The sirens were supposed to stop. That's what ceasefire means, right?
But an Iranian missile hit Be'er Sheva just one hour before the deadline. Four people dead.
And silence never really followed.]
It's a pattern so predictable, it almost writes itself.
A surge of violence.
Frantic negotiations.
A ceasefire.
Then—another headline: “Truce under strain after fresh attacks.”
This latest round between Iran and Israel is no different. Despite Trump's self-congratulation and the tired talk of “de-escalation,” the region remains wound tighter than ever.
But maybe we've misunderstood the word ceasefire . Maybe it was never meant to mean peace—just a break. A way to reload, reposition, and revise the press releases.
Ceasefire or Intermission?
The people of southern Israel didn't get a ceasefire. Not really.
In Be'er Sheva, Orin's three sons are still sleeping in the safe room.
Galit's mother didn't survive the blast. She made it to the door, but not through it.
And yet, the announcement had already been made. A “stop in hostilities.”
Diplomats posed. Analysts declined. But on the ground, nothing stopped.
“In conflicts like these, ceasefires often act as strategic pauses , not sincere steps toward peace,” says Dr. Sanam Vakil , Middle East expert at Chatham House. “The key actors use them to buy time, not to reconcile.”
The truth is, these truces often function like intermissions in a grim play—an opportunity to reset, not resolve. To calm global markets, cool tempers at the UN, and give politicians something to cite in campaign speeches.
The violence never really ends. It just changes its rhythm.
Why Ceasefires Keep Failing
Here's what people usually miss: most ceasefires in the Middle East aren't the product of resolution. They're the product of exhaustion.
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Israel halts airstrikes not because threats disappear, but because domestic pressure mounts.
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Iran pulls back not because it's satisfied, but because the costs of escalation outpace its objectives.
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The US (or whatever mediator is involved) pushes for calm not out of idealism, but because another regional crisis is demanding attention.
“There's often no shared political horizon,” says Hussein Ibish , senior resident scholar at the Arab Gulf States Institute. “Each side sees the ceasefire as a tactical necessity—not a pathway to negotiation.”
Even the language gives it away:
“Humanitarian pause.”
“De-escalation window.”
“Cooling-off period.”
Not one of these phrases commits to actual peace. Just a delay.
“We should stop pretending that these ceasefires reflect any meaningful transformation,” notes Trita Parsi , executive VP at the Quincy Institute. “They're face-saving measures—high-stakes PR moves dressed as diplomacy.”
The Emotional Cost of False Calm
The worst part might be the hope.
Parents tell their children, “It’s over now.”
They let them play outside again. They are reopening schools. They try to sleep without the sirens echoing in their ears.
But then it happens again.
And that whiplash—the constant alternation between terror and pretend normalcy—tears at people's mental health more than the explosions.
It turns trust into a liability.
Peace becomes a lie they can't afford to believe in.
“This cycle of violence and fragile calm leaves entire populations in a state of suspended trauma,” says Dr. Dalia Fadila , an Israeli-Palestinian education activist. “You can't rebuild when you're constantly bracing for collapse.”
Maybe that's why every ceasefire feels like a lie waiting to break.
Because no one's really trying to stop the war.
They're just trying not to lose the next round.
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