We are not reading about war. We are living inside it.

I bumped into some neighbours last night, one of those casual encounters that begins with a few words and a bit of catching up, but then shifts almost naturally into something deeper, as we started talking about what we are all carrying.

The trauma we carry is different; they were more direct about it, while I found myself more dismissive, almost brushing it off, and only afterwards, reflecting on it, I realised that this too is a way of carrying it, or perhaps denying it.

For me, solace is in my blogging, and hopefully this reflection will make me —and those who read it —more resilient—if that is even the right word to use.

We are living in it—sirens, real damage, real loss of life—and a missile landed a few weeks ago next to our building, not something you read about or see from a distance, but something that happened here, a near miss that stays with you even if you don’t talk about it.

It doesn’t feel ordered; it feels random, almost like a lottery, where you go here, or you don’t, you hear the siren in time, or you don’t, and then somehow life continues, or at least appears to.

We function, we get through the day, each in our own way—some speak, some stay quiet, some dismiss—but none of us is untouched.

The Three Weekly Teaching Cycle

At the same time, we are in this strange period of the year, counting the Omer each night, there is a custom of reading Pirkei Avot between Pesach and Shavuot, and following the weekly Parsha. These three cycles usually feel separate, but right now seem to be speaking to the same place.

We have just finished the week of Chesed, and there has been real kindness—people showing up, helping, giving—and you see it everywhere, but it doesn’t remove what sits underneath.

Now we move into Gevurah, and maybe that shift matters, because Gevurah is not strength in the loud sense, not control or force, but restraint, containment, the ability to hold back, to feel something fully without letting it spill over.

I came across something this week (Rav Benji Elson, Dance of the Omer) that stayed with me, connecting Gevurah to Geulah, redemption, through the Amidah:

ראה נא בענינו וריבה ריבנו וגאלנו מהרה למען שמך כי אל גואל חזק אתה. ברוך אתה ה׳ גואל ישראל.

See, please, our affliction, and defend our cause, and redeem us speedily with complete redemption for the sake of Your Name because You are a Mighty Redeemer. Blessed are You… Redeemer of Israel.

What does redemption have to do with Gevurah? Perhaps it begins when we recognise the affliction, when we notice where something has been breached, not only outside but within ourselves, and instead of reacting or collapsing, we hold it, creating a boundary that allows something to begin to heal.

Chesed opens us, but Gevurah holds us, not to shut down, but to stop everything from spilling everywhere, and maybe that is what is needed now—not more words, not more reacting, just holding.

Turning to Pirkei Avot

“Shimon, his son, says: All my life I have grown up among the Sages, and I have found nothing better for the body than silence; not the learning that is essential, but the doing; and one who increases words brings sin.”

Shimon says that after growing up among the Sages, surrounded by learning, debate, and words, he found nothing better for the body than silence—not because words are bad, but because they are easy, especially now, when there is no shortage of opinions, commentary, and reactions, everyone trying to explain and respond.

And yet, when you are actually living this, there are not that many words (or too many words) to try to explain this.

He adds something sharper—that it is not the learning that matters, but the doing—and right now that “doing” is not dramatic, but small: being present, not escalating, holding back when everything inside wants to react.

And then the final line—that one who increases words brings sin—because words are not neutral; they can add confusion, increase tension, and turn pain into noise. And dare I say hatred.

And then the Parsha—Aharon loses his two sons, and the Torah says, “Vayidom Aharon,” and he is silent.

Not because he doesn’t feel, and not because he understands, but perhaps because he doesn’t, because there are moments where no explanation works, no words would help, and no reaction would not break something further.

So he doesn’t speak; he stays, and he holds it.

Standing with neighbours, talking about something that landed next to us, there was no need for explanations, no one trying to solve or give meaning—we were just there.

Maybe Pirkei Avot is not telling us to explain things, but something simpler—that not everything needs to be said, and not everything can be explained.

And when we don’t understand, silence is not emptiness but discipline, the ability to hold something we cannot yet process without turning it into noise.

Silence. No Words. Strength — Gevurah

There is fear, randomness, and pain, and we are inside it, so maybe for now silence is not absence and not weakness, but strength—Gevurah.

Sirens outside. More missiles. Fewer missiles.

Ceasefires? War? Criticism of our (Israeli) actions, ignoring our side of the story. Silence inside.

Back to routine – work, school,

And in between—holding what we cannot yet understand.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)