The Walls That Speak Truth

Image

Thursday morning, June 19th, 2025, here in Israel: the air-raid sirens blared again. We followed our well-practiced ritual, getting the kids out of bed quickly and into the mamad, our reinforced safe room, while praying for God's protection over the people of Israel. I’m so thankful we have this safe space in our home. But about sixty percent of Israelis don’t. Think of parents with babies, elderly people who simply can’t sprint for cover, they’re exposed every time the sirens start.

As we sat there, we could hear the explosions like distant thunder. Every boom makes you question reality. Is that Iron Dome intercepting, or did a missile just land nearby? Today, it felt personal: a rocket landed in my friend’s neighborhood. They weren’t home, but their little boy’s kindergarten was reduced to rubble. Their little boy loved that kindergarten; he loved playing with balls there, and he had a favorite element he always insisted on wearing. Every time he was picked up, he had a hard time letting go. Not long ago, that school echoed with laughter; this morning, it’s just a pile of concrete and memories.

Moments later, I learned Soroka Hospital in Be’er Sheva took a direct hit. I watched a video of the blast, flames towering into the sky, smoke blotting out the sun. Thank God, yesterday, the Director-General of the Ministry of Health ordered an evacuation of that wing. That split-second decision saved lives; instead of a massacre, there were only a handful of minor injuries.

When I posted the footage on my social media account, someone messaged me clearly disappointed, saying, “Why are there still walls?” meaning they wished the hospital were entirely destroyed. Within seconds, the trolls arrived: "You reap what you sow," they sneered, comparing the attack on Soroka to false claims about Israel deliberately targeting hospitals in Gaza. Some try to draw false parallels between Soroka and what happens in Gaza. Here’s the difference the world needs to understand:

Let me clarify something important: Soroka is purely a civilian hospital, not with hidden military installations beneath, no secret tunnels. Iran's missiles aren't selective. They don't pause to verify identities or check religious backgrounds. Many patients and staff at Soroka are Arab Muslims, demonstrating clearly that these rockets indiscriminately endanger lives, regardless of ethnicity or belief.

Compare that to Gaza’s hospitals, which Hamas has weaponized. Shifa Hospital sits above tunnels used to hold Israeli hostages. At the European Hospital, Sinwar’s fighters moved through shafts under the ER. Rantisi’s wards were turned into cages. And in Nasser Hospital, Hamas ran its local command center under the guise of caring for the sick. Israel has never bombed a hospital in its entirety; instead, we target the terrorists hiding inside. That precise strike on Nasser flattened the room where senior Hamas leader Ismail Barhoum planned attacks.

In my reply, I pointed out that Soroka is a hospital that serves all people, Jews, Muslims, Christians, and employs staff from every background. The fact is, Israel is the only place in our region where true coexistence is practiced every day, not just spoken about. You walk the halls and you see it with your own eyes, Jewish and Arab doctors working side by side, patients from every background receiving care equally. That’s not a slogan, it’s reality.

And yet, the hypocrisy is staggering. When a civilian hospital in Israel is attacked, many of the same people who cry out over suffering in Gaza go silent, or worse, they cheer. The double standard couldn’t be clearer. These rockets don’t discriminate, but somehow, Israel is the one expected to meet impossible moral standards no other nation is held to in the face of terrorism.

There’s no comfort in saying, “It could have been worse.” There’s only deep gratitude that it wasn’t and a heavy awareness that next time, it could be. We don’t have the luxury of theory or distance. While others debate from the sidelines, we carry children to safety, treat the wounded, bury the rubble, and keep going.

This isn’t a talking point. It’s life here. And the reality we live in deserves more than silence, distortion, or applause for our pain. Don’t let anyone erase that with hashtags or spin.

We carry this day with us, not as a headline, but as a scar. And while others scroll past or twist the truth, we stand in it. With clarity. With faith. With each other.

Moran