The day after the ceasefire with Iran, I felt like a t-shirt that had just fallen out of the washing machine. Twelve days of being whirled around in a new frightening world; moving back and forth into the shelter, out of the shelter, back into the shelter; rinsed in endless news and drained by nights of interrupted sleep. And then: poof! Everything suddenly came to a halt, the latch opened, and I tumbled to the floor. Exhausted and wrinkled from all the spinning, I was just there, as if nothing had ever happened. The awful screeches of the Home Front Command alert on my mobile phone, the silence of closed businesses and empty streets, and the kids who stayed home: it all disappeared as though it had been but a blip in history.

During the disorienting twelve days of the Israel-Iran war, Israeli discourse coalesced around one main message: Israel is strong, this is our revival, am Yisrael rises like a lion. Different iterations of “we are living through a historical moment” and “this is a heroic operation that will reshape the Middle East” were spoken, heard, written, and read over and over again.

In a society that has been riddled by disagreements, protests, and criticism since its founding, this was unusual, even somewhat disconcerting.

It seems natural that in times of war, as our attention narrows to the necessities of survival and protection, national unity would usurp social and political divisions in Israeli society. After 20 months of licking our wounds from October 7, the deadly and brutal attack on the state of Israel, one that caught the IDF off-guard in the most humiliating way, June 13 was a revival of sorts. A proactive attack using Israel’s superb intelligence and its technological and military capabilities is a justified reason for skyrocketing national pride.

But criticism must be part of public discourse; even—or especially—in times of war, it is crucial to hold onto dualities. The ability to say gam vegam, both this and that, is not our weakness; it is our strength.

During the days of the war, my Hartman colleagues and I appeared countless times as panelists on Israeli TV.  Our role on these panels was to remind ourselves, our communities, and Israeli society of the values at the very foundation of our country: Israel is not just about power and might, but aspires to be an exemplary society, based on moral ethics and liberal Jewish values. We are fighting an ongoing war not only for our existence, but also for our soul. Amid the chorus of former generals—who all spoke with deep conviction and confidence—we were there to bring a voice that is both Jewish and democratic, to remind us of the moral compass that defines who we are.

Being both Jewish and democratic means that we can kvell at the incredible achievements of our pilots, the Mossad, and the IDF; we can express our deep connection to the state of Israel and assert our Jewish identity in the face of a threat to our collective story, but we cannot relinquish our role as citizens of a democracy. That role demands that we ask hard questions, voice doubts, and challenge decisions.

Being Jewish and democratic allows us to say: Yes, Netanyahu made the right decision — after years of concern about the Iranian threat, it is one that we can and should support. But let’s also not forget that over the past 20 months, our government has done almost everything possible to steer us away from making any diplomatic agreements or arrangements in Gaza. And so, it is also our responsibility to say clearly: military power may have delivered a remarkable achievement, but it cannot stand alone. War must also pursue a diplomatic vision. Even President Trump, not exactly known for nuance, said that after bombing, comes peace. And Netanyahu followed. Yes, Netanyahu, the same Netanyahu who so many Israelis deeply and completely distrust, made the right decision: to attack Iran and lead Israel to phenomenal military achievements. We must now ensure that these right decisions are followed by the right actions.

The war with Iran brought the gaps in our society into sharper relief. When towns were hit by rockets, the discussion among Jewish Israelis rightfully highlighted our remarkable achievements in providing secure spaces. But what about the 46% of Arab Israeli citizens who don’t have access to shelters or a safe room, a mamad? Sitting in a TV studio last week, I was moved to meet Yori Sofrin, a sweet and modest man who led the team that developed the mamad technology almost 40 years ago. But it was excruciatingly painful to hear a reporter during the same broadcast describe Bedouin children who must find shelter under tractor buckets because they have no safe places to hide from the rockets. These are moments of both pride and doubt: pride in what we’ve built, and doubt that pushes us to demand the safety of all our citizens.

We must also consider gender disparities. When the Home Front Command announced that it was safe to return to work, did they consider that, with schools closed and no alternatives provided for children, it would be largely women staying home to care for them? We celebrate the resilience of Israeli society—people who, lacking public shelters or mamads, slept in underground train stations during bombardments and then in the morning went home to shower, and headed to work. But did decision-makers weigh how these situations disproportionately affect women and expose them to violations of their rights as workers? Here again: pride in resilience, doubt about equality.

It is crucial, especially during war, to continue weaving the thread of questions and doubt into the tapestry of our national story as it unfolds in real time. Not just for ourselves, but for the most vulnerable: underprivileged communities in the periphery, the Arab minority, our 50 hostages still being held in Gaza, and the civilians caught in Gaza.

The final item on the list, concern about civilians in Gaza, has been the most difficult issue to voice over these last 20 months. It is more difficult than ever to direct our attention away from Israel’s phenomenal military power and toward the suffering of the people of Gaza. Yet our own tradition calls on us to do just that.

The biblical book of Judges tells how Sisera, a commander in the Canaanite army, fled a disastrous battle with the Israelites. After offering him milk and shelter, the Kenite Yael drives a tent peg through his skull while he is sleeping. But the Tanakh then provides a unique glimpse into the emotions of our enemy’s mother: “Out of the window peered the mother of Sisera, and she wailed through the lattice: ‘Why is his chariot so long in coming? Why is the clatter of his chariots delayed?’” (Judges, 5:28).

Sisera was a sworn enemy of the Israelites. Why does the text tell us about his mother’s grief as she awaits his return? Why should we care about, let alone have sympathy for, her?

Perhaps our sources want to teach us that the grief of any parent who loses a child is so great that it leaves all of us bereft. Surely, we can make the small, modest effort of remembering the children and mothers of our enemy today.

War tempts us to see the world in black and white. I see some Israelis who risk getting lost in messianic fervor, convinced that redemption is at hand. Those who oppose this government—and there are good reasons to oppose it—risk falling into the trap of believing that the war was merely Netanyahu’s latest ploy to delay his trial and maintain power. But if we are to safeguard Israel as a Jewish and democratic state, we cannot fall into either of these patterns. We must hold both Jewish pride and democratic doubt.

Doubt is also deeply rooted in our Jewish tradition, which celebrates humility. Consider, for example, “Who is wise? One who learns from all people (Pirkei Avot, 4:1); the idea of machloket leshem shamayim (disagreement for the sake of heaven); and the self-reflection required for the pursuit of justice. These qualities are essential for pursuing a reality in which we don’t base our protection and stability solely on military power.

The coming weeks will be crucial: can we move from a nation of might to a nation that can pave a road to peace and stability in the region? Democratic doubt cultivates humility, the acknowledgment that we – as individuals and a society – do not have a monopoly on truth.

Jewish pride invigorates us. Democratic doubt keeps us true to our ethical and civic virtues. Both are essential—not just for winning wars, but for winning peace. Not just for surviving as a state, but for thriving as a just and moral society.