[Editor's note: Boaz Shron is an 18-year-old gap-year student who was studying at the Shalom Hartman

Institute in Jerusalem, when war broke out after Hamas's massaccres on the Israel citizens of the

South. Born in Toronto to Sidura Ludwig and Jason Shron,  Boaz plans to attend McGill University next fall

to study Political Science. Sidura  Ludwig is the daughter of  Maylene and Israel Ludwig]

When I decided to go on a gap year in Jerusalem, I hoped and prayed for a full, immersive picture of Israeli life. 

In hindsight, I should have been more specific. 

    For five weeks, I had a normal program and a great time. I was learning at Hevruta, a gap-year program run by the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem. The program was very comprehensive; we learned Talmud and other classical Jewish texts while also studying Israeli society and modern Jewish identity. In addition to the learning, we had weekly volunteering and internship positions in institutions around Jerusalem. I was all set this week to begin an internship at the Knesset! I had a great time on program-organized tiyulim (trips) around Israel, and hanging out with friends on nights and weekends off. 

On Simchat Torah morning, Saturday October 7th, everything changed. I woke up to the sound of the rocket sirens that morning, with my friend Itamar banging on my door and telling me to get downstairs as quickly as possible. In my half-asleep state, it took me a long time to clue into what was going on; we don’t get many rocket attacks back in Toronto. So I got up nice and leisurely, brushed my teeth and meandered downstairs. It was only during the second siren, half an hour later, that I understood what was happening. I was at the synagogue next door to the dormitories when I heard it – that slightly-too-quiet, almost-eerie wailing sound that is the reason I now jump every time I hear an ambulance. We all ran to the shelter and tried to continue our prayers there. Everyone had the same thing in mind: Hamas never starts the war with firing at Jerusalem. We all had a feeling that this time was different. 

Our counselor came by the synagogue to tell me to come back to the dormitories. We spent the rest of the morning trying to run our own Simchat Torah service while running to and from the shelter, with rocket sirens every 45 minutes or so. Normally I follow the laws of Shabbat and Yom Tov; on that day I borrowed my friend’s phone so I could text my parents to let them know I was safe. 

Our program director, Raz, called a meeting and told us of the massacre that occurred in the south. I felt like I had been hit in the head with a bag of bricks. The towns that Hamas attacked were towns I had passed through the Shabbat before. My friend with whom I stayed lives in a town right next to Gaza (all the villages around her were targeted, but hers was spared). Everything felt so surreal, so unimaginable. That afternoon, two of my counselors, the program director and half of our teachers were called up to the reserves. As a program we had (and still have) to deal with the added emotional burden of having people close to us on the front lines. We needed something to do, anything, to keep us from drowning in worry. 

The next day, we came up with a new schedule. All classes were to be canceled or made optional. In their stead, the entire student body put all its efforts into volunteering. There was so much to be done. The dormitories constantly smelled like fresh baking, as we delivered masses of food to army bases in the north and south. I donated food and supplies from my apartment to a collection centre across the street. I helped run musical activities at the local seniors’ home, as many of their staff got called up. I played word games with the residents at a group home for people with cognitive disabilities, as their staff were in the same situation as the seniors’ home. I did arts and crafts with evacuated kids from the south at our community centre. And I babysat. Many, many times. Most young families in the neighbourhood had at least one parent who was called to reserves, so we organized a “babysitting hotline” where parents could call the program to request a babysitter for a certain time, and then the program would send someone (usually me and my friend Noga). As much as the parents appreciated the time to get work done, I appreciated how much playing with an 8-month-old all morning could improve my mental health. Volunteering with kids was my favourite, but all the volunteering was the only reason I could keep going. Feeling like I could contribute to the war effort helped alleviate the feeling of suffocation that I get at a time like this. 

As I write this, I’m on a plane to Abu Dhabi, and from there I’m going to make my way back home to Toronto. To be clear, I did not feel personally unsafe in Jerusalem; Hamas is very cautious about targeting Jerusalem because of its holy sites and Arab population. I made the painful decision to leave because it is still an option. I see this war as getting worse before it gets better, and I do not want to get stuck in Israel without my family when it does. Still, I feel like I am abandoning my country. Even after six weeks, Israel began to feel like home. I have trouble shaking the feeling that I’m leaving my home in its hour of need. So I’m going to hit the ground running in Toronto; the volunteer force there will be happy to have my help. And B’ezrat Hashem, with God’s help, soon I will truly return home: to a peaceful, secure Israel.