Domestic Abuse Doesn’t Get a Ceasefire

November has come and gone, and in Israel, the silence remains deafening. While other nations amplify the voices of survivors and push for systemic change, Israel stood unsettlingly quiet. Women and children suffering behind closed doors were met with indifference—from society, from institutions, and from the media. Another year, another November lost to silence.

A year ago, my daughter and I escaped a life that many people can barely comprehend. It was a life of control, terror, and abuse—a world created by a man who wore the perfect mask in public while controlling every aspect of our lives in private. We fled to a shelter, only to find ourselves in a space that felt more like a prison than a refuge. Inside those walls, we were just two more names on a list, stripped of hope and reduced to survival. The system did the bare minimum to protect us, and society treated this terror as a private burden rather than a public crisis.

And yet, even now, I hear nothing about domestic violence. Not in the papers, not in the news, not in the voices of those who claim to care. For many, the month has passed without a word. For us, this is our life—every day, every moment.

When I left that shelter, the fear didn’t go away. The trauma didn’t disappear. It lurked in the silence, in every door I locked, every shadow that felt too close. And then, just as we began to grasp the smallest pieces of safety, another war tore through Israel. Bombs fell, sirens wailed, and fear once again wrapped itself around our lives. But the country’s attention shifted—my family’s safety, my child’s wellbeing, was once again forgotten in the chaos. My story became just another casualty of distraction, my daughter and I just two more lives struggling in the margins.

When people speak up for issues, they talk about the big crises, the immediate threats. But what about the war that rages in homes across this country every single day? Domestic abuse doesn’t get a ceasefire. It doesn’t get a headline. And once again, the silence is deafening.

In Israel, the statistics on domestic violence are staggering: more than 200,000 women experience abuse, and over 20 women were killed by their partners last year alone. Yet, despite these horrific numbers, our country acts as though it’s someone else’s problem, someone else’s tragedy. The silence from friends, from the system, from the very society that should be helping to keep us safe, cuts almost as deep as the abuse itself.

Where were the friends who said they’d support me? Where were the calls to check in, to ask if I needed a hand as a single mother carrying the weight of all this trauma? I’ve felt as isolated now as I did in the shelter—as if people have moved on while we’re still here, struggling with wounds that may never fully heal. Silence from those who once promised to be there, silence from those who look away when they see my daughter and me in the streets, not wanting to acknowledge the uncomfortable truth of our lives.

This silence is more than indifference—it’s complicity. Because when we fail to talk about domestic abuse, when we ignore the children growing up in terror, the women who are told to keep quiet and “be grateful,” we allow the abuse to thrive. Every time a friend chooses to look away, every time a system fails to act, every time a country chooses not to speak, the cycle continues.

In this so-called democratic nation, we talk about freedom, justice, and protection for all. Yet here we are, a country that enables abusers to wield power long after a woman leaves. With one signature, my ex used a “Stop Exit Order” to keep my daughter from seeing her family abroad. This is a law unique to Israel, designed to protect, but it has become another weapon for abusers to trap their victims even after they escape.

And when I finally built the courage to leave, what did I find? A system that insists on “family unity,” that suggests my child still needs a relationship with her father, regardless of the terror he’s inflicted upon her life. A system that values appearances over actual safety, that holds up a facade of “democratic values” while enabling those who use manipulation and violence to control the lives of others.

If you’re reading this, if you see this, I ask you to do more than just look. I ask you to act. Speak out about the silence surrounding domestic abuse. Remember that behind each statistic is a life, a child, a family torn apart. We don’t need more months dedicated to “awareness.” We need action. We need people who won’t look away. We need a system that protects us, a society that cares, and friends who show up even when it’s hard.

November has come and gone, leaving behind nothing but silence for the women and children trapped in the shadows of domestic abuse. I’m still waiting—for someone to say, “enough is enough.” For an outcry loud enough to shatter the silence. For the world to finally see that domestic abuse isn’t just a private tragedy—it’s a national emergency, a silent war claiming lives every single day.

How many more mothers will lock their doors in fear tonight? How many more children will grow up knowing terror instead of love? How many more lives will be lost before we decide to care?

If we don’t confront this now—if we don’t demand action, speak louder, and refuse to look away—then the silence will claim even more victims. And the next woman who needs help might not make it to see another November.

Domestic abuse doesn’t get a ceasefire, and neither should our voices. The war at home is as urgent as the war outside, and it’s time for Israel to reckon with the lives being lost to violence in the shadows. To the readers of The Times of Israel, I urge you to stay with me as I continue to uncover the truths, demand accountability, and fight for a system that protects the most vulnerable. This is just the beginning.