One Nation, Unequal Sacrifice

I just returned from Jerusalem, where I had the honor of serving as a voting delegate at the 17th Plenary Assembly of the World Jewish Congress. It was a powerful experience—an inspiring convergence of Jewish leaders from 72 countries, all gathered in solidarity with Israel during one of its most painful chapters. But what I’ll remember most is not what was said on stage. It’s who wasn’t there.

My friend “David” an Israeli father, husband, and corporate executive-meant to join us. But instead of a suit and tie, he wore his IDF uniform. That evening, he was being deployed again, along with the nearly 2,000 soldiers under his command. Over the past 593 days, he’s served more than 420 of them. He goes willingly. He serves proudly. But the weight is becoming unbearable—for him, for his family, and for thousands like him who carry the burden of defense on their backs alone.

As I walked back to my hotel that night, my thoughts heavy with concern, I passed groups of young Haredi men laughing and chatting outside cafes, seemingly untouched by the war that has engulfed the nation. The juxtaposition was stark—and heartbreaking. One population answering the call again and again, while another carries on as if the country isn’t on fire.

This imbalance isn’t new. But today, it has reached a breaking point.

Since July 2024, nearly 19,000 Haredim have received initial draft orders. Just 319 have enlisted. Over 2,500 ignored multiple draft notices and were sent immediate call-up orders—told to report to induction centers within 48 hours or be classified as draft evaders. And yet, many still don’t show. The State sends letters. They send silence.

This is not just a legal crisis. It is a moral one.

The longstanding exemption for full-time yeshiva students, known as Torato Omanuto—“his Torah is his profession”—was originally granted in the early years of the state to a few hundred scholars. Today, it applies to tens of thousands. Torah study is sacred, but in times of war, sacred does not mean separate.

The Talmud (Yoma 85b) teaches us that pikuach nefesh—saving a life—overrides nearly every other mitzvah. The preservation of life is at the heart of Judaism. So what Torah are we defending if we allow others to die while we study? What kind of Jewish state are we building if sacrifice becomes the obligation of some and the option of others?

Judaism is not a religion of isolation. It is a religion of obligation—kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh, all of Israel is responsible for one another. That responsibility cannot stop at the gates of Bnei Brak.

The prophet Isaiah warned of those who “draw near to God with their mouths… but their hearts are far from Me” (Isaiah 29:13). There is something deeply wrong when a society allows one group to pray while another group dies. And there is something unsustainable when taxpayers fund housing stipends, child allowances, and yeshiva budgets, while their own children are drafted and others are exempted.

I’ve heard the argument: Torah protects the people of Israel. I don’t dismiss that. I believe in the spiritual power of learning. But I also believe that Torah should inspire courage, not avoidance. Rambam was both a sage and a physician. Religious Zionist soldiers pray, study, and serve. The Gemara (Sotah 44b) teaches that even a groom must leave his chuppah to go to war. No one is above the burden of defense—not even the most pious.

Resentment is growing, and not without reason. Israeli society is fraying under the pressure of inequality. When young men like “David” are pulled from their homes for the tenth, twentieth, thirtieth time, while thousands of others never serve at all, how long can we keep calling this a shared society?

Some Haredi leaders argue that integration will damage their communities. That army service threatens their values. But what of the damage done to our national soul by this ongoing inequality? What of the children of secular, traditional, and Modern Orthodox Israelis who ask, “Why us, and not them?”

This is not a call for coercion. It is a call for contribution.

Not every Haredi man needs to join a combat unit. But there must be a baseline expectation of national service—military or civilian—for every citizen. That’s not anti-Haredi. It’s pro-Israel. It’s pro-responsibility. It’s the price of sovereignty, and the promise of peoplehood.

The truth is, Haredi Jews are not our enemies. They are our brothers. Our cousins. Our fellow Jews. And because of that, we need them with us—not separate from us. We need them in the trenches of shared service, in the labor force, in the decisions that shape our collective future. Not behind fences of fear and excuses.

The Book of Numbers (32:6) records Moses confronting the tribes of Reuven and Gad, who asked to remain outside the Land of Israel while others fought: “Shall your brothers go to war while you remain here?” It was a challenge then. It is a challenge now.

Haredi leaders and communities have the power to answer that challenge with pride, not protest. With a willingness to share the burden, not avoid it. That choice could transform Israeli society. It could heal wounds. It could unify us in ways no speech or rally ever could.

But if they continue to say no—if silence remains the response to the cries of overburdened soldiers and grieving families—then the rupture will only deepen.

This moment is not just about enlistment. It’s about covenant. About what it means to be a Jew in a Jewish state. And whether we believe that Torah and responsibility can coexist in the same pair of hands.

Because if they can’t—then what are we really fighting for?