Guns, Tzitzit, and the Weight of Holiness: A Day with Chayal’s Angels

July 1, 2025

The first time I massaged an IDF soldier, I was touched by holiness. Beneath the frayed tarp shielding our little band of Chayal’s Angels from the scorching sun, I knew I stood on hallowed ground. Since discovering the group on Facebook last year, I had yearned to join the tribe of volunteer massage therapists, chiropractors, and healers who travel to IDF bases to treat Israeli soldiers. For months, I’d been longing to physically express my devotion to those who dedicate their life energy—and sometimes their very lives—to protect Israel from harm, and who, just days earlier, had ensured that my own life was spared from Iranian missiles. 

Our drive to the base skirted the Kinneret—the Sea of Galilee, its luminous turquoise surface catching midmorning light. Prophets, fishermen, pilgrims, refugees: so many feet had walked these shores. Even through the car window, the water pulsed with memory and promise—like something ancient, breathing.

I saw tzitzit—ritual prayer fringes—peeking out from the uniforms of three of the seven soldiers I worked on that day. These knotted tassels represent a covenant in Orthodox Judaism—a tactile reminder to live with awareness, dignity, and faith—grounded in this world, yet anchored in a greater identity.

The men asked if they could leave their shirts on. Absolutely, I said, then asked if I could touch their skin beneath the fabric. They nodded yes. 

For them, modesty is not an abstract value; it’s an embodied ethic, not rooted in shame or repression. Born of the desire to sanctify certain dimensions of life as private, it fosters dignity and a felt sense of reverence. I felt protected in its sphere, yet sorrowfully aware of how it clashed with my way of being—shaped by a culture that strips away every boundary, rendering my body an object, trained to reveal and flaunt what was once held sacred.

The soldiers’ muscles and nervous systems told a story: fatigue, tension, readiness. They didn’t speak much, nor did I need them to. All had been pre-screened by Chayal’s Angels CEO Tasha Cohen, who directed us to the areas that needed focus as she led them to our tables. Trust was woven into the simple act of lying down. We came to give, yet received so much more.

I could feel the weight they carried—not only in their shoulders, but also in the invisible way one carries a nation, a history, a purpose. When the sessions ended, they would slowly sit up, bow their heads slightly, and quietly say “Todah”—thank you. It was heartfelt, and more than enough.

Entering the metal kitchen shed to wash my hands between sessions, I was surprised to find such a clean, humble space—a kosher refrigerator clearly labeled, clean counters and floor, not a dirty dish in sight. For a group of guys in the desert, it was immaculate. In a land where life-and-death decisions are made daily, I marveled at the reverence for keeping milk and meat apart. Amidst soldiers, weapons, and constant vigilance, here was a place of order and respect, of holiness imbued in the everyday.

While working on the next soldier, I had to carefully mind my feet—he had unfastened his machine gun and laid it on the floor right beside the massage table. It was so close I nearly stepped on it twice. I assumed it was protocol to keep the gun close at hand, so I refrained from asking if it could be moved for my convenience. I wasn’t afraid; I felt immense trust, and grew more mindful of my stance. And then it struck me: the gun might be used to protect me.

Another soldier lay face down, his pistol tucked into his waistband, looped securely onto his belt. I had to avoid its silent weight as my hands, slick with sweat and coconut oil, moved along his spine. 

But the strands of his tzitzit held more weight than the gun. As a reminder to see holiness in every act, to live with intention, to love God, they function as a map, a compass—and in that session, a silent sermon.

In Israel, weapons are ordinary and ubiquitous. At first this is startling, and then it becomes strangely natural. Guns are not anomalies, or symbols of aggression. They appear as appendages—as part of the body of this land and its people, and necessities for their protection, survival, and continuity. 

Lynn, a physical therapist who made Aliyah years ago, told me she had never looked back. “The moment I landed, I knew I was home,” she said, her eyes luminous with certainty. Leslie and Michael, both chiropractors, voiced the same conviction. Their skills were needed here, yes—but more than that, their souls were called, and they answered.  These radiant beings, who left everything to live in a place that demands everything and gives even more, welcomed me into their car and drove me back to the train station.

The day was full of paradox. Guns and prayer fringes. Trauma and resilience. Soldiers and healers. Kitchens that uphold laws of kashrut while the outside world writhes in chaos. Those who live with courage and tension—who pray and protect, who leave home to defend a nation both broken and whole, wounded and holy.

Healing is not confined to hospitals, clinics, or therapy offices. It blooms under tarps, on massage tables, in metal kitchens, on windswept hillsides—in the quiet space between a soldier’s breath and my hands, where tension melts, trust builds, and relief arrives. These places, these moments, dwell at the sacred, unspoken center of existence.

Here, there is no distance between the sacred and the ordinary. It is all woven together—like the tzitzit, like the hands of strangers who come to serve, like the land itself: ancient, alive, forever calling us home.