It's ok, but it's not ok

The first thing I saw when I arrived at my clinic last week were the candles. They were arranged in a neat cluster on the pavement outside the Pizza Hut across the street. Handwritten notes had been taped to the wall, flowers lay on the ground. The impromptu memorial had sprung up overnight to honour Yemanu Binyamin Zalka, a 21‑year‑old shift supervisor who was stabbed by teenagers after asking them not to spray foam in the restaurant on Yom Ha'azmaut. From my window I could see people pausing, placing a candle, whispering a prayer. In the exam room, I kept glancing across the street, torn between the mundane rhythm of ear infections and fevers and the tragedy that had unfolded a few metres away.

The truth is, every pediatrician occupies a strange borderland: our work is both intimate and fleeting. We catch glimpses of hundreds of children each month — toddlers with runny noses, grade‑schoolers with sore throats, teens who answer our questions with shrugs. We check lungs and throats, update immunisations and reassure anxious parents. Yet the deeper stories often remain hidden. Mental‑health screening is recommended at six, 12, 24 and 36 months and annually from age three, and research shows that universal screening framed as confidential and patient‑centred increases acceptance. Even so, uptake remains inconsistent, and positive screens do not always lead to follow‑through. In a ten‑minute visit, how do we create space for a teenage boy's loneliness, a mother's sleeplessness or a child's silent anxiety? Are we even capable of recognising the invisible anger that ultimately exploded across the street?

Resilience in the face of adversity

For the past four years our children have been told to be resilient. The COVID‑19 pandemic kept them out of school for months. Rocket sirens drove families into stairwells and shelters. The brutal attacks on 7 October 2023 claimed innocent lives — civilians were murdered, soldiers fell, and families were left bereaved. Communities were uprooted, and nearly one in three Israeli children were already considered "at risk" before the war; the conflict deepened the crisis.

Studies find that 41.9% of adolescents meet the threshold for probable post‑traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Depression rates among adults have jumped from 25.5% in 2023 to 33.9% in 2024, and stress rates from 58.2% to 67.9%. We laud resilience — "it's ok," "together we will win," — but we seldom acknowledge the cost. Pressure builds in a sealed pot until it finds a way out. When that happens, are we shocked that rage becomes a language?

Politics, unity and the coming campaign

Another election looms, threatening to amplify division. In the United States, surveys show that around 40% of adults experience significant stress reactions due to politics; 17% report losing sleep. Israel is not immune to the corrosive effect of constant political bickering. Algorithm‑driven feeds amplify this tension: social‑media platforms decide what we see based on popularity and engagement, not truth. Heavy social‑media use is linked to increased risks of depression, anxiety and loneliness, and posts that stir outrage or fear travel further and faster than neutral information. As AI researcher Joseph Yun reminds us, the slice of reality an algorithm shows you is narrow — there is more hope and peace in the world than what appears in your feed. Yet the battlefield has shown us another face: reservists from across the spectrum fought shoulder‑to‑shoulder, neighbours took in evacuees, and communities organised meals. We have demonstrated that we are better than our politicians. The challenge of the next six months will be to maintain that alliance of solidarity even as the rhetoric heats up. How we speak at the dinner table or on social media will shape our children's sense of what is "normal." Will we let anger and cynicism take over, or will we model respectful disagreement and empathy?

Small gestures and unseen burdens

A few days ago I ordered lunch at a fast‑food restaurant. The young woman behind the counter barely looked up; her tone was brusque, her movements hurried. My immediate instinct was to take offence and comment on her "unfriendly" demeanour. Then I caught myself. What if she had spent the night worrying about a brother called up for reserve duty? What if she was studying for exams after her shift or juggling two jobs to make ends meet? I smiled instead, asked how she was doing and complimented her earrings. Her face softened; she thanked me. It was a tiny interaction, yet it reminded me how quick we are to judge and how rarely we know the full story. Practitioners working with at‑risk youth emphasise that routine, structure and human connection are key protective factors. Perhaps calling a child by name, remarking on a new haircut or simply asking, "How are you sleeping?" can interrupt a cycle of anger and mistrust.

Remembrance and commitment

As I write this, city workers are dismantling the memorial. When I look out now, the candles are gone; only an empty sidewalk remains. But Pizza Hut has pledged to continue paying Yemanu Zalka's salary to his family "for as long as it exists" and to establish a support fund. Their gesture acknowledges that resilience is not enough; it requires tangible support. If a corporation can make that commitment, what about us? We cannot promise to prevent the next tragedy — such certainty would be hubris — but we can decide what kind of professionals and citizens we want to be. We can resolve to listen for the tremors beneath the coughs and colds, to ask a few more open‑ended questions, to resist the urge to dehumanise those who disagree with us, and to offer warmth where we find coldness.

As I lock up my clinic and step outside, the smell of disinfectant still on my hands, I glance at the spot where the candles were. The sidewalk is swept clean, the storefront open again. Children ride their bicycles past, parents check their phones, life flows on. In this country we have learned to sweep up the shards and keep moving. We tell our kids, and ourselves, "it's ok, together we will win." And in many ways, that's true. But there is another truth that is harder to say aloud: these past years have cracked something inside us. If we don't name it, we risk letting our pain spill over in ways we cannot predict.

Maybe the lesson from those candles is not simply to mourn but to pay attention. To notice the flicker behind a teenager's eyes, to stop scrolling long enough to look around the waiting room, to treat a brusque waiter with the generosity we hope for ourselves. Resilience is a marathon, not a mask. "It's ok, but it's not ok" is the paradox we must live with. Holding both truths at once is not a contradiction: it is an act of courage, and perhaps the only way to light a path forward.