The Grass Is Always Greenville

Despite living in Israel, I constantly receive cellphone notifications about Greenville County, South Carolina, a place I’ve never visited. Some time ago, I downloaded a news application that sends updates on major stories from around the world — and from Greenville. Multiple times a day, I learn everything from the region’s weather to its criminal activity. I haven’t figured out how to stop the messages, so it’s become a joke in our household. I’ll blurt out, “There’s been an accident in Greenville,” and we’ll chuckle. But the notifications have become less humorous of late.

During the current war with Iran, I’ve developed a love-hate relationship with my phone. The cacophony of noises it produces takes on a new life. When it’s your first line of defense against rocket attacks, you get to know each sound intimately.

With each wave of attacks, we receive multiple warnings both on our phones and from speakers stationed throughout the town. The sheer volume of these alerts induces panic. Imagine the loudest noise your phone can make — now imagine it happening multiple times in the middle of the night.

With each wave of attacks, we receive multiple warnings both on our phones and from speakers stationed throughout the town. The sheer volume of these alerts induces panic. Imagine the loudest noise your phone can make — now imagine it happening multiple times in the middle of the night.

Often, we receive pre-warnings that don’t lead to actual sirens. There’s a sigh of relief when this occurs, but it’s not without 10 minutes of tense waiting. When an actual siren does occur, we make our way to the bomb shelter on the lower level of our home. Locking the door clangs — a sound as heavy as the Iron Curtain falling. Then we all sit and wait.

Most events last around 10 minutes, though multiple rounds can keep us there longer. Sometimes we’re at home, other times we’re out purchasing necessities and have to duck into communal spaces, which we must find in under 90 seconds. While inside, we play on our phones, reassure our children and say Psalms, praying for God’s protection. Then we hear the booms off in the distance.

When the war began, our eldest struggled with the sirens, feeling anxious about what may be en route. But somewhere along the way, it all became surreal, to the point where we had to forbid our sons from running to the porch to see what was coming. We were all outside when we saw a cluster bomb split from a single line into what looked like one hundred, raining down in the distance. “These aren’t fireworks,” I told them. “They’re rockets being sent to kill us and, God forbid, shrapnel falls on you, that’s it.” This was enough to convince them to watch from inside, until it’s time to shelter.

Once we receive a message that the event has ended, we resurface, resuming whatever we were doing. The “all-clear” notification has a different tone than the warnings. It’s a small “bing” sound that’s used for all my other news notifications. Although better than the warnings, hearing it still drives my wife crazy. It has the “rocket” association. But sometimes it’s just a message about Greenville. When we hear that sound after rocket warnings, we know all is clear. Then we wait to hear the fallout from places that weren’t so lucky.

The other alerts I receive are warnings from other parts of the country that don’t trigger local sirens for us. The North has always suffered more rocket fire, and lately, the situation has only intensified. In one attack, Hezbollah fired over 100 rockets at once to overwhelm the Iron Dome system. These messages also weigh on me because we’ve seen the outcomes of a direct hit in places like Beit Shemesh, where, in a single strike, 27 people were injured and nine died, including three children from the same family. Even at the moments we don’t have to run for shelter, we are never fully at rest.  

In a recent rocket barrage, as my phone was flashing red warnings of impending terror, I received another message about Greenville. It suddenly didn’t bother me. It transported me to a place I’ve never been but know far too well.

In a recent rocket barrage, as my phone was flashing red warnings of impending terror, I received another message about Greenville. It suddenly didn’t bother me. It transported me to a place I’ve never been but know far too well. It was a momentary relief from the stress my phone has become. I hope that we’ll soon return to a time when I couldn’t care less about a place like Greenville — or its notifications.

Hayim Leiter is a rabbi, a wedding officiant, and a mohel who performs britot (ritual circumcisions) and conversions in Israel and worldwide. Based in Efrat, Israel, he is the founder of Magen HaBrit, an organization protecting the practice of brit milah and the children who undergo it.