reform Community in Shoham, Israel.
