A 91-Year-Old’s Passover Choice in Wartime Israel

Facing sirens and missiles, he chose to celebrate the holiday — and taught me a lesson about courage, love, and letting go.

Screenshot of the missile and rocket attacks on Israel as Passover approached (photo: Julie Gray)

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This is a guest essay by Julie Gray, co-author of “Let’s Make Things Better” and a native Californian now living in Israel.

You can also listen to the podcast version of this essay on Apple Podcasts, YouTube Music, YouTube, and Spotify.

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Editor’s Note: Sirens echoed across Israel on Wednesday evening, just as Passover began, as Iran unleashed a major barrage of ballistic missiles, the largest Iranian salvo on Israel since the early days of the war, and Hezbollah fired rockets from Lebanon. Millions of Israelis rushed to bomb shelters and safe rooms, interrupting Seder preparations and forcing families to celebrate the holiday under the shadow of incoming fire.

When it was time to say goodbye to Gidon, it had already been an uncharacteristically gloomy day for spring. I had been dreading this parting since the night before, when we first discussed the wartime Passover plan.

I hadn’t taken it seriously at first. It turns out, Gidon had.

I traced the route on a map to show him what this would actually involve. An hour’s drive north, skirting Haifa and its surrounding suburbs, areas that are frequent targets of Hezbollah. I suggested alternatives; friends in safer places, relatively speaking. People who don’t live ten miles from the Lebanese border, say.

Gidon and I have a long and thorny history of negotiating comfort zones and boundaries.

Time after time, I have found myself pushing the car to the side of the road, paying for a ticket or snapping at him out of embarrassment or frustration. He makes his case. I argue. He doesn’t budge. Eventually, against my better judgment, I go along with it. And I am right. We are late. It does break, and it is costly, embarrassing, and inconvenient.

That night, we went to bed angry with one another. I felt Gidon was shaming me for being afraid. He thought I was being melodramatic.

Inwardly, I felt guilty, ashamed and like the absolute worst partner in the world. How could I even consider opting out of a family Passover, especially in a time of war when everything is on the line?

The next day, I told Gidon I was thinking it over. But I wasn’t. Not really.

There was a pit in my stomach at the thought of driving into a more dangerous part of the country. It didn’t feel like fear exactly. It felt like a rational question: Why would I put myself in that position if it wasn’t absolutely necessary?

I thought about the whole Israeli ethos of being “resilient” and “brave” no matter what, and how that is equally healthy and empowering and strangling and messed up.

I knew what would happen if I gave in to Gidon. The drive would pass. We would probably be fine. Even if we had to run into a field, we would manage.

But I would be furious.

I would sit at the Seder rigid and seething, avoiding Gidon’s glance, missing everything good about it — the kids, the singing, the absurdity and warmth. I would be locked in a single thought loop. Once more, Gidon didn’t listen to me. He didn’t respect what I was feeling. And my feelings, by the way, are entirely reasonable.

I called friends and asked them if the plan sounded reckless. They agreed, because of course it is. Everything is ridiculous right now.

Reassured, I built my case. Gidon was the irrational one. Not me. We could stay home. We could make our own Seder, something quiet and contemplative. We could discuss the responsibility that comes with freedom.

Apron on, Gidon was in the kitchen, busily making the chicken soup he had promised to bring.

This could be his last Passover. Was I going to ruin that? Wasn’t it my responsibility to go along, cheerfully, despite my feelings? Isn’t that the deal when your life partner is elderly?

And if the worst thing that could happen is death, then by god, shouldn’t I be with Gidon? Aren’t we supposed to be in this together, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?

A few weeks after October 7th, when we were still in Tel Aviv, the sirens sounded constantly. Five a day, sometimes more. Each time we had to go down three flights of stairs.

One night, after yet another siren, Gidon stayed put.

“Gidon! Go, go, go!” I yelled.

He didn’t move. “Not this time,” he said. “I want to finish my dinner.” He was tired.

I had about 60 seconds left to reach safety. “I love you,” I said, “but I still have some years ahead of me, and I would like to live to see them.”

“Go,” Gidon said. “Go.”

Gidon had moved on to making the matzo balls for the chicken soup when I tapped him on the shoulder. I had come to a decision. We had to talk. But Gidon beat me to it — “I’ve thought about it,” he said. “If you want to stay home, that’s okay. But I really want to go, and I’m going.”

It was a monumental moment in our relationship. No pressure, no guilt, no caving, and no resentment. Gidon could do Gidon, and I could do me. I set up live location sharing on WhatsApp for eight hours, which is the maximum.

The alerts started about 15 minutes before his grandson arrived. Sirens wailed across the country. I felt both vindicated and sick. Of course, it’s starting now. Of course, this is the moment.

Soup packed, jacket on, Gidon watched the chyron showing the missile alerts going off in city after city, gravely. Then his grandson honked, and we hugged each other tightly and said goodbye.

“Be careful,” I said lamely.

Gidon pointed upward. “I have a lucky star,” he reminded me. “And if it’s not watching over me this time, then it’s my time to go. I’m 91. To hell with it.”

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