There is the war people see on the news – and then there is the war people carry home in their bodies.
By Bev Moss-Reilly
It lives in the mother who pulls a sleepy toddler out of bed at two in the morning because the siren has gone off again. It lives in the baby who cannot understand what is happening but feels the panic in the arms holding him. It lives in the child who has started clinging, crying more easily, wetting the bed again, or refusing to sleep alone. It lives in grandparents trying to sound steady when they themselves are frightened. It lives in every family in Israel that has had to keep going while their hearts are under siege – and it lives in every Jew throughout the world because Israel is our homeland, the people of ha’aretz, our family.

War does not only injure people physically. It unsettles the nervous system. It robs people of the ordinary comforts that make life feel safe. Home no longer feels fully restful. Night no longer feels quiet. Sleep is interrupted, sometimes repeatedly, by sirens, rushing feet, phones ringing, alarms sounding, and the sickening knowledge that danger may be near. When this happens for days, weeks, and months, it does something profound to mental health. Research has consistently shown that broken sleep and disrupted circadian rhythms affect mood, concentration, memory, emotional regulation, and overall mental functioning. People become more fragile, more reactive, more exhausted, and less able to think clearly, not because they are weak, but because they are human.

And then there are the families. The family unit is where so much of this pain lands. Parents are trying to comfort children while hiding their own terror. Husbands and wives are carrying fear in different ways and at different volumes. Siblings are separated by military service, reserve duty, evacuation, injury, grief, or sheer emotional shutdown. Some families are physically together but emotionally frayed from the relentless strain. Others are missing someone around the Shabbat table, at bedtime, or in the morning rush. In war, family life does not simply pause. It absorbs the shock. It is often the first place where trauma shows itself and the last place people think to support.
This is especially true for children. They may not have the language to explain what they are feeling, but their bodies often tell the story. A child may become more anxious, more angry, more withdrawn, or more needy. Teenagers may look distant, numb, irritable, or flat, even while suffering deeply inside. Research published after October 7 has found a high burden of trauma related symptoms, anxiety, and depression in the Israeli public, and more recent work has shown troubling levels of probable post-traumatic stress among Israeli adolescents as well. That matters deeply, because when children and teenagers grow up under prolonged threat, the emotional effects do not simply disappear when the sirens stop.

There is also the emotional burden carried by ordinary people trying to make an honest living. The small shop owner opening despite exhaustion. The grocer wondering whether stock will arrive. The café owner trying to smile at customers while checking the news every few minutes. The worker who knows that if the business does not survive, neither does the family income. Financial fear and mental strain are deeply intertwined. Studies looking at small business owners during the ongoing conflict have found significant psychological distress, which is hardly surprising. It is very hard to feel calm, hopeful, or secure when one’s livelihood is as uncertain as tomorrow’s siren.
Then there are the families of the IDF, the IAF, and all those protecting our beloved
Eretz Yisrael. These families wake every day with a private ache in their chest. There
is pride, yes, but also dread. There is the constant checking of messages, the
waiting, the imagining, the praying. Mothers and fathers try to be strong. Wives and
husbands hold households together while carrying the fear that one phone call could
change everything. Children miss their parent and do not always understand why the
grown-ups seem distracted or tense. There is no neat way to carry that kind of love
and fear at the same time.

