Israel’s War with Iran Is Over. Now What?

The sirens have gone silent in Israel, but our hearts are still on high alert

Twelve days of war. Four deaths in the final hours. Thousands of missiles, and thousands of injuries. Panic, darkness, and dread gripped the nation. Then nothing. Normal life, again.

The sudden shift in Israel this week—from full-scale wartime restrictions to the resumption of daily life has left many of us reeling. The transition was not a return to calm; it was a shock in itself. One day, we were locked in our homes under a Level 4 threat, forbidden to gather, forbidden to pray in public, sprinting to bomb shelters in the middle of the night as Iranian missiles rained down on our cities. The next day, we were pushing our children back into schoolrooms and showing up for work, as if nothing had happened.

Something happened. Something big. And I, for one, can’t just “turn it off.”

For nearly two weeks in June, Israel was at war with Iran—not its proxies, but Iran itself. The Islamic Republic fired over 550 ballistic missiles and 1,000 drones toward Israeli cities. Most were intercepted, thanks to our sophisticated defense systems and coordination with the U.S. and allies. But over 30 missiles struck populated areas. More than 3,200 people were injured. At least 9,000 civilians were displaced from homes damaged or destroyed. Twenty-eight Israeli citizens died with four of them in the final moments of the conflict, underscoring the war’s unpredictability and reach.

What followed was eerily reminiscent of the early days of COVID-19: streets emptied, public transportation cut to a minimum, schools shuttered, and synagogues dark. Zoom returned to dominate our lives. Grocery stores were stripped by panic buyers. Parents scrambled to entertain and comfort children trapped indoors. Elderly relatives were once again isolated. We went to sleep in our shoes, expecting to be awoken by sirens. Some nights, we barely slept at all.

The issue wasn’t just military conflict. It was psychological warfare. It was the destabilization of everything that gives us a sense of safety and order. The war dominated every conversation, from family WhatsApp groups to Facebook posts. Fights broke out online over who was allowed into private bomb shelters, what counted as “essential work,” and whether one should stay in the country or flee.

When the Home Front Command issued new rules, it felt like gospel. Life shrunk to a binary: safe room or danger zone. My neighbors whispered about who had a proper shelter, who didn’t, and who they’d let in when the sirens wailed; in a tense time arguments abounded. Cities scrambled to create more public shelters. Human interest stories flooded the news: the babies born, the elderly woman living alone in a stairwell, and the neighbor who opened their door to 15 strangers. Beneath them all ran a quiet terror: Will I be next?

And now… it’s over? Just like that?

After the American attack on Iranian targets and the behind-the-scenes diplomacy involving Qatar and the U.S., a ceasefire was brokered. No one quite knows what was promised or for how long it will last. But the missiles stopped, and that, we are told, is enough to justify going back to school, back to work, back to normal.

However, many of us are asking, “How can we return to normal?”

A viral Facebook post this week captured the collective dissonance:
“Isn’t it strange? One day we’re all running to the shelters; the next day our kids are back in school like nothing happened. Where’s the respect for what we just went through?”

Over a hundred people commented. Most of them were men, which surprised me. “It’s very weird—yes, 0 to 60,” one wrote. “This is life in Israel,” another shrugged. “In the South they’re used to it.” But even seasoned veterans of this kind of trauma were unsettled by the whiplash. “Even with sirens still going off, my kids are supposed to go to school?” a father asked. “Why didn’t they just keep things limited for a few more days, just to let us catch our breath?”

There is, of course, a reason behind the government’s push to resume routine. Psychologists often speak about the healing power of structure, particularly for children. Routine gives us a sense of control. It reinforces resilience. It’s a signal to our enemies that we will not be broken. This is, after all, the Israeli way: to live, to rebuild, to refuse to cower. And in many ways, it works.

But resilience doesn’t mean rushing. And strength does not mean silence.

After the trauma of war especially one that arrives without warning, affects the entire country, and disrupts every aspect of life here must be space for reflection, for healing, and for acknowledgment. Without that space, we are simply compounding the trauma, pushing it deeper into our bodies and minds, where it will fester.

Since moving to Israel, I’ve lived through several wars and escalations. Hamas rockets. Hezbollah drones. The post-October 7 war with Hamas. The Houthi attacks. But this was different. This was Iran. This was mass mobilization. The result was sleepless nights and conversations about which room in your house is most likely to survive a direct hit.

I grew up in Montreal. We had emergencies blizzards, ice storms, and blackouts. In 1998, a massive ice storm paralyzed the city for weeks. But that was nature. There were no sirens, no bombs. The enemy wasn’t trying to kill us. And when the emergency ended, it did so gradually. We had time to recover, to dig ourselves out.

Not here. Here, the lights just switch back on, and you’re expected to act like you were never in the dark.

The Israeli government has not issued a national mental health day. The Israeli government has not asked schools and employers to accommodate emotional recovery. No community-wide mourning, reflection, or processing has been proposed. Instead, we are asked to “continue,” as if survival is the same as healing.

But survival is only the beginning. The real work starts now.

Already, Jewish Federations in North America are raising money for trauma services, recognizing that PTSD is a real and lasting consequence of this war. Mental health hotlines have reported an uptick in calls, particularly from parents, teachers, and the elderly. People are afraid to admit how shaken they are afraid of being told to “be strong” or to “get over it.”

But I won’t get over it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Something broke during those two weeks. Not just in the ground beneath us, but in the illusion that we can keep living on this knife’s edge without paying a price.

Children are not robots. Adults are not machines. You cannot turn us on and off like a national alarm system. We need time. We need space. We need kindness.

We need to be allowed to say, That was terrifying.
We need to be able to ask, Why did it happen? Will it happen again?
We need to grieve the lives lost, the homes destroyed, and the innocence chipped away once more.

Resilience is not the absence of pain. It’s the courage to face it.

So what now?

Now, we pause. We breathe. We let our hearts catch up with our bodies. We comfort our children. We show up for our neighbors. We remember what we just lived through. And we insist that healing is a form of national security, too.

This wasn’t just another war. And we are not the same as we were before it began.