They tell us, “The war is over. Go back to your normal lives.”

What does that even mean?

Yes, kids are back in school. Many are back at work. Restaurants are open again. The shelves are stocked. The highways are full. People are grabbing coffee, running errands, making plans. Some weddings are being rescheduled, celebrations postponed. From the outside, life seems to be moving forward.

But that’s not the real picture. That’s just the easy part.

The truth is, the war didn’t begin when Iranian missiles darkened our skies. It began on the morning of October 7th, 2023. A Saturday so dark and brutal that most of us are still trapped in it. And it hasn’t ended, not really, not even close.

That same day we were told a ceasefire with Iran had begun, just one hour before it took effect, a missile struck. Four more lives lost in a single moment: an 18-year-old young man, his 18-year-old girlfriend, his 50-year-old mother, and their 73-year-old neighbor. Four innocent people, wiped out while the world prepared to declare, “The war is over. Go back to your normal lives.”

Only hours later, we were hit again. Another headline. Another wound. “It was approved to be released.” And then came the names, seven of our brave soldiers, young men who gave everything to defend this country. Our heroes. Our children. And we are told again, “The war is over. Go back to your normal lives.”

It’s like a knife to the heart. Here in Israel, we sanctify life. Every one of these lives is a universe. And yet, we are told, “The war is over. Go back to your normal lives.”

For 12 days, only essential workplaces were open. Children were back on Zoom. Hundreds lost their homes. Twenty-eight families lost loved ones. Over 3,000 were injured. And many more walk around with wounds no one can see—wounds that sit deep in the soul. Trauma that doesn't show up in headlines.

And still, we are told, “The war is over. Go back to your normal lives.”

But the war isn’t over. The front in Gaza is still active. The threat from Iran is still real. Hezbollah in the north, Hamas and Islamic Jihad in the south and center, the Houthis in Yemen—all still aim their weapons and hate toward us.

And then there are the hostages.

Fifty people are still being held in captivity since October 7th. That’s not a slogan. That’s not a campaign. It’s a brutal, living truth. Fifty human beings. Being held in unknown places. In unknown conditions. Possibly tortured. Starved. Denied medicine. Chained. Alone. Abandoned.

It’s not a headline to scroll past. It’s not yesterday’s news.

And yes, tragically, many have gotten used to this reality. Some have become numb to it. If that’s you, please stop, just stop, and think.

Imagine waking up in a cage. No sunlight. No food. No care. Imagine not knowing where your loved one is, whether they’re alive or dead. Imagine being tortured, abused, isolated, forgotten. That’s not history. That’s now. That’s this very moment.

We cannot let that become normal.

We cannot accept, “The war is over. Go back to your normal lives.”
Not while they are still in chains.

And the world? While we are still fighting for our very existence, antisemitism is exploding. Louder, uglier, more open than we’ve seen in generations. Not just against Israel, but against Jews everywhere. We are being blamed, vilified, hated—for surviving, for defending ourselves, for existing.

This is not just a military war. It is a war of spirit. Of identity. Of truth.

We know exactly when this war began. And we also know it has not ended.

We are still in it. Still carrying it. Still fighting. Still waiting. Still praying. Still holding each other up.

And yet, we are still here.
Still holding the line.
Still holding each other.

We are still lighting candles. We are still rebuilding. We are still singing. We are still loving. We are still choosing life, even in the face of death.

We are holding on to the small things, too. The sound of airplanes overhead—not just bringing families back together, but reminding us that our airport is still open. The laughter of children singing. Bar Mitzvahs being celebrated with voices that carry more meaning than ever. Even the quiet moments, shared meals, morning prayers, the rustle of flags in the wind, have taken on new weight, new holiness.

Just the other day, my wife shared with me that as she sat on the beach with friends watching the sunset, she heard the sound of a Bar Mitzvah being celebrated nearby. Singing in the distance, soft, joyful, alive. And in that moment, the music didn’t just sound beautiful. It felt like defiance. It felt like life itself.

We are here. Because this land, this people, this purpose, was never built on normal.
It was built on covenant. On calling. On something deeper than fear.
And that is what keeps us standing.

With faith in our future, in our God,
Moran