‘And There Was a Famine in the Land’ – Lech Lecha 5786

“And there was a famine in the land.” — Genesis 12:10

It’s over.

At least, that’s what we’re being told. The war in Gaza has come to an end — or at least, this chapter has. But like all endings in Israel’s story, this one feels less like a finish and more like the moment when you exhale and realize how long you’ve been holding your breath.

The question is: what happens now?

What happens after the missiles quiet, when the hostages begin to come home, when the news cycle moves on but the ache still lingers? What happens when the world begins to forget, but the land itself still feels scorched and trembling beneath our feet?

Hunger After the War

The Torah says, “And there was a famine in the land.”

It happens so suddenly. God calls Abraham — Lech lecha, go — and then, almost immediately, famine strikes. The promise of a new beginning is met not with abundance, but with emptiness. It’s almost cruel in its timing.

The first test of faith isn’t violence or fear — it’s hunger. Not just hunger for food, but hunger for safety, for meaning, for peace.

And maybe that’s where we are now.

The physical battles may have stopped, but the famine remains — the famine of trust, the famine of empathy, the famine of hope. We’re trying to rebuild, to return to some version of “normal,” but deep inside we’re starving for something that feels lost.

When Words Become Weapons

Even the word famine itself has become political.

As the Jerusalem Post recently pointed out in an article aptly titled “And There Was a Famine in the Land,” the World Health Organization’s decision to label the situation in Gaza a “famine” before the ceasefire was not just descriptive — it was a deliberate political act. It wasn’t about calories or crops; it was about power, pressure, perception.

And so we learn again that even words can go hungry — starving for integrity, for honesty, for truth.

The Torah uses famine to describe a test of faith; today, the world uses it to frame a story. One word — and the moral axis of the world can tilt.

The Hunger That Remains

Eli Sharabi, in his haunting new book Hostage, writes of waiting endlessly for word of his brothers Yossi and Yitzhak, both taken by Hamas:

“You wake up every morning hungry. Not for food, but for a piece of truth. For a sign that the world still remembers them.” (Hostage, p. 83)

His hunger isn’t for bread — it’s for recognition, for human decency, for freedom. That’s the famine that continues long after wars end.

Sharabi writes later,

“I still believe in light. Even after what they did, I still believe that being human is not a weakness.” (Hostage, p. 211)

That sentence has stayed with me. Because that’s where we are now — somewhere between the darkness and the decision to keep believing in light.

The Land Still Hungers

The Or HaChaim asks why the Torah tells us there was a famine in the very land God had promised. His answer: holiness doesn’t protect us from suffering. The Promised Land, even under covenant, still knows hunger.

And maybe that’s the truth we need to face now.
Peace will not fall from the sky. Healing won’t come by decree. Even when the guns are silent, the famine remains.

The land still hungers for peace.

Carrying Seeds

There’s a midrash that says when Abraham left for Egypt during the famine, he carried seeds with him, believing one day he would return to plant them.

That’s the work before us now. To carry seeds. To plant even when the ground feels parched. To believe that the famine is not forever.

We are still hungry — for justice, for safety, for peace, for the return of every captive. But hunger is not hopelessness. Hunger is what keeps us moving. It’s the body’s way of saying: you are still alive.

And faith — emunah — is the decision to keep walking, even when the horizon is unclear.

From Famine to Promise

The Torah doesn’t hide the famine. It begins with it. Because that’s how every real story of faith begins — not in plenty, but in promise.

Maybe the war is over. Maybe.
But the battle for meaning, for moral clarity, for compassion — that’s just beginning.

We are living, again, between famine and faith.
And maybe that’s exactly where the covenant lives too.