There was something surreal in Israel’s bomb shelters this past Shabbat. Many residents, especially in Jerusalem, are Sabbath observant. And yet, a good number of them had their phones in their hands. They weren’t just waiting to hear when they’d be released from the shelter but were actively monitoring the steadily incoming news alerts. Perhaps some were even distracting themselves with Facebook reels that had little to do with the day’s devastating developments.
Saturday, February 28, 2026, was, of course, the first day of the current war with Iran, run jointly by the U.S. and Israel. The morning attack was a surprise both for the Iranian leadership and for the Israelis who received an alert on their phones at 8:13 am while at the same time sirens blared outside. That first alert, however, was not a command to descend to our garage-level shelter: It was an announcement that the war had started, and we should be prepared.
The actual alert that missiles were on their way didn’t come until two hours later, during which time, remarkably, I fell back asleep. It was only then that halacha (Jewish Law) collided with modern technology. And in this case, missiles “trump” halacha.
The rules were set in place years ago but became especially relevant after Hamas’s invasion on October 7, 2023. The Israeli Chief Rabbinate instructed every synagogue to have at least one cell phone left turned on. Many shuls, including ours, went one step further and advised each and every congregant who was able, to carry a phone with them. At home, you could tune your radio to a “silent channel” that would only broadcast when there was something that needed immediate attention (like a soon-to-arrive missile).
The halachic rationale for all this was pikuah nefesh, the proscription that the preservation of life overrules every other Jewish Law. Although I’m pretty sure that doesn’t include doomscrolling TikTok and Instagram.
Once our shelter had filled up and the door had been closed, there was a knock from outside: Our niece Yona, who lives in the neighborhood and was praying at a nearby congregation, ascertained that our shelter was the closest.
And oh, “Can we join you for Shabbat lunch?”
That triggered another Jewish Law: hahnasat orhim – welcoming guests. Fortunately, we had ordered in for lunch from “Ron Makes Shabbos,” a wonderful weekend delivery service with a diverse menu, run by the eponymous Ron, a former IT logistics worker who decided he preferred making chicken poppers and BBQ long-cooked asado short ribs. He’s based in Beit Shemesh but delivers to us in Jerusalem, as well as to Modi’in and the Gush Etzion areas.
As we started to set the table with dips and drinks, the phone rang. That was odd: We’ve texted propitiously during previous missile emergencies, but we’ve never received a voice call.
It was our dear friend Sam who has, for the last week, been hospitalized in Jerusalem’s Sha’arei Zedek hospital to treat debilitating migraines.
“They’re kicking me out,” she intoned breathlessly into the phone. “They’re evacuating everyone who’s not a life-or-death case or who’s about to give birth.”
That made sense: The hospital had a clear need to make more beds available in case of a mass casualty event. Plus, they needed to move patients from the higher floors to the underground level where Sam was housed. Birthing, I learned later, took place in the parking lot.
“Could someone come and get me?” Sam cried into the phone.
Our 28-year-old son Aviv immediately volunteered.
“Do you want me to come, too?” I asked my wife, Jody.
“No, I’ll go,” Jody replied. “It’s better if there’s a woman there.”
Pikuah nefesh again: Jody never drives on Shabbat and Jewish holidays. Using her phone in an emergency was one thing, but getting in a car?
Sam’s situation was tough. Not only had they not gotten to the bottom of her headaches yet, but she was high as a kite from all the ketamine they were pumping into her body. As the nurse disconnected her IV, Jody asked her how Sam was supposed to deal with this sudden, unanticipated withdrawal. The nurse shrugged her shoulders. That was beyond her paygrade, apparently.
We tucked Sam into the guest room bed with the lights off and the window shades closed. I made kiddush (the blessing over the wine) for her in the makeshift home hospital room we’d set up, and Jody brought her some of Ron’s food. We then sat down for our own much delayed Shabbat meal.
We managed to get through the entire meal without another siren.
Tel Aviv wasn’t so lucky.
On one of the WhatsApp groups for our neighborhood, a former resident commented that she’d had to run down to her shelter 12 times already – essentially staying there the whole day. She then added, “I’m Shomer Shabbat [Sabbath observant]. What am I doing on my phone checking news updates anyway?”
But by this point, we all knew: pikuah nefesh.
Shabbat eventually ended, and the halachic considerations of using our phones evaporated at the 25th hour. As for the rest of the week, I couldn’t tell you: This column was due on Sunday.
We know that in the first hours of the war, much of the Iranian leadership, including Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, were killed. There were missiles launched at Israel all night and into the next morning, and we spent many more hours in our bomb shelter. Will the war be over in a few days? Will the Jewish holiday of Purim be downgraded, if not canceled entirely, while Israel and the U.S. continue to decimate the strategic assets of the former the Persian empire?
All I can report is about this very strange, yet Jewishly empowered Sabbath, where the rules of engagement were dramatically different than nearly anything we’d experienced before.
I first posted about our first Shabbat of the Second Iran War in The Jerusalem Post.
Photo by Moslem Daneshzadeh on Unsplash
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