These days, many reservists are returning to their homes, and this concerns all of us. Whenever we see a car in front of us, and feel like honking, we should take into account that the driver may have returned from Gaza yesterday. Right now he's picking up the kids from extracurricular activities for the first time since... And if it's not him, then maybe it's the spouse of a returning soldier. Or father or mother or brother of someone who just returned from Gaza.
We are surrounded by people who are willing to give more than we imagined. And this is a point that could, if we do not hurry to wave it, open the deep healing process that awaits us. Or at least make him honk less.
A moment after they take off their uniforms, wash off the dust and tear the shape into the washing machine, they will look like just Israelis. It would be hard to guess what they went through and where. We would really have to assume that every person on the street was someone who was willing, in principle, to sacrifice his life for a loved one we love very much.
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In the language of Jewish prayer there is an ancient and beautiful version, which does not turn to heaven but rather inward, with the words, "I accept ..." And from my many years of acquaintance with the amazing ability to forget and deny, I recommend that we all adopt some kind of personal formulation. For example: "I take it upon myself to assume that this annoying guy, who has been driving at 20 kilometers per hour for a whole minute and does not close on himself, returned yesterday from Khan Yunis."
They will look like anyone else on the street, but for months they haven't seen the family, nor themselves. They put aside their lives - children, love, home, work, small details of a small day - to defend this country. That is, on us. People they don't necessarily know. These reservists deserve to believe – without a crumb of pathos, so simply – that we deserve it all. The sacrifice that was required of them and the one that unfortunately will still be required.
The bottom line is, in light of what we've all learned over the past few months, I think we should have walked around the world armed with two certain insights. A - We are lucky to have been born into this nation. Our solidarity is a strategic asset, and whoever tries to divide and divide us harms our very existence. These two insights must be expressed in how we are to each other. And it's no coincidence that I started with an example from the world of driving. The road is a showcase of the social situation in Israel, and in short, there is a little story that has been sitting on us for several weeks.
There were two of us in the family car, the detainee and me. The place: an annoying little alley that runs out of our neighborhood onto the main street. We go through it four times a day, and it's always annoying all over again. Who is the genius who decided that a narrow street like King Hezekiah could be a two-way street? And why do all the driving instructors in the world have to pass here?
The movement is crawling, and everyone understands that it's supposed to work in the Richchurch system. One vehicle that continues straight on the street, and another that joins from the alley. And so on in order. But the temptation to steal the queue is a sweet sin, and many can't resist it. Just as it was our turn to fit in, a taxi driver decided he didn't feel like giving. He was pushed and honked and also made movements from the window. Although she wasn't wearing a red dress and two braids that day, she opened a window and asked: "Why?!"
The taxi driver's response was amazing to us. He shouted from his window, "And you're in my place, would you give up on me?"
And the two of us, who usually disagree on anything, thought "sure." And why he assumes not. And what a pity he didn't linger a bit. We would like to open the discussion with him, and also ask how it is that Israelis who send their children to the army still ask themselves how much the person opposite was willing to give up for them.
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This Sunday marks 100 days, and many Israelis are still kidnapped in Gaza. This fact is intolerable. It must not be tolerated. There are Israelis among us who got used to it, and in fact gave up. The most extreme among them show strange hostility towards the families of abductees who demand their return home. Most of the public supports the struggle to free the abductