In the immediate aftermath of the horrors of October 7, there was a fleeting sense among many of us that a swift, decisive, and clear victory might be within reach. But nearly two years later—despite the remarkable achievements of the IDF and perhaps even because of them—that initial hope has given way to a deep and widespread sense of exhaustion.
Even today, as discussions about a ceasefire are in the headlines, there is a palpable sense of skepticism. Meanwhile, our soldiers—those on the front lines of this prolonged struggle—are voicing their pain. They speak of physical exhaustion, emotional strain, and mental burnout. They describe the disillusionment of waging a war without clear goals, and the bitter frustration of being called back to duty just as their mandatory service ends. Reservists, too, are drained—many having served multiple rotations and spent hundreds of days away from their families, with no end in sight.
But it is not only the soldiers who are weary. This fatigue has seeped into nearly every corner of Israeli society. The ongoing anguish over the hostages, the mounting toll of casualties, the refusal of the Haredi community to share in the burden of national defense, and the constant disruption of daily life have left a nation frayed and disoriented. Economic hardship and an uncertain future have only deepened the national malaise. Worse still, we find ourselves divided—politically, ideologically, even spiritually—on how to move forward. And the longer the war continues, the more depleted we become.
In this difficult moment, Parashat Chukat offers a poignant and timely lesson. Forty years after the Exodus, the Israelites—now a new generation—are finally preparing to enter the Promised Land. Approaching from the south, they respectfully request passage through Edomite territory, pledging, “We will not drink the water of the well; we will go by the King’s Road” (Numbers 20:17). But Edom not only refuses; they advance with force to block the way. Rather than engage in battle—a move that would likely cost innocent lives—the Israelites turn away and embark on a long, arduous detour through the wilderness.
The reaction is predictable: frustration, resentment, and renewed complaint. “Why did you bring us out of Egypt to die in the wilderness?” (Numbers 21:5). And unlike earlier grumblings, this one feels painfully justified. How much longer must they wander? How much more must they endure before reaching the Promised Land?
Yet in the chapters that follow, the journey begins to change. When Sihon, king of the Amorites, refuses Israel passage and attacks, the Israelites fight back, prevail and claim his territory (Numbers 21:23–24). The same happens with Og, king of Bashan (Numbers 21:33–35). Slowly but surely, they draw closer to their destination.
Thus, what initially seemed like an unnecessary detour reveals itself as part of the divine plan. The delay, the hardship, even the weariness—these were not meaningless obstacles, but necessary stages in the formation of a people prepared not only to enter the Land but to do so with maturity, endurance, and faith. Sometimes, the long road is not a diversion; it is the path itself. It is the only way.
So too for us today. Though this war seems endless, and though the toll it has taken is staggering, we must summon the strength to press forward. Like our ancestors in the wilderness, we are called upon to walk a long and winding path. But if we can sustain our faith—in our mission, in our people, and in one another—we too will reach our final destination.
As the saying goes, “עם הנצח לא מפחד מדרך ארוכה”—“The eternal nation is not afraid of a long journey.”
Shabbat Shalom.
