Don’t Call Me a Hero

By far, the hardest thing to adjust to after returning to civilian life from the army—from the war—is how quick people are to call me a hero. 

I am not a hero. 

I do not feel like a hero.

I do not think of myself as a hero.

Of course, at this point, on paper, my resume really is quite impressive. I served as a paratrooper. I was a lone soldier. I’ve spent close to 200 days in enemy territory. Heck, I’ve done things I never thought I’d have to do. But the truth is, none of that matters. It’s only impressive to people looking in from the outside.

I did not fight for my country and nation out of heroism. Heroism is when one goes above and beyond what’s expected to help others. I did not go above and beyond, I did the bare minimum.

Yes, I have laid in muddy trenches shivering through nights so long I was sure the sun would never rise. Yes, I’ve spent a great amount of time disconnected from my family and friends due to my obligations towards my nation. Yes, I even sustained some minor injuries in Lebanon that give me discomfort even today. Yet, despite all this, none of that makes me a hero. That was just what needed to be done. What was expected.

All of it—every risk, every sacrifice—was only the bare minimum. The fact that others have done less? That doesn’t make me worthy of praise. It just raises the question: why didn’t more people do what I did?

I did what needed to be done, what my nation demanded of me. That’s it. I went when I was called, stayed when it got hard, and came back with blood and dirt on my boots. Not because I’m special, but rather because I believe this is what being part of a nation demands.

So no, I’m not a hero. I’m just a Jew who didn’t run from his obligations.

And if that makes me exceptional? That’s not a compliment. That’s an indictment on everyone else.