After 13 years as a combat soldier, now I sit at a desk. I blame my stomach

“So listen, I think just don’t bother showing up anymore.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes”

“Okay.”

“Unless you feel like eating combat rations for the rest of your service.” 

“No thank you”.

“Okay. Goodbye”.

And that was that. Officially, I was still enlisted. Unofficially, I was done. Not because I lacked motivation. Not because I was physically unfit. But because the system couldn’t figure out how to feed me. Celiac disease had bested the logistics of my unit — and rather than fix it, they chose to sideline me.

It’s not like we didn’t try. There were times I was sent home abruptly from reserve duty because the army couldn’t feed me. Other times I wandered for miles (literally) around the base until I found the person who could bring me a frozen meal, then someone else who could heat it for me. And, to the army’s credit, there were times, unpredictably, where I ate normally. 

Then came October 7th. 

“So – should I come?”

“Come. Worst case, we’ll send you home.”

And so I went. And stayed for nearly six months. 

That morning drive to base was one of the most powerful moments of my life. Every car on the highway packed with soldiers, faces stunned but resolute, speeding to base or heading into combat. The country was under attack — and we were determined to help. I kissed my family goodbye and headed into the fiery unknown.

I served everywhere: training bases, equipment bases, the Gaza envelope, and eventually Gaza itself. Some days I got sick from contaminated meals. Some days I took risks to eat and paid the price. Some days I didn’t eat at all. Fruit and candies got me through the day. An entire Shabbat eating nothing but rice. And yes, some days, thanks to the army’s logistics and dedicated volunteers, I ate well. But for soldiers, food isn’t a luxury — it’s fuel. And mine was unreliable.

Toward the end, someone asked, “How did you manage?”

“By suffering in silence.”

Four years ago, when I was first told to stop coming to reserves, I tried transferring to a more accommodating unit. It went nowhere. 

Fast forward to today, my unit(s) – the old one, and the new one I transferred to, are being called up for the umpteenth round of reserve duty. Like everyone else, I am leaving a family behind, a job, a life. What else is new? But at least I found a unit that can properly address my needs. This time, at least, I can eat.

Success, right?

Yes, but also — no. 

For 13 years, I was a combat soldier. A sharpshooter. With the same team. one of those tiny guys carrying his weight in gear. Now I sit at a desk. That’s one heck of a transition, a borderline crisis of identity.

I fought hard to serve in the most meaningful role I could find. As an only child, I had to convince my parents I belonged in a combat unit. My case? The need is great. Why should others, with their own families and lives, make the sacrifice and not me? In the words of Numbers 32:6 “Shall your brethren go to war while you sit here?”

That principle still holds. It what powered me through operation “Protective Edge” in 2014 with a broken toe (I told my officer that I was clearly willing to sacrifice more than just a toe — so then what’s a toe?).

Leaving my team, my role, didn’t feel like much of a choice. My Godforsaken stomach failed me. My logistical support failed me. The military system — ultimately — failed me. As a result, I was forced to leave my team — my brothers — against my will. Things could definitely be worse, but this is not what I wanted. 

I am angry. Angry at my stomach. Angry at the army for not providing more support to allow me to continue in a combat role. Angry at Hamas for starting this unconscionable war. Angry at my government for its appalling failings. Angry at society for its polarization. The Pandora’s box has been opened.

I hope this was the right decision. I believe it was. The previous path was woefully unsustainable, and everyone was worse off for it. My family is thrilled. And the new job is a meaningful and important one. 

Yet I can’t stop thinking about my brothers on the inside, sweating profusely in full gear, and me in an air conditioned building. All the other fathers leaving their kids to go to war, and me leaving mine, to do my part — but not with them. It rubs me in the most painfully wrong way. 

As Israel celebrates 77 years of existence, and mourns the sacrifices made over that time, (and the past two years in particular), the IDF’s says it needs 10,000 new soldiers — 7,000 in combat. Better make that 7,001. The non-combat number can now go down to 2,999. Progress. 

However, my story is more than just a numbers shift. And I am not alone. There are others like me. Willing soldiers. Capable fighters. Who have had to beg, push, and sometimes give up entirely — not because of lack of motivation, but because of illogical bureaucratic barriers. Feeding a soldier. Equipping a soldier. Assigning a soldier. These aren’t abstract policy debates. They’re the difference between having having an extra person on hand in combat, an extra set of eyes — or not. Too often not. The price for a combat unit and for the broader society torn apart by draft (evasion) laws is incalculable. 

I know I’m doing my part. But that nagging sense remains. Of what could have been if only circumstances had allowed them to be. That we can — and must — do better. This is an itch I will continue scratching for years to come, with no relief. 

How fitting. Israel, the country, the people, have been scratching their own itches for 77 years. The itch of constant wars, the itch of internal divisions, the challenge of building a new state, from scratch (pun intended). 

Under these circumstances the only viable option is to stay sane, eat the right food, keep scratching and carry on. Hopefully the itches will eventually scab over, and we’ll barely remember they existed.