Children in war

There is something we, as adults, almost instinctively assume.

When we think about children growing up in the middle of war — sirens, explosions, uncertainty — we assume this will inevitably become trauma.

We are almost certain: this will stay with them forever in the hardest way.

But I am not so sure anymore.

My father was five years old during World War II when his family was evacuated from eastern Ukraine to Siberia.

They traveled in a crowded freight train for many long days. The journey stretched endlessly — giving way to military trains moving toward the front.

At almost every stop, there were bombings.

The train was being chased. Stations they had just left would be occupied hours later.

People didn’t know where to run.

If they ran toward the trees — they were shot.

If they stayed — bombs fell on the wagons.

It was like a terrible lottery of survival.

They saw death.

They lived through fear.

They endured hunger, cold, exhaustion.

And yet — every year, when I ask my father what he remembers as a child…

whether it was the most traumatic time of his life…

he says something unexpected.

“No. These were some of the best days of my childhood.”

Why?

Because his father and mother were there — together, with him.

Before the war, his father worked constantly. Stalin’s regime, you know…

After the evacuation began, his father would soon leave for the front.

But during that journey, they were all together.

His parents supported each other.

They cared for him and his older brother.

There was fear — yes. He still remembers the sound of planes, even today.

But what remained strongest…

was not the fear.

It was the feeling: we are together, and I am safe with them.

⸻

Last week, we visited our grandson Iddo in Haifa.

The city has been under heavy fire — from Lebanon, from Hezbollah, from Iran.

We came to help, but also simply because we missed him.

We spent the day doing ordinary things —

walking in the park, eating together, laughing, bathing him, putting him to sleep.

Just life.

Then Ariel, his dad came home. Then Nana and Papa (Tehila’s parents), knowing that we are in the city had come over as well.

We all sat together, talked, laughed — three generations in one space. Loving and enjoying the company of each other…

And then the sirens started.

We all went to the shelter.

And in that small room — like you can see in this photo — 

on one bed, were all the people Iddo loves most —

his mom, his dad, his little brother (still in the womb),

grandparents from both sides.

Yes, there was real danger.

Yes, this is war.

But if you look at his face — he is happy.

Because for him, in that moment, the most important thing is not the siren.

It is that everyone is together.

⸻

Maybe children don’t remember events the way we think they do.

Maybe they don’t store reality the way adults analyze it.

Maybe what shapes them most deeply is not the danger itself —

but whether they were alone in it…

or held, surrounded, and loved.

⸻

And maybe this is where something deeper quietly unfolds.

Because long before we learn to understand the world,

we learn to recognize where it is safe to rest.

That day, we were all physically in a shelter —

like so many families are these days.

But we also know

that there is no safer place

than to be under the covering of God —

right in the center of His will.

The One whose eyes search the whole earth

to strengthen those whose hearts are fully His —

He sees.

He is near.

He holds.

And perhaps this is what a child senses, even without words —

not only that we were all together,

but that there is a deeper safety

over and around us…

under His wings.

Even here.

Even now.