“I Took It Upon Myself:” In Israel with the IDF and Others

On a makeshift army base a scant two kilometers from the Gaza border, Shloimi and his crew are setting up a barbecue for the chalayim when the explosions sound, perilously close.  “Don’t be afraid,” an officer says.  “They’re ours.”

So are these astonishing young soldiers who are preparing to jump into jeeps and head into places where some very bad people are doing some very bad things.

With one group or guide or another, over numerous trips to Israel over the past year, I was privileged to visit many IDF bases – generally small, impromptu outposts – where I saw multiple instances of brotherhood and bravery.

As I watched and listened, my hope throughout was based on the Gemara which says that when people visit the sick, they take away a 60^th of the illness.  In this case, I hoped, I and others could give them a 60^th of our gevura, our strength.  Our belief.  Comfort.  Good spirits.  If nothing else, we could let them know they’re not alone.

And know, also, how important they are, in this pivotal time in our 4,000-year history.  How vital, not only for survival and spirit, but also for purpose beyond politics, for cause beyond country.  How they stand against existential and spiritual threats not only to the corpus of the Jewish people, but even against our very soul.

If nothing else, they are the first standing Jewish army in 2,000 years, one that is taking part in a struggle for all of us, everywhere, for all time.  For Eqypt and exile.  For Poland and the Pale and the pogroms.  For every drop of innocent Jewish blood shed by marauders and murderers, Cossacks and Nazis, in the gulags and the camps and the hundreds of miles of tunnels buried beneath a hellhole called Gaza.

For every single murdered Jewish child.

They are chayalim with kipot, without kipot.  With tzitzit, without tzitzit.  With payos, without payos.  They are white, brown, black.  They hug, dance, trust each other with their lives.            As a cheerful young chap named Yoni tells me, “I am so happy to be fighting for my country.”  He pauses.  “I told my parents that if I am taken, do not demonstrate for the government to take extraordinary measures to get me back.  If I’m a POW, or a casualty of war, so be it.”

Before heading for Gaza, Yoni adds that he was told to “call home.  Tell your loved ones goodbye.”

Yeshaia, a Lone Soldier doing duty in the north, comes south on his days off, bringing treats, today three suitcases’ worth, enough to pile high a dessert table with candies and pastries, fruits and nuts.  “It’s something special for my brothers,” he gestures, “so that they know they’re appreciated.”

Part of a group? he’s asked.

“No,” he shrugs.  “I took it upon myself.”

As I quickly discover, not all chalayim sport IDF togs.  One night I go to Simi’s home on a rural moshav.  A good host, and a resident who pulls regular armed guard duty, he shows me the restroom.  Shows me the mamad, the safe room.  “When you hear the siren,” he says, “you have 15 seconds to get in.  If you can’t, hit the dirt, cover your head, keep your mouth open for the shock wave.  And pray.  Don’t forget to pray.”

As if I could.

Later, sitting at his dinner table, I notice that the unused chairs hold standard non-culinary items.  Socks.  Watch caps.  Backpacks.  Bullet-proof vests.

All perfectly normal.

As is, it seems, the rain of missiles onto Sderot, more than 22,000 at last count.

Why stay? a visitor asks Chabad’s Rabbi Moshe Ze’ev Pizem.

“Why go?” proving he’s Jewish by answering a question with a question.  “This is our home.  Besides, if we abandon the border, they’ll only move close to the next one.”

With a fierce police station and surrounding street battle taking more than four dozen Jewish lives, Sderot was arguably the single hardest hit city on October 7.  Quick to respond, Rabbi Pizem transformed his Chabad House into a food bank and pharmacy.  Then spent two weeks helping arrange all the funerals.  “G-d gave me the opportunity to help people,” he says.

As a symbol of strength and resilience, echoing Isaiah’s prophecy of beating swords into ploughshares, Chabad House fashioned a Menorah out of Kassam rockets, “the ultimate example of taking darkness and making light,” Rabbi Pizem says.

At an IDF outpost near Esh Kodesh in the Shomrom — rickety metal guard tower, concrete blast walls, dusty armored trucks – Dani gestures.  “That’s a quiet little Jewish village over here,” he says, “a nasty little Hamas enclave over there.  Their job,” he nods at a dozen heavily armed chayalim, “is to keep them apart.”

Singing, dancing, cooking dinner, these chalayim are clearly grateful that someone from very far away has come to give them chizuk, encourage them, remind them they are not alone.

Over slaw and barbecue and steaming cups of industrial strength Turkish coffee, an American guest is asked to give a dvar Torah.

“Your fight is our fight,” he says passionately.

To a man they bow their heads and nod.

“Milchama shelanu. (It’s our war.)

“Am Yisroel chai.  (The Jewish people live.)

“Am Yisroel echod.”  (The Jewish people are one.)

Another night on the Gaza border, hard by the Nova Festival site, these chalayim man jeeps topped with 50-caliber machine guns.  It’s brutal, dangerous duty, accompanying tanks, going into harm’s way, into hostile territory where night hangs like a blanket.  Into Gaza, where it really knows how to get dark.

Again, music and dancing and barbecue.

Then the call.  Get your helmets and night-vision goggles and find your jeep.

First, though, a passionate embrace for every visitor in sight.  “We need these hugs,” a burly, bearded man named Rafi says.

“They have to go,” a lieutenant shouts.  “We’re back in.  Now.  Now!”

That’s when Benji grabs me.  Holds me.  Tightly.  Literally for dear life.

Married, four kids.  Heading back into Gaza, he does not let go.

And reminds me once again that these chalayim – our brothers and sisters, children, neighbors, sharers of the same eternal undefeatable Jewish soul — may indeed need assault rifles and sniper scopes, night goggles and flame-retardant pants.

But what they most need is hugs.

Called, and called again, Benji refuses to let me go, desperately needing one more hug from a fellow Jew, one more assurance that someone loves him, one more heartfelt cry that he will survive, will return home to his wife and children, safe and sound and unscathed.

One more promise that he will return home.