The silence after the sirens

It begins the same way every time.

The sirens scream, and for a moment, everything becomes clear.

I stiffen. The country stiffens. Fear is metabolized into purpose. Left, right, religious, secular – we become one body, one voice, one story. We are strong. We are together. We are under attack.

And in that moment, I feel something else too: calm.

Because the siren is not only a warning, it is a balm. It silences the noise inside my head. It reduces the unbearable complexity of this moment to one simple, pure imperative: survive.

I have come to crave that kind of clarity.

Because when the sirens stop, a quiet prevails. And in that silence, my voice is not always welcome.

For the past twenty months, since that long black Shabbat of October 7, I’ve lived with a growing sense of internal exile. Not because I’ve given up on Israel, but because I haven’t. Because I believe that better days are ahead. And because I ask what the plan is to get there, where it leads, and whether the people leading us are up to the task. And that, in today’s Israel, is an act of quiet rebellion.

What does it mean to live under constant war and still believe, despite everything, that military power alone is not a plan? That leadership must be accountable? That morality cannot be optional? That real clarity is earned, not declared?

It means learning to live in a shrinking mental space. It means carrying questions like contraband: What are we actually trying to achieve in Gaza? What does victory over Iran mean? What is our strategy? What is our end goal?

But these questions don’t land. They hover, then vanish. Because no one wants to hear them. Not now. Not while soldiers are in the field and pilots in the air. Not while rockets fall. Not while Tehran waits.

So I calibrate my words. I post carefully. I smile and say “yes, hopefully soon,” when someone says, “We’ll finish the job.” And maybe I even believe it, for a moment.

Because this is a country that needs certainty the way lungs need air. And amid the heavy fog of war, uncertainty becomes indulgent. Complexity, a subversion. If you’re not optimistic, you’re ungrateful. And if you ask what comes next, you are, at best, a nuisance – and at worst, a traitor.

Yet I understand the feeling. We all want to feel clean, strong, vindicated. We want to believe we are the heroes in a story that still makes sense. That we are moving toward something noble. That history will understand.

And so, I wait for the sirens. Not for what they warn, but for what they wipe clean. Their sound is an absolution. A single, piercing note of purpose. No nuance. No ambiguity. No past, no future. Just now. Just them and us. Just clarity.

And I’ve learned: clarity feels good. Clarity is strength. Clarity is safety.

Gaza is subdued. Iran is sobered. Our deterrence restored. Our enemies afraid. Our leaders in control. Our people united. History, surely, will vindicate us.

Until the sirens end.