On many levels, it feels like we’ve entered a new chapter. Not one defined by peace, not yet, but by a quiet, uncertain kind of rebuilding.

We don’t know if the war is truly over, or what the coming months will bring. But after two years of holding our breath, something in the air has changed, and with it a question that sits deep in the heart of everyone in Israel and around the world: what now?

When Efrat, Arik, and I navigated Citizen Cafe through the COVID-19 pandemic, we thought we’d learned everything about leading through uncertainty. We moved classes online, expanded globally, redesigned our methodology for a digital world, and re-imagined how to create connection through screens. We thought we knew what crisis management looked like. Then came October 7th, and everything we thought we knew fell apart.

Running a company in Israel means you’re always holding multiple realities at once: creating and grieving, planning and reacting, dreaming while defending. But these past two years have been different. Our team wasn’t just managing a business crisis – they were dealing with their own personal losses and their closest friends and family being called to reserves. Some mornings, just showing up felt impossible.

Yet somehow, they did. Our teachers, our educational managers, our community team – everyone kept showing up. Not because they had to, but because they understood something I’m still learning to put into words: sometimes the most radical act is to maintain routine when the world feels like it’s falling apart.

We began hearing stories from the classrooms. Students from around the world were logging in, sharing their isolation and fear,  some terrified for their families in Israel, some watching their friendships fracture over politics, some feeling helpless and disconnected. Many felt helpless, disconnected, and unsure how to process what they were seeing on the news.

And then there were the moments that stopped us in our tracks. A teacher hearing a siren mid-sentence during a lesson, calmly telling students she’d be right back, walking to the safe room. A few minutes later, she’d return, picking up exactly where she left off. “Now, where were we?” As if continuity itself were an act of resistance.

Soon after, students began writing to us. Some shared that those two classes a week had become their anchors. That these moments of Hebrew practice, of human connection, had carried them through. A safe place where they can be themselves. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from leading over these years, it’s that everything comes down to people. Not systems, strategies, or contingency plans – but the people who show up every day. 

At the core of Citizen Café are people who care deeply. Our teachers don’t just teach Hebrew; they hold space for their students, for vulnerability. Our community team doesn’t just answer questions; they meet students visiting Israel, notice who’s gone quiet, and reach out. Our educational managers don’t just review lesson plans; they make sure teachers feel supported when life gets heavy.

We may only just now begin to process the emotional weight of these two years, and healing takes time, real time, not the time frames we set ourselves.

What I’ve come to realize is that the dynamic inside our classrooms mirrors the collective moment we’re living through now. Our students learn that vulnerability creates closeness. That showing up imperfectly is what builds real connection. That the courage to speak, even when your voice trembles, is how we find strength again.

And maybe that’s exactly what this next phase is asking of all of us: to stay vulnerable and close. To rebuild not by reacting, but by creating relationships. 

This is my work. Every morning, I wake up knowing that somewhere in the world, one of our teachers is helping someone find their voice again- in Hebrew, in confidence, in belonging. Someone else is having a conversation with their grandmother for the first time without a translator. Another is realizing that Hebrew, this language of roots and rhythm, is becoming part of their life.

These might seem like small things against the backdrop of everything else, but they aren’t. They’re the building blocks of resilience.

That’s a privilege I don’t take lightly. Working alongside people who show up with their whole hearts, creating a space where learning feels like coming home, and who remind us daily that even in the hardest times, we’re not alone.

And maybe that’s how we heal – not in one grand act, but in a thousand small ones.
For now, that’s everything.