When does 'the war' really end for the Jewish people? - opinion

‘This is the day that God has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

It’s a wonderful day. A miraculous day. A day we prayed for, cried for, and hardly dared to believe would ever come. Our hostages – the sons and daughters, brothers, and sisters who have been front and center in our national consciousness for two long, agonizing years – are finally home.

Whether it remains over in the absence of the return of our precious heroes who lost their lives defending themselves and the country remains to be seen.

For this moment – this sacred, fleeting, healing moment – we must allow ourselves joy. We must celebrate, dance, cry tears of relief, and thank God.

However, once the euphoria fades, as it inevitably will, we must face the harder truth: This day, as beautiful as it is, comes at an unbearable price, one that we will be paying not only now but for generations to come.

I am not talking here about the political or moral costs of releasing hundreds of convicted terrorists. I’ve written before that there must be due process and that those guilty of terrorist murder should face the death penalty. Justice, not vengeance, demands that murderers never walk free to kill again.

However, that debate, important as it is, is not my focus today. The deeper price – the one that will haunt us – is the psychological and emotional toll that this war, this horror, has inflicted on every Israeli and, arguably, every Jew in the world.

Research from previous wars and terror waves already shows that national trauma reverberates for decades. After October 7 and everything that followed, we are confronting something even more severe. It’s a collective wound that cuts through every home, every community, every soul.

Thousands of others are struggling: survivors of kibbutz massacres, bereaved parents and children, traumatized soldiers, displaced families, emergency responders, doctors, teachers, and the countless ordinary Israelis who have lived for two years under the shadow of fear, loss, and existential dread.

Then there is the global Jewish trauma. For while Israelis were under fire, Jews around the world were under attack, not with rockets, but with hatred. The explosion of antisemitism that followed this war – in universities, on the streets, in workplaces, and in synagogues – has left scars of its own.

The trauma of Israeli Jews and Diaspora Jews, though different in form, has merged into a single shared wound. We have learned that while we may live in different countries, our fates remain intertwined. The mask has slipped from the face of the world, and we will not unsee it.

Many will say, “Now the war is over, and we can ‘return to normal.’” But what is normal?

There is no going back to October 6, 2023. The genie is out of the bottle, and it will not return.

We have seen what our enemies are capable of. We have seen the ease with which the world condemns us for defending ourselves. We have seen how truth itself can be distorted until the victim is blamed for the crime.

The haters have been emboldened.

The world has changed, and so must we.

My deepest concern is for the survivors, those who came home physically alive but inwardly broken; for the bereaved families, who will never again know a complete Shabbat table; for the soldiers, who fought with unmatched bravery but witnessed scenes that no human being should ever see.

The IDF and the government must tell the truth – even the painful parts – about what went wrong and why. Healing cannot come from denial; it can only come from integrity. The people deserve that, and so do those who died.

On Sunday night, my 10-year-old granddaughter looked up at me and asked, “Zeide, is the war over?” I hesitated. How does one answer that?

How do I explain to a child that the war for Jews and for Israel is never truly over? That we will forever have to justify our right to exist, a right taken for granted by every other people on earth? That there are millions who still wish us harm? That even as we rejoice today, there are those planning the next assault? That even in Manchester, London, Paris, or New York, one must now think twice before wearing a kippah or displaying a Star of David?

In the end, I smiled and said, “Yes, sweetie, the war is over.”

And under my breath, I whispered: “For now.”

The challenge before us is to hold both truths at once: the joy of redemption and the weight of its aftermath. To sing: “This is the day that God has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it” with full hearts, even while knowing that healing will take decades.

Judaism has always mastered this paradox. On Passover, we drink four cups of wine and celebrate freedom, but we pour out drops for the Egyptians who died. On Independence Day, we sing and dance, but just a day earlier, on Remembrance Day, we weep for the fallen. Our faith teaches us that true joy is not the absence of pain but the ability to give thanks despite it.

This is a day of light after two years of darkness. Yet every light casts a shadow. The euphoria of freedom will pass, and in its place will come the sobering work of repair: personal, communal, national, and spiritual.

We will need an infrastructure of compassion: counselors, educators, therapists, rabbis, friends – an entire nation committed to tending its wounded, visible and invisible alike. We will need leaders who speak plainly, who do not hide behind slogans, who admit failure and learn from it.

We will need, above all, patience – with ourselves, with each other, and with the fragile process of healing.

Let us enjoy this day – truly enjoy it. Let us give thanks for the miracles we have witnessed. Let us celebrate life, resilience, and the indomitable spirit of our people.

However, let us not delude ourselves. The war for Israel’s body may be over. The war for Israel’s soul has only just begun.