Medical teams are carrying a burden of their own. Doctors, nurses, paramedics, trauma teams, surgeons, support staff, and first responders have worked under relentless pressure, long hours, and heartbreaking circumstances. They have treated injuries, witnessed fatalities, supported grieving families, and often put their own emotional needs aside so that others could survive. The World Health Organization has described a significant mental health crisis affecting frontline workers in Israel in the wake of October 7, and that should make all of us stop and take notice. The people who care for everyone else also need care. They are not machines. They are human beings who see too much, hold too much, and are too often expected to simply continue.
No group, however, embodies the long shadow of this trauma more painfully than the former hostages and their families. On October 7, 251 people were taken hostage, including babies, children, women, men, and the elderly. For those who returned alive, freedom did not mean the suffering simply ended. Official Israeli health guidance recognises that captivity can leave long lasting physical and emotional consequences and that survivors and their families need comprehensive, deeply compassionate, ongoing care. The body may come home, but sleep, trust, appetite, safety, and peace of mind do not always come home with it.
What of the families who waited? The mothers, fathers, siblings, spouses, grandparents, and children who lived in suspended agony, not knowing whether to hope, fear, pray, rage, or prepare for the worst. That kind of waiting is its own trauma. It stretches time into something unbearable. It invades every waking moment. It reshapes the nervous system around dread.
The names of little Ariel Bibas and baby Kfir Bibas pierced hearts around the Jewish world, together with their mother, Shiri. Their faces became symbols of innocence stolen, and of a grief too deep for words. Even writing their names is painful. They were not symbols first. They were a family. A mother. Two little boys. Loved, held, kissed, known. Their story reminded so many people that the wounds of October 7 were not abstract, not political, and not distant. They were intimate, devastating, and brutally personal. Their surviving father/husband lives with unimaginable mental scars, ones that are irrevocable.

People often speak of Israeli resilience, and it is real. It is extraordinary. Israelis do keep going. They do show up. They do rebuild, volunteer, comfort, fight, donate, cook, pray, and stand shoulder to shoulder. But resilience must never be used to minimise pain. Strong people still break down. Brave people still have panic attacks. Loving parents still cry in the shower, so their children do not see. Soldiers still come home carrying things they cannot yet say. Survivors still wake in terror. Bereaved families still must face mornings they never asked for. Resilience is not the absence of trauma. It is what people do while carrying it.
That is why mental health support is not optional. It is essential. People need spaces where they can speak honestly and without shame. They need trauma support, counselling, community care, practical help, and the reassurance that struggling does not mean they are failing. Families need checking in on. The bereaved need people who are willing to sit with them in their sorrow, not rush them through it. The wounded need continued support long after the visible injuries begin to heal. Medical staff need rest and psychological care. Military families need support before, during, and after deployment. Children need adults who understand that behaviour is often the language of distress.

Sometimes support is very simple. A phone call. A meal. A lift. A quiet visit. An offer to sit with someone who does not want to be alone. A willingness to listen without trying to fix the unfixable. A reminder that they are not forgotten. In Jewish life, we know this instinct well. We gather. We show up. We carry one another. We understand, at our best, that if one Jew feels pain, we all do.
That truth matters now more than ever.
The fight for survival is not only about borders, sirens, or uniforms. It is also about preserving the emotional and spiritual wellbeing of our people. It is about protecting the minds and hearts of babies, children, families, shopkeepers, soldiers, medical staff, survivors, and the bereaved. It is about making room for grief and fear while still choosing life. It is about refusing to let trauma have the final word.
Israel needs strength, yes – but it also needs tenderness. It needs mental health support that is accessible, compassionate, and sustained. It needs communities that do not disappear once headlines fade – and it needs all of us, wherever we live, to remember that solidarity is not only political or practical. It is emotional. It is deeply human. It is the act of saying, your pain matters to me, and you will not carry it alone.
We stand by our people and our homeland, and we pray for peace for all. We are grateful to all who carry the supportive and emotional weight of this war, and those that have preceded it. Kol HaKavod v Todah Rabbah. Am Yisrael Chai.
About the writer:

Bev Moss -Reilly is a Jewish freelance content writer living in South Africa with a deep and heartfelt focus on mental health, emotional wellbeing, trauma, grief, and the unseen struggles people carry every day. Through her writing and her Mental Health Packs, she aims to bring comfort, awareness, compassion, and practical support to individuals, families, workplaces, and communities. Her work is rooted in empathy, dignity, and the belief that nobody should feel alone in their pain, especially in times of crisis.
While the mission of Lay of the Land (LotL) is to provide a wide and diverse perspective of affairs in Israel, the Middle East and the Jewish world, the opinions, beliefs and viewpoints expressed by its various writers are not necessarily ones of the owners and management of LOTL but of the writers themselves. LotL endeavours to the best of its ability to credit the use of all known photographs to the photographer and/or owner of such photographs (0&EO).























































