WHEN Donald Trump鈥檚 voice rang out declaring, 鈥楾he Gaza war is over,鈥� it cut through the political sky like a sudden crack of thunder. For a moment, the world held its breath. Yet what followed was not relief, but a fragile, uncertain silence. The ruins still smoulder, the blood has not dried, and one question echoes from every direction: who will guard the peace now?
Across Israel, people exhaled after months of fear. But their sigh of relief was laced with exhaustion, not triumph. The release of hostages brought a sense of closure to the fighting, but not to the conflict. Many Israelis no longer see their security as rooted in Jerusalem鈥檚 walls; instead, their fate seems increasingly tied to Washington鈥檚 will. Their nation鈥檚 heartbeat appears to depend less on their own soil and more on the decisions of a foreign power.
This uneasy dependence raises a crucial question: after the hostages鈥� return, where will Trump鈥檚 and Netanyahu鈥檚 attention turn next? Will they truly choose the hard path of reconciliation, or is this 鈥榚nd of war鈥� merely the opening scene of a new political drama?
听
Morning after war
THE morning after Trump鈥檚 declaration, Tel Aviv awoke to a strange calm. The sun rose slowly, casting a dull, tired light on empty streets. No car horns blared; no chatter filled the air. A few office workers and solitary dog-walkers moved through the city like figures in a half-forgotten dream. The war was over, yet normal life had not returned.
Coffee shops, once alive with anxious conversation, stood half-empty. Steam rose gently from cups, as if the city鈥檚 emotions were evaporating into the morning air. This was not a holiday, but it felt like one. The last twenty Israeli hostages had returned alive from captivity in Gaza. People wept openly in the streets. Others stood silently, as though any words would break the fragile spell. No one asked, 鈥榃here are the rest?鈥� Everyone already knew that some questions would never be answered.
鈥楬ostages Square鈥�, once 鈥楳useum Square鈥�, was filled with crowds repeating a single phrase: 鈥楾hey鈥檙e back.鈥� Yet beneath the joy lay an unspoken truth, the return was not complete. Whether the square would ever reclaim its old name seemed as uncertain as whether the country itself could return to its old sense of security.
Inside homes, eyes stayed fixed on television screens as if watching the closing scene of a long, tragic play. The freed hostages embraced their families, flags waved and the nation seemed to breathe again. But beneath the euphoria, a quiet unease stirred: could this fragile calm truly last?
听
Two shores, one war鈥檚 echo
IN THE days that followed, Tel Aviv moved through a kind of waking dream. People smiled without quite knowing why, perhaps simply because they had survived. Caf茅s filled again, this time with the muted hum of relief. News anchors spoke with solemnity, but there was light in their eyes. 鈥楾oday is my day to smile,鈥� said one reporter on air, echoing the national mood.
Yet when the cameras turned south, the picture changed. Red Cross convoys rolled slowly across the border, carrying freed hostages towards Israel. Behind them lay Gaza, a landscape of broken walls, charred rooftops and dust-covered toys where children once played. Two images emerged side by side: a nation exhaling in relief, and a people staring into the ruins of their homes. The war had ended, but its echoes were uneven, joy on one shore, grief on the other.
听
Politics of 鈥榩eace鈥�
TRUMP鈥橲 proclamation of victory may have ended the fighting, but peace cannot be declared by power alone. In diplomatic halls, negotiators exchange smiles, sign papers and pose before floral displays, as if symbolism could substitute for substance. But where is Palestine in this choreography of accord?
What of the homes in the West Bank, the hopes of East Jerusalem, the children in Gaza鈥檚 shattered schools? If 鈥榩eace鈥� means only a ceasefire without justice, it becomes little more than an interval between storms. At Hostages Square, this tension was clear. The crowd鈥檚 gratitude towards Trump was genuine, but beneath it lay a realisation that Israel鈥檚 future was being written partly in Washington, not Jerusalem.
Trump鈥檚 history shows a restless hand. Today Gaza, tomorrow perhaps Ukraine or a domestic feud. His attention is fickle. When it drifts elsewhere, who will rebuild Gaza? Who will listen to the children breathing dust beneath collapsed walls? Who will keep the promise of peace alive when the television cameras have moved on?
听
Bridge between dream and destruction
PERHAPS no one can answer these questions yet. But history offers one lesson with cruel consistency: peace without justice does not last. The Middle East now stands on a narrow bridge between dream and destruction. Trump may have declared the war over, but the true journey, towards a peace built on justice, dignity and shared security, has only just begun.
The guns may have fallen silent. But silence is not peace. It is a space, brief, fragile and easily broken; in which the world must decide whether to build something lasting, or merely wait for the next storm.
听
Dr Jahangir Alam Sarker is a lawyer and researcher.
