Since October 7th, life in Israel has been measured in sirens, seconds to shelter, and the quiet, almost suspicious, relief of a full night’s sleep. We have learned how to function inside uncertainty—how to drink coffee with one ear always listening, how to smile while scanning for the nearest safe room, how to carry on while carrying so much.

And now, when there are pauses—when rockets stop, when headlines speak of “ceasefires”—we are told, in a sense, to exhale.

But the truth is, many of us don’t know how.

Because alongside the relief comes something else: discomfort. Even disappointment. A quiet, uneasy question—is this really peace, or just a pause? And deeper still: what does it mean, as a person with emunah, to sit in that tension?

On one hand, emunah teaches us that everything is בידיים של הקב״ה (in the hands of Hashem). That there is a larger plan, even when we cannot see it. We say Tehillim (Psalms), we whisper prayers, we remind ourselves of the words: “ה׳ ילחם לכם ואתם תחרישון”— Hashem will fight for you, and you shall remain silent, (Exodus 14:14).

There is comfort in surrendering to that truth, in believing that ultimately, there is justice—דין ויש דיין (judgment and a Judge).

But emunah is not emotional anesthesia.

Because on the other hand, we are human. We are living through something prolonged and deeply destabilizing. We have buried too many. We know soldiers personally. We feel the cost of every decision made far above us, in rooms we will never sit in. And when a ceasefire is announced before things feel “finished,” it can feel like something unresolved has been left hanging in the air—like a sentence cut off mid-word.

There is a kind of moral and emotional dissonance in celebrating quiet while knowing the threat still exists. In feeling grateful for a night without sirens, while also feeling that the deeper danger hasn’t been removed. In wanting safety now, but also wanting long-term security for our children.

And perhaps most painfully, there is the question of meaning.

What do we do with the sacrifices that have already been made? How do we honor the soldiers who fought—and those who didn’t come home—if the outcome feels incomplete? How do we hold both gratitude and grief, relief and restlessness, faith and frustration?

This is where emunah becomes more complex—and more real.

Because true emunah is not blind acceptance without feeling. It is precisely in this difficulty, the ability to feel everything—to question, to ache, to wrestle—and still choose to believe. It is what Yaakov Avinu (Jacob our forefather) embodied when he wrestled through the night and emerged changed. Emunah is not the absence of inner conflict; it is the decision to stay in relationship with Hashem within the conflict itself.

We are not wrong to feel uneasy about ceasefires that seem fragile or politically driven. Analysts often point out that such pauses can be strategic, temporary, or influenced by international pressures that have little to do with long-term safety on the ground. It is reasonable to question whether these agreements truly address the threats we live with daily.

But at the same time, we are also not wrong to feel relief. To cherish a quiet morning. To sit in a café and simply be.

Both things can exist.

Maybe that is the avodah (spiritual work) right now—not to resolve the contradiction, but to hold it. To say: I trust Hashem (God), and I am struggling. I am grateful for this quiet, and I am uneasy about what comes next. I believe there is a plan, and I wish I understood it.

There is a line in Tehillim (Psalms): “ממעמקים קראתיך ה׳” — From the depths, I call out to You, Hashem, (Psalm 130:1).

Not from clarity. Not from peace. From the depths.

That is where many of us are.

And maybe, just maybe, that is also a place of deep connection. Not despite the confusion, but because of it.

We don’t need to silence our questions to have emunah. We just need to keep speaking—to Hashem , to ourselves, to each other.

Because if this time has taught us anything, it is that we are not alone in what we are carrying.

And perhaps emunah, in its truest form, is not certainty about outcomes—but the quiet, stubborn belief that even here, in the in-between, Hashem has not let go of us.

And we are not letting go of Him.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)