Singing Over Sirens

I had spent four days among the manicured lawns and dreamlike perfection at Camp Ramah Nyack when I suddenly found myself sitting in a circle on dewy grass with 20 kids I barely knew. On June 24, 2025, we didn’t sing campfire songs, instead, we hotly debated the viability of the recently announced Iran ceasefire. 

 Initially, I had planned to go on the capstone trip of my summer camp experience, Ramah Israel Seminar, a six-week Israel travel program that brings together campers from across Ramah’s overnight camps. But the war derailed our trip, leaving us scattered in Ramah summer camps across the country. On the night of the ceasefire, we were given eight hours to make a big decision. Ramah was able to reinstate our trip to Israel, but needed our answer by midnight. I had to choose between the fun and risk-free environment in Nyack, or potentially getting stuck in bomb shelters on the other side of the world for the rest of my summer. 

 As we went around the circle, I became frustrated by the pros and cons lists, analyses of what the war would look like in a week or two, and whether the U.S. destroyed enough of the Iran nuclear program to guarantee some safety. Many of my friends and their parents decided it was too risky to travel to Israel, but a feeling I couldn’t describe washed over me. I left the group, called my parents, and told them in a surprisingly steady voice, “I need to go, I don’t know why, but I just do. I think something inside me needs it. Please let me go.” 

 Forty-eight hours later, I was on my way to Israel, pacing the El Al airplane aisles with sleepless eyes, filled with anxious anticipation. I’m not sure why my parents agreed. Maybe it was because I was finally admitting to the ache of trying to be normal in a place where my normal is controversial. 

 At my high school in Santa Monica, California, antisemitism after the attacks of Oct. 7, 2023, didn’t manifest through violence or vandalism. That said, my identity as a proud Jew, and the son of an Israeli, was seen within the school’s culture as something open to critique, one necessitating a defense, and constantly demanding an explanation. Teachers showed videos and articles about the conflict that were one-sided and I felt there was little room for discussion. Meanwhile, classmates accused me of being pro-genocide. I would go home every day frustrated and confused. 

 I became the “Israel Kid,” the one who always raised his hand armed with facts far less trendy than the sensational narratives so many around me, even Jews, found more compelling. I felt it was my duty to speak up on behalf of Israel and the Jewish community, but by the end of my sophomore year, I felt like my identity was a burden. While Israel unified during the war, I was left as a lone soldier in a battlefield of apathy and biases. I became two people. At home, I was proud of my identity and learned about my people’s history through RootOne, an organization that provides vouchers for Jewish teens to travel to Israel for immersive and educational experiences. At school, I would tuck away my Magen David and desperately began to look for “two sides” to everything to relieve myself of always going against the mainstream. 

 I was tired. Yet, something called me to board that plane to Israel. We landed in Ben Gurion airport, going on to spend many incredible days laughing in between bites of shawarma at the shuk and others crying at the Nova site or listening to Rachel Goldberg-Polin’s incredible bravery. It was a meaningful experience, but there was one moment where I felt the manifestation of what I couldn’t articulate to my parents on that humid night in Nyack. 

 We sat in the courtyard for Kabbalat Shabbat, the sky rinsed pink over the Jerusalem hills, when the siren went off —  high, mechanical and impossible to ignore. While we panicked, our Israeli counselors’ faces shifted into practiced calm. We walked in a single file, descended the stairs, heaved open the thick metal door and entered the room full of recycled air. We packed together shoulder to shoulder, and my heart stumbled, thinking about all the reasons not to have come in the first place. 

 We stood in silence for some time, listening to the ebbing and flowing of our neighbors strained, shallow breaths. Some time passed like that, fingers fidgeting and legs awkwardly swaying until a voice, one I recognized from bus ride jokes, began to sing. It wasn’t a sweet voice, but one filled with a gravelly reality we all felt. We joined, continuing the “Lecha Dodi” hymn that was interrupted by the siren, but now, the tune thickened, palms clapped and arms were strung around shoulders. The siren ended, but we stayed, chanting the elastic refrain of “Am Yisrael Chai” which ends with the words meaning “And the main thing is not to be afraid at all.” The words were old and the situation new. This was the dichotomy between joy and loss that RootOne explained makes Israel so special. We were Jews from all over, with different beliefs and upbringings and in that moment, we sang together, off-key and wholeheartedly, with eyes closed and tears running down our faces without any need to explain them. 

 Courage isn’t always taking the leap of faith to get on a plane into a war zone, but to sing even when the siren tries to silence you. If I opened a time capsule 20 years from now, I would want this memory to greet me first: the heat of the packed bodies and the first uncertain note that crackled off the thick door, the rhythm of singing over sirens that will always beat within me.

Dar Klein is a high school junior based in Los Angeles. He is the recipient of the inaugural RootOne Voices scholarship essay contest. He travelled to Israel on Ramah Israel Seminar, a RootOne-affiliated experience, in summer 2025.