Should I be protecting my kids from the war’s reality?
Since October 7, 2023, every day has felt surreal – like a journey into a film I know well: Life is Beautiful (1997).
In that movie, set during the Holocaust, a father, played by the unforgettable Roberto Benigni, tries to shield his son from the horrors surrounding them by turning their terrifying reality into a game.
As Israel lives through this era of conflict, I find myself stepping into a similar role with my children, attempting to balance their innocence with the gravity of the situation.
To be clear, the Holocaust was incomparable, an era defined by a systematic and unparalleled effort to annihilate.
Our threat is of a different nature, yet the existential anxiety is nonetheless deeply woven into our lives. And in some moments, I feel like that father in Life is Beautiful – trying to preserve their childhood, their innocence, as much as possible.
Other times, I catch myself as a news editor, too aware of how much reality they are exposed to and how much they are silently absorbing.
Kids silently absorb reality
My kids are young, but they’re observant. They hear whispers, see things online, and pick up on more than I care to admit.
They know their favorite soccer team’s game was canceled because it was scheduled to take place in Haifa, where missiles have been falling.
My eight-year-olds can read; they see the headlines on the news broadcasts and hear the conversations. And I work in the news, so our household is anything but shielded from updates.
They ask questions – questions that no child should have to ask. “Abba, did we kill Sinwar?” they asked recently. “Yes,” I replied, then quickly mumbled something to change the topic, redirecting their focus to lighter issues.
I’ve written before about how my then-four-year-old would ask about the faces on posters – those who had been taken, stolen. Kidnapped. I didn’t use that word, but they knew.
Now they’re a little older, a little more aware. Although we live in the Jerusalem area, where sirens are thankfully rare, they know life is different for children in the North and South, where running to shelters is part of their daily existence.
Just a few miles make a world of difference, and yet, for these children, even those few miles don’t create a barrier. They know what’s happening.
Then there’s my daughter. In her preschool group, she’s the odd one out, one of the only children whose father isn’t in the army.
Every day, she watches as the other kids receive little perks from the community – breakfasts, treats, and other things that warm the heart.
She’s happy for her friends, and I’m grateful for this sense of community. But there’s a bittersweet feeling when I see her in that mix. She may be the lucky one, spared the immediate worry about a deployed parent, yet she, too, is growing up with the awareness that her friends’ fathers are out there, defending us all.
As a father, I’m constantly questioning: When is it right to let them know more, and when should I keep them in the dark?
When they’re misbehaving, part of me wants to break the bubble and say, “Do you know there are children who are living in bomb shelters as we speak?” But I don’t – most of the time. And that internal debate, that restraint – it’s exhausting.
They’re kids, innocent and full of life. Still, they hear the murmurs, see the worry on our faces, and absorb every little change in our tone.
This conflict, whether they realize it yet or not, will shape them forever. Their childhoods are marked by something I hoped they’d never have to understand.
The relentless weight of war on journalists
Being a journalist in this climate has been its own battle, a year marked by an endless cascade of crises, grief, and resilience.
While most of us are not out there in uniform, nor have we personally faced the profound loss of hostages or the daily anxiety of family members deployed, we carry a different weight.
We’re the eyes and ears of the community, tasked with absorbing every grim detail, every development, every ounce of news – 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
Our newsroom cannot print a single issue without ensuring that every fallen name is recognized and every story told. And sometimes, we know these names; they’re people we grew up with, friends of friends, members of our community.
Other times, they’re strangers. But their stories, their faces, are imprinted on us, and they don’t easily fade away.
Every day, we speak with grieving families, and as much as we try to hold back, their pain seeps into our bones.
They tell us about loved ones lost and lives turned upside down. Some of us have seen images we never imagined would cross our screens. Some of us have even lost someone close. We push forward because we must, but each step feels weighted.
Bearing witness
Beyond the tragedy, we also witness the incredible resilience of our people – thousands of initiatives aimed at bringing light into these dark days.
People reach out with stories of kindness, courage, and unity, hoping we can give them a platform, a voice in this storm. And while we long to honor each one, the hard truth is that we can’t.
We don’t have enough time, enough staff, or enough space on our pages to truly do justice to every single story. It’s a painful compromise, one that eats at us, but it’s the reality we’re up against.
In the end, though, we keep going because that’s what we’ve always done. In a way, being Jewish has always meant living on, pushing forward, and finding light amid the darkness.
We may be shaken, but we are not broken. We have no time to fall into despair because our purpose keeps us grounded.
Getting the news to you – truthful, fast, and clear – is our mission, even as our own hearts are sometimes weighed down by it all.
There’s an unbreakable resolve in us. We won’t allow ourselves the luxury of crumbling.
We keep going, keep telling the stories, keep bearing witness, because it’s our role.
As a father, as a journalist, and as a Jew, I look at these challenges, these daily battles, and realize they are woven into who we are. And, as always, we’ll endure.