The Silence Before the War
The silence in Israel before Yom Kippur is no ordinary silence. It isn’t the kind that soothes or gives rest. It’s a silence that carries the weight of unsaid things, a silence that suffocates, full of fear. As if the entire country knows the air is too heavy for an easy breath. There’s something in the air that won’t dissolve, that chokes us a little more each day.
Iran has made its move, and here we wait. We know Israel will respond. It always does. But what unsettles me is the waiting. This interval, heavy with fragile humanity, almost desperate, as if each of us is trying to live those few minutes of false calm to their fullest. I feel like Ahab, watching the calm sea and knowing, deep down, that the storm is already on its way.
There’s cruelty in this. Living while knowing that peace is never real, that silence never lasts. What will become of us when everything explodes? I’m not afraid of the noise, the sirens, the impact of missiles. I’m afraid of what comes after, the void left when the dust settles and all that remains is us, unsure what to do with the broken pieces of our lives.
I remember Moby Dick and how the Pequod sank, swallowed by an indifferent sea. There were no cries, just the inevitable. That’s how I feel now. Waiting to be engulfed by something larger than ourselves, waiting for war to come with its brute force, but without promising anything beyond more destruction. Because, in the end, that’s all that remains — nothing.
And when I think about it, I ask myself: What will become of us, afterward? Not after the war, but after the silence it leaves behind. When the bodies are buried and the cities lie in ruins. What remains of us? A country that breathes slowly, with breath caught in its chest, as if everything could stop at any moment.
To this day, I consider Moby Dick one of the five best books I’ve ever read. Not for its plot, or its characters, but because it taught me that silence is a lie. It never brings relief. It only brings the warning that something much bigger is coming. It’s the same now. This thick silence in Israel isn’t peace. It’s just the echo of something waiting for us just ahead. And when it comes — because it always does — what will be left of us, besides fear and emptiness?
As Yom Kippur arrives, I wish you all a good fast, and may my brothers and sisters be inscribed in the Book of Life. From Israel — bring them now. May we be strong, and may we find peace beyond this silence.
#bringthemhomenow