The battle against shame after the war

As the hostages are released and the war fades, a new and silent battle begins for thousands of returning soldiers—facing, for the first time, the full weight of what they saw and endured on the battlefield

The past few weeks have been an emotional rollercoaster for Israelis—watching hostages reunite with their families after 14 harrowing months in captivity. Those tearful, long-awaited embraces were a rare moment of relief, a fleeting breath of hope. But for me, personally, the relief highlighted the deeper, quieter struggles that remain. I’ve met and spoken with many soldiers and families over the years, and I’ve seen firsthand how shame, fear, and the lingering echoes of war can intrude on everyday life.

In the spirit of Pikuach Nefesh — the imperative to preserve life — we must remember that mental well-being is as precious as physical safety. For those who continue to grapple with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), shame can become an invisible chain, preventing them from seeking help. It’s our responsibility, as a caring community, to break that chain.

A 2018 study revealed that nearly 12% of Israelis suffer from PTSD, and this number is expected to rise in the wake of the Gaza War. Though the rockets have stopped and the sirens are silent, the haunting echoes of trauma persist. For combat soldiers, these lingering memories can come rushing back at the slightest trigger: a loud noise, a sudden movement, or a passing thought.

Our global Jewish community has felt the impact of this war, too. Many of the soldiers who served bravely have ties to North America, and throughout the conflict, people from Toronto to Los Angeles—where communities are now recovering from recent wildfires—stood in solidarity with Israel. Their support—emotional, financial, and spiritual—shows that we truly are one people, united in times of struggle and in our pursuit of healing.

Now, more than ever, we need to speak openly about the trauma born of conflict. If we don’t, shame and isolation will quietly take root, eroding the well-being of those who fought for our safety. My organization, Helem.Club (Trauma Club), exists to bring these discussions into the open. We connect people to resources, offer peer support, and create safe spaces to address invisible wounds. Yet this isn’t just our task; it belongs to all of us. Reach out to someone who might be hurting, share mental health resources, or donate to nonprofits supporting PTSD treatment.

There is hope. With therapy, community support, and a willingness to confront trauma directly, survivors can gradually reclaim their sense of security and belonging. The process isn’t simple, but every compassionate conversation—and every ounce of empathy—chips away at the power of trauma.

We are, at our core, a community defined by mutual care. When soldiers and their families come home bearing unseen injuries, it falls to all of us to stand with them. By doing so, we remind one another that no one has to fight this silent war alone—and that healing is a promise we make, and keep, to every member of our extended family.