By Dara Kaufman / Executive Director of Jewish Federation of the Berkshires

I recently read an article, "Naming the Psychological Crisis of Israelis Living Abroad," published in e-Jewish Philanthropy, which deeply resonated with me. When I shared it with my husband Ofer, whose entire family is spread across Israel, his response was immediate: "That is exactly how I feel."

Since October 7, I cannot count how many times Ofer has woken in the middle of the and instinctively reached for his phone, checking for news of missile strikes near the areas where his family lives. Throughout the day, Israeli news plays in Hebrew on his phone, and we are both caught in a constant cycle of messages, calls, and WhatsApp check-ins: "Everyone OK?" "Did you need to go to the shelter?" These exchanges have become part of our daily routine, bringing with them an ever-growing feeling of anxiety and helplessness. We know, of course, that we are not the ones under fire, that our family and friends in Israel are carrying so much more, but the worry is real, the stress is real, and as the war continues, its cumulative toll on our mental health has become very real too.

In speaking with Israeli friends here, it has become clear that this experience is far from ours alone. Most Israelis living abroad, like my husband, exist in an in-between space: physically safe, yet holding the weight of profound emotional ties to family, friends, and a country under constant threat.

According to the article, this emerging reality reflects a broader, often unrecognized psychological challenge facing Israelis abroad today. It is a complex mix of anxiety, guilt, and dislocation. Israelis living outside Israel are following the news obsessively, worrying about loved ones, and grappling with a sense that they are not where they are "supposed" to be during a moment of national crisis. At the same time, many feel that those around them, friends, colleagues, and even extended family, do not fully grasp the depth of that connection. The result is a quiet but profound sense of isolation.

Small gestures can make a meaningful difference. Taking the time to check in, to listen without judgment, and to acknowledge what Israelis abroad and anyone with family or friends in Israel are carrying can help ease that isolation. Ask about their loved ones. Make space for conversation that goes beyond the war and the politics. Simple expressions of care and compassion can go a long way.

In moments like these, it is so important to recognize these unseen burdens and to remind the people we care about that they do not have to carry them alone.

To better understand what our loved ones are experiencing on the ground, my colleague Rob Kovach, CEO of the Jewish Federation of Northeastern New York,  recently shared reflections from a visit to Israel, where he was celebrating his son's wedding surrounded by children and grandchildren. With his permission, I share his words:

"The first alarm is startling. It wakes you in the middle of the night, interrupts meals, and disrupts travel — exactly as it's designed to. This is the early warning from Home Front Command: missiles have been fired from Iran, but their exact trajectory isn't yet known. The warning gives you roughly ten minutes to prepare for a possible second alarm—the one that triggers the siren and gives you just ninety seconds to reach a shelter once the system knows where the missiles are headed.

To give a sense of what those ten minutes feel like, here are a few personal observations, moving from the least to the most frightening.

Surprisingly, the middle of the night alerts were the least scary for me. Everything I needed was already beside my bed. I'd jump up, put on my glasses, shoes, and jacket (with pockets preloaded), grab the baby's backpack — my assigned job — unlock the front door, and wait for the second alert before running to the shelter.

On one midday outing, I stopped into a neighbor's lobby during the warning period, and an elderly Romanian woman invited me to walk with her to the shelter. She couldn't make it there in ninety seconds, so she used the ten-minute window each time to get herself safely inside. We never received the second alert, but we shared a warm, unexpected visit while we waited.

A similar plan unfolded on a Shabbat morning in synagogue. With the government-mandated limit of fifty people, the gabbai announced that if an early warning came, we would use the ten-minute window to move calmly and orderly to the shelter rather than scramble during the ninety-second rush. Fortunately, no alarms sounded.

On another midday outing, I was sitting at an outdoor café when we received the ten-minute warning. During that time, we learned that the nearest shelter was in the basement of the supermarket across the street. When the ninety-second alert came, the sudden flurry of movement — in the café, on the sidewalk, in the street, in the market — sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. One moment people were sipping coffee; the next, chairs scraped back, conversations cut off mid-sentence, and everyone surged toward safety.

Once, I was driving six minutes from the mall when the alert came. I made it safely, parked quickly, and ran straight into the mall's shelter.

But the scariest moment came on a drive to Jerusalem, traveling in two cars. My car happened to be inside a tunnel when the early warning sounded, so we waited there with dozens of other vehicles. The second car had already exited; they pulled onto a sidewalk in front of a yeshiva and ran into its shelter. Being caught on the open road, exposed, with nowhere obvious to go, is a feeling that stays with you.

What these ten-minute intervals ultimately reveal is that the real target isn't only infrastructure or military sites — it's the civilian mind. The missiles may or may not land, but the uncertainty always does. The early warning forces you to stop whatever you're doing, gather your family, and brace for the possibility of a sprint to safety. It's a deliberate strategy: to disrupt daily life, to inject fear into ordinary routines, and to keep people in a constant state of vigilance.

And somehow, despite it all, it's Israeli resilience that keeps life moving forward."

Rob's words offer a vivid window into the reality so many of our loved ones navigate every single day, and they help explain why those of us far from home feel such a persistent pull of worry, helplessness, and connection. That last sentence is the one that stayed with me most.

Having lived with an Israeli for more that 35 years and also having lived in Israel for many of those years, I would say that Israeli resilience is not simply a coping mechanism. It is more like an act of defiance. It is the choice to go back to the café, to host that Shabbat dinner, to celebrate a wedding. And for those of us watching from afar, honoring that resilience means staying present: checking in, showing up, and refusing to let distance become indifference.