The INVISIBLE crack in PEACE

We are watching a threshold moment. Hostages are coming home. Families are running, crying, holding on. The air feels lighter. For this I offer so much gratitude. Emotions are high. President Trump called for peace and pushed hard to make it real as he could. He brought people to the table and moved the process forward. I thank every leader, every negotiator, every soldier, every citizen who chose life over pride and conversation over blood. Tonight is a relief. Tonight is a blessing. Tonight is a chance to begin again.

I look closely at the images racing around the world. In Gaza there are swarms of men filling the streets, moving as one, chanting, calling, pressing forward. In Israel there are suits, men in crisp collars and jackets speaking for the state and representing the face of policy. Then the stage appears, the rows of suits, the applause, the cameras flashing, and I cannot help but notice what is missing. I see men, almost entirely men, declaring the dawn of peace. And I see wives and daughters in the background, their tears used as symbols of suffering and hope, yet their voices still uninvited in shaping the future. Women are almost nowhere to be seen in these scenes. Their absence is not incidental. It tells us who has access to space, who is expected to speak, and whose experience is permitted to remain private. It mirrors the rooms where deals are made and microphones pass from one man to another, while women stand at the edges, honored for love and loss, rarely recognized as architects of tomorrow. It is a silent omission, and yet it echoes louder than any speech.

These negotiations within these systems carry a distinctly masculine charge. They are driven by will, by force of personality, by linear timelines, by closed rooms and high stakes. There is a power in that. There is also a limit. When the process is built almost entirely from masculine energy and carried out through a centralised command structure, we can get rapid results, but we often sow the seeds of brittleness. Centralisation can make decisions fast, but it also concentrates perspective. It leaves out vital information that lives in the margins, in the neighborhoods, in the kitchens, in the child’s eye view, in the long memory of women who keep communities alive when the cameras leave.

There is another truth that lives below the broadcast. Wars have a surface story, and then there is the underworld that feeds them. The back rooms where hands are shaken over contracts and kickbacks. The corridors where pills and powders drift like a tax on pain. The sex trade that blooms in every conflict zone, turning bodies into currencies while cameras frame victory speeches. None of this appears on the podium. It moves in whispers and favors, in private jets and burner phones, in the dark economies that make chaos profitable and peace inconvenient. If we want a peace that holds, we must name the shadows that keep the theatre running.

This is where the old story of the Shekhinah returns, not as mysticism for its own sake, but as a map of what is missing. In the Kabbalistic imagination, the Shekhinah is the indwelling feminine presence of the Divine. She binds, nourishes, reconciles, and restores. Her exile is the story of separation. It is what happens when creation tries to stand on one leg. When the masculine rises without the feminine, we get motion without integration, strength without tenderness, victory without continuity. We get peace that is signed on paper and frays in the street. We also get underground markets where trauma is harvested and sold, because no one has tended the moral soil.

I celebrate the return of the hostages with my whole heart. And I say in the same breath that a peace built only by centralised authority and masculine energy cannot hold the weight of the future. It will strain under the next shock. It will ask communities to trust an agreement that they did not help shape. It will deliver a headline and fall short of healing. It will leave the back doors open where the money flows, where addiction is weaponised, where sexuality is exploited, and where the spectacle of conflict keeps paying dividends.

Sustainable peace is ecological. It requires balance. The masculine is essential. It protects, directs, secures boundaries, and moves quickly when life is at risk. The feminine is essential. It listens for the unseen, keeps the circle open, weaves the social fabric, and measures success by whether children sleep without fear and elders are cared for without resentment. When these forces work together, peace becomes a living system. It grows roots as well as wings. It has protocols and it has pulse. It has transparency where corruption once hid. It has protection where predation once thrived.

This is why decentralisation matters. Not as a slogan, but as a design principle. A decentralised peace invites local councils, women’s committees, youth leaders, spiritual elders, and community builders into the frame. It grounds national agreements and opens many small tables where trust can be rebuilt in daily life. It allows feedback to flow from the street to the ministry and back again. It treats people as co authors of safety. It starves the shadow markets by shrinking the distance between decision and consequence.

So here is my prayer for this time: Thank you, President Trump, for calling peace and for pushing for the return of the hostages. Thank you to every leader who stepped toward negotiation. Thank you to every family who held on to hope. May this victory be the first step, not the last word.

May the next phase invite the Shekhinah home.

May women stand at the center of the process as strategists, signatories, mediators, auditors, and protectors of the human heart.

May the rooms where treaties are drafted open to the rooms where meals are cooked, where teachers plan their weeks, where midwives and nurses know what safety actually feels like, and to the rooms where secrets once festered, now flooded with light.

If we can free captives, we can also free the future from the habits that keep half of humanity out of power. Let the masculine keep its courage. Let the feminine bring its medicine. Let central leadership make commitments that protect life. Let decentralised networks carry those commitments into every neighborhood. This is how a treaty becomes a culture. This is how a moment becomes a horizon. This is how the stage and the underworld begin to heal at the same time.

Tonight, the hostages come home. May the Shekhinah come home with them. Let peace move from ink on paper into a shared nervous system, a living covenant. May the Sacred Balance be restored, with masculine courage and feminine wisdom holding the center together. Let the joy of reunion become architecture, a durable home where women stand on the stage as authors of tomorrow. And let the shadows that profited from war lose both their market and their mask.

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