It’s strange how quickly war changes people. It takes the person you were, wraps it in layers of grief, duty, and silence, and gives you back someone else—a soldier, maybe, but also a witness to things you don’t know how to process. Today was one of those days that will stay with me, a day marked not just by the intensity of battle but by a heartbreak that cuts deeper.
Another soldier was lost, a father of seven. His wife and kids were waiting at home, like they do every night, probably saying Tehillim, praying that he’ll come back safe. I can’t shake the image of those kids, not much older than my own siblings, watching their father leave each time, not knowing if it’s goodbye or just another day. And now, it’s final. He won’t come back.
In moments like these, my faith feels like a fragile thing, something I can barely hold onto. How do you reconcile a G-d who is supposed to protect us with a reality where fathers don’t make it home to their children? I look around at my fellow soldiers, some of them fathers too, and wonder if they feel this same weight. We are here to protect, to keep families safe, and yet, we’re leaving our own at risk, knowing that any of us might not return.
I think of Avraham, who was called to sacrifice his son, and how, in the end, G-d intervened. But here… it’s as if the ram doesn’t appear, as if we are left in a story where faith is a struggle, and loss is real. Each time I put on my uniform, I carry this faith with me, yet days like today make me question everything. How can it be that men with so much to live for are called away from the families that need them most?
Tonight, as I lie here, sleep won’t come. The faces of those kids haunt me—their innocence, the way their lives have been shattered, all because their father believed in a cause greater than himself. I, too, believe in that cause, but right now, it feels like a bitter price to pay. I think about my own family, my parents, and wonder if they worry that one day, my face might be on the other end of this same story. That thought cuts deep.
There is a verse in the Psalms that says, “G-d is close to the broken-hearted,” and right now, it’s the only thing keeping me going. I don’t understand the why, and maybe I never will. But I hold on to the hope that, somehow, the sacrifices we’re making here matter, that G-d is with us even in the darkest moments.
I don’t know how to move forward, but I do know that, for his family, I have to keep going. Because maybe, just maybe, the lives we save will be worth it.
4o
