The Ceasefire Paradox

An Israeli tour guide wonders whether to celebrate the calm or worry about the storm.

Still guiding. Still hopeful. Still checking the news every six minutes.

Going into Shavuot weekend in Israel, there was really only one question hanging over the country:

Are we going back to war with Iran…or not?

The news cycle here has become a bizarre combination of existential dread and weather report.

“High probability of escalation.”
“Possible strikes overnight.”
“Ceasefire talks continuing.”

Apparently this is now normal.

Reports were swirling that negotiations were underway to avoid renewed Israeli and American strikes on Iran. President Trump was reportedly staying in Washington instead of attending his son’s wedding because events were becoming so serious again.

And so, like most Israelis, we spent the holiday weekend in that familiar psychological position:
half celebrating,
half doomscrolling,
half preparing the safe room.

Yes, that is three halves.
That is also Israel.

But while everyone else was wondering whether missiles would start flying again, my mind was obsessing over something else entirely.

Would Gregg and Miriam come?

Since the Iran war began back in February, tourism here has essentially collapsed.

One day my spring and summer calendar was packed.
Groups.
Families.
Heritage trips.
Pilgrimage tours.
Private guiding all over the country.

Then, boom!

Flights canceled.
Airlines suspended.
Tourists disappeared.

Just like that, an entire season of guiding vanished.

My last group, a church group from Florida, basically ended with me escorting them toward the Egyptian border like some kind of slightly anxious Jewish Moses with WhatsApp updates.

After that?
Nada.

Except Gregg and Miriam.

My brother Lee introduced us almost a year ago. They were planning their first trip to Israel in celebration of their 25th wedding anniversary.

And let me tell you something about tour guides,
we do not simply plan trips.

We construct masterpieces.

For nearly a year we Zoomed, emailed, and WhatsApped our way through what I, objectively of course, considered the perfect Israel itinerary.

Tel Aviv.
The Galilee.
The Golan
The deserts; Judean, Arava and Negev.
Jerusalem.
History.
Food.
Stories.
Adventure.

The kind of trip where I already knew which overlook would make them emotional.

Then came the Iran war.

Flights were canceled.
Then rebooked.
Then canceled again.
Then rebooked again at prices normally associated with organ trafficking.

But Gregg and Miriam never folded.

They just kept coming.
Or trying to.

Which honestly made me feel simultaneously inspired and guilty.

Because Israelis have a complicated relationship with people who voluntarily choose to come here during wartime.

Part admiration.
Part concern.
Part “You know there are easier anniversary destinations, right?”

Like Tuscany.
Or Greece.
Or literally anywhere currently not discussing uranium enrichment.

Still, the ceasefire seemed to be holding.
Things quieted down.
And finally it looked like they might actually make it here.

Until this weekend, a few days before their arrival.

Suddenly the headlines heated up again.
More threats.
More negotiations.
More speculation about whether the ceasefire was collapsing.

And there we all were again,
refreshing the news every six minutes like emotionally unstable stockbrokers.

By the end of Shavuot and then Shabbat, thankfully, the sirens never came.

No missiles.
No running to shelters.
And now it appears the ceasefire will hold a little longer.

Which means Gregg and Miriam are coming.

Good news, right?

Of course it is.

And yet…

Here is where life in Israel starts to become psychologically confusing.

Because I am thrilled.

Thrilled we are not currently under missile attack.
Thrilled my clients are finally arriving.
Thrilled I get to work again doing the job I love.

But at the very same time, another part of me feels deeply unsettled.

Because many Israelis also believe this is unfinished business.

That Iran, Hezbollah, Hamas and the Houthis remain existential threats sitting just beyond the horizon waiting for the next round.

That this ceasefire is not peace.
It is intermission.

And so now I find myself in the strange emotional position of simultaneously celebrating calm while worrying we stopped too soon.

I realize how schizophrenic that sounds.

One side of me wants quiet streets, open airports, tourists filling hotels, and arguments about hummus instead of missile alerts.

The other side wants this threat eliminated once and for all so maybe we can stop living from siren to siren and ceasefire to ceasefire.

One half of me:
“Welcome to Israel! Look at the beautiful sunset over Jerusalem!”

The other half:
“Maybe we should dismantle the regional axis of terror before dessert.”

This, I suppose, is modern Israeli life.

You learn to hold two completely contradictory emotions at the same time.

Relief and anxiety.
Hope and suspicion.
Normal life and emergency preparedness.

You discuss summer vacation plans while keeping one eye on the news ticker.

And somehow, despite all of it, life keeps moving.

Gregg and Miriam are coming.

We will travel the country together.
We will eat too much shawarma.
We will solve the Middle East conflicts several times over hummus.
We will stand in ancient places and talk about history and survival and resilience.

And for two weeks, at least, life will feel almost normal again.

Until the next headlines.