We Watched the Sky Split Open
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Reflections on a Viral Moment
by Leah Luria
A few nights ago, I stood on my balcony and watched missiles fill the sky. My children were next to me, looking up (note: these missiles were not directly in my area, but we have a panoramic view from our balcony so we were a safe distance away - when we have an alert for our city we always go to shelter). I felt something shift in the air. I wrote a poem about that moment and posted a short video. It was raw and honest and quiet. I didn’t expect it to go viral. But it did.
Close to 350,000 people have seen that reel so far. People from around the world reached out. That they saw themselves in the words. That they had never really understood what life under fire looks like. That the sky had never felt so sacred or so terrifying.
At the same time, I found myself glued to the comments section. Watching. Deleting. Blocking. I had to babysit the post because of the sheer amount of antisemitism flooding in. People went out of their way to curse and deny and mock, even under a video of a civilian family being attacked by rockets.
It was jarring. I am just a wife, mother, an artist and recent(ish) oleh (immigrant). I was writing from my heart, trying to find some thread of beauty in a very dark moment. And still, the hate poured in.
But it reminded me why sharing matters. Why art matters. People are hurting and afraid, and there is something powerful about creating beauty in the middle of that.
In the middle of it all, we are witnessing miracles. Not poetic ones, but real ones. The kind you can see with your own eyes. And somehow, we have gotten used to them. Hashem is protecting Am Yisrael directly. No angels. No intermediaries. Just His hand, over and over.
This experience has deepened our emuna (faith) and reminded us that we are in the right place at the right time. We feel blessed to be here, even when it is hard. Maybe especially when it is hard.
And the strangest part is how normal it all becomes. Between carpool and camp pickup, there are rocket alerts. Between sandwiches and sunscreen, we run to shelters. And still, there is laughter. There are kids running down the street in their Crocs. There are parents pouring coffee and folding laundry and texting each other to check in. It is impossible to describe unless you are living it. It is collective. It is sacred. It is quiet and it is loud. And somehow, we keep going. We keep showing up. We are being carried. We are not alone. We are active participants in a massive collective shift. The birth pangs are painful and real, but for a purpose.
So I am sharing the video here, along with the poem. Not just because it went viral, but because I think it touched something people are craving. Something human. Something honest. We are living through a time of deep pain, and also deep clarity of purpose. And maybe what we need most right now is softness. Witnessing. The reminder that even in chaos, there are mothers standing on balconies, holding their children, looking up at the sky, whispering silent prayers under the stars. Still choosing to speak, to share, to create.
