The Power of Forgiveness That Saved a Neighborhood in War

The height of the Six-Day War. In the Beit Yisrael neighborhood of Jerusalem, there was a terrifying silence. The streets were empty and still. Inside the bomb shelters, heart-wrenching scenes unfolded. Children trembled in fear, barely able to speak. The adults—many of them survivors of earlier tragedies—slept in shifts on worn-out mattresses. Families, neighbors, and strangers crowded together in dark, damp shelters, holding on to each other as fear tightened its grip. The danger felt overwhelming. All around, the Arab nations threatened to destroy the Jewish people.

Because Beit Yisrael was so close to the border, it was hit especially hard. Shell after shell poured into the neighborhood, launched from Jordanian tanks just across the line. The air was filled with the roar of bombs and the whistle of missiles. There was no break, no mercy—only the goal of crushing the neighborhood as fast as possible.

In a small shelter beneath the Mir Yeshiva, yeshiva students sat together with local families and rabbanim (rabbis). The students tried to raise their voices in Torah study to bring light into the darkness, but the booming cannons and crashing shells made it nearly impossible to concentrate.

Every now and then, a deafening explosion would shake the building—another bomb landing nearby. People whispered prayers that no one had been hurt, though deep down they knew damage had been done. The homes around them were becoming filled with holes, each one a silent reminder of the destruction. News came into the shelter: the Mir Yeshiva itself had been hit. Though, miraculously, no one was hurt, the realization that their own sacred place was under fire shook them to their core.

Then came the worst night of all. Without a moment’s rest, a new wave of bombings poured down on Beit Yisrael. Hundreds of shells targeted the center of the neighborhood, right where the shelter stood. Inside, panic reached its peak. Torah students, neighbors, rabbanim, shopkeepers, and the women doing laundry—all froze in fear. The shelter shook violently. No one could sleep. Everyone trembled.

With nowhere else to turn, the people poured out their hearts to Hashem. The yeshiva boys cried as they prayed. The women clung tightly to their books of Tehillim (Psalms), whispering words of trust and hope. Some made sincere promises to improve. Others were too paralyzed by fear to move. But all of them were united in a desperate cry to their Creator: “Please, Hashem, save us now!”

At times, the shelter felt like it was collapsing. Cries of “Shema Yisrael”—the prayer declaring God’s oneness—rose up from every corner. People began to think they wouldn’t live to see the morning. There were moments of deep surrender to Hashem, alongside tearful prayers that pierced the heavens. Finally, dawn broke. The bombing slowed, and eventually the war began to quiet. But that one night of horror was burned into the memory of everyone who had lived through it. They would never forget.

How Did We Survive the Inferno?

Not long after the war ended, the Rosh Yeshiva (head of the yeshiva), Rabbi Chaim Shmuelevitz, addressed his students. “Do you remember that night of terror in the shelter?” he asked. “Do you remember the cries, the fear, the shouts of ‘Shema Yisrael,’ and the very real danger to our lives?”

Everyone remembered. No one had forgotten.

Rabbi Chaim continued, “Just like the yeshiva was hit, just like everything around us was burning... the same could have happened to us, chas v’shalom (Heaven forbid). So what saved us? What protected us in that firestorm?”

The room fell silent. You could feel the tension. Then Rabbi Chaim raised his voice: “We survived that night only because of one woman who was in the shelter with us!”

People looked around, shocked. One woman?

Rabbi Chaim explained: “There was a woman in the shelter—a laundress, working hard to support herself. When everyone else was crying and frozen in fear, she turned to Hashem with a broken heart and said:

‘Master of the Universe, for more than twenty years, I’ve been alone. My husband abandoned me and never gave me a get (Jewish divorce). I was left with little children and no money. My life has been lonely, painful, and hard. I’ve suffered from people who hurt me, who didn’t understand me, who ignored my pain. I have every right to be angry. But right now, when our lives are in danger, I forgive them all—from the bottom of my heart. Please, Hashem, because I am forgiving, You should forgive us too! Please let us live!’”

The Rosh Yeshiva paused and looked around the room. “Can you imagine what happened in shamayim (heaven) at that moment?” he asked. “They saw a woman who had every reason to hold onto her pain—but instead, she let it go. She forgave, with her whole heart. She gave up years of bitterness—for the sake of saving us all. And that’s why we were saved. Her forgiveness opened the gates of mercy. Her heart saved us.”

Rabbi Chaim’s words left a lasting impression. Everyone there understood: it’s exactly the hardest wounds, the deepest pain, and the most justified complaints that hold the power to change everything. Forgiveness isn’t just a nice idea—it’s a key to life. It can open the gates of Heaven and bring down salvation.

In Our Times Too…

We live in chaotic, frightening times. And the message of that woman in the shelter is just as relevant now. Yes, we may be hurt, and often it’s not fair. But precisely because of that, when we choose to forgive—we unlock a powerful spiritual force.

We may never know what terrible things we’ve been saved from, or what blessings we’ve brought to our families, just by choosing to let go. Forgiveness isn’t only healing—it can be life-saving. For us. For those around us. For all of Am Yisrael (the Jewish people).

So let’s try, even when it’s hard. Let’s let go of the pain, cancel the anger in our hearts, and forgive those who wronged us. Because that one act might change everything.