Ceasefire

Ceasefire (Definition): An agreement to stop fighting; a period of not fighting.

Pauses in active conflict give rivals a chance to establish trust and consider their next moves. Let’s see how that works in the Middle East, where politics and warfare can be like a series of intertwined board games:

Two weeks ago, the US officially began a ceasefire with Iran. This also applies de facto to Israel, so direct exchanges of fire between it and Iran have paused. And Israel is officially in a ceasefire with the state of Lebanon, which unofficially also applies to Hezbollah. In this case, Israel is able to operate but only in Southern Lebanon, meaning the region below the Litani River. And in Gaza, Israel is in a ceasefire with Hamas. Of course, the ceasefire with Lebanon is a condition of the Iran ceasefire, even though Hezbollah is against it. And Hezbollah and Hamas, as proxies of Iran, from which they receive funding and training, are not sitting quietly. Hamas, I read, is re-establishing control in Gaza, executing dissidents and abusing its residents. And in Southern Lebanon, Israeli forces are finding weapons and tunnels that were concealed by Hezbollah in and under Shiite-village houses in preparation for an October 7-style invasion over the border into northern Israel. And Hezbollah troops are sending explosive drones operated by long-range optical fibres - developed by the Ukrainian forces for use against the Russians - at Israeli soldiers and into Israel’s northern civilian communities.

What does all this mean for us citizens?

In middle Israel, as I call it, every day is normal. People go to work. Kids go to school. Sitting in the National Library to write this piece, I am surrounded by University students, researchers, and the self-employed who use it as a workspace. Shopping centres are open and full. It wasn’t like that a month ago.

Ceasefires in middle Israel are analogous to sunspells in London, where workers stream out of their offices to sit in the park and soak up the few moments of sun, while they can. In Israel, people this week are trying to live their lives to the maximum above ground before projectiles again come raining down and they are forced either underground into shelters or into military uniform.

There are some differences, of course. We live here with worrying uncertainty about what tomorrow will bring. Hospitality workers, tour guides and many others have had their income severely curtailed at best. Those not suffering anxiety or trauma make efforts to take full advantage of current freedom. Life goes on, and bills need to be paid. Commerce, schooling, and medical appointments are dependent on these pauses in fighting being maintained, and they could all be disrupted at a moment’s notice. The ceasefire in Israel’s north has been variously called everything from ‘fragile’ to ‘non-existent’.

Resilience

This ability to suffer unpredictability while adapting and surviving is called resilience. And that term is bandied about here by politicians, both as a badge of Zionist honour and as a cry for people to hold on, as they engage in military adventurism and jostle for their own political survival. I am proud of the resilience of my countrymen and women. We are unique in how we survive these trials, tribulations and traumas, and still succeed. But it feels that the political echelon has come to rely on our sacrifices for their own purposes.

All Quiet on the Northern Front?

Many residents have not returned to the northern towns since being evacuated following Hezbollah‘s missile campaign against the city in 2023. Quiet returned to the area in 2025 after some daring operations against the terror group by Israel, and I took the opportunity to spend some time in the border town of Kiryat Shmona. Then, during attacks on Iran earlier this year, Hezbollah again renewed its missile barrages on Israel’s north in solidarity. I left.

And now a ceasefire.

As soon as it was reported, I made my way north, unsure whether my usual accommodation there had been damaged. Thankfully, it was fine. (Other residents pointed to where a missile had landed close by in the street. The town was even quieter than on previous visits. With a diluted population, commerce has been badly impacted. Some traders go to work just to get out of the house. One afternoon, I wandered out for a shwarma. The other customers were mostly soldiers. Many eateries and commercial parking lots have had Miguniot (small prefab shelters) installed on the street in front of them. Once or twice, I heard machine-gun fire some distance away over the border. Had I been in Jerusalem, I would have thought it was the sound of woodpeckers. Later, a large boom, reminiscent of thunder under blue skies, echoed through the valley from the north.

The day I arrived, the town’s mayor and others had driven up to the capital to protest the impossible conditions under which his constituents are living. With drone attacks from across the border continuing during this ‘pause in fighting’, schools have again been closed. Some residents have again left town.

The news reported the death of a civilian tractor driver contracted by the IDF. He was killed by an explosive drone sent by Hezbollah. His son, who was working with him, was injured. They join others, soldiers, who have died in Lebanon since the ceasefire began.

Earlier this week, by contrast, I drove with a friend down south to an exhibition in a new art gallery, the first of its kind, in the Israeli Bedouin town of Rahat. Explosions could clearly be heard rumbling along the bare landscape from nearby Gaza, 25km away as the crow flies. There, our soldiers are finding and demolishing more terror tunnels.

 

What should I answer when asked if everything is back to normal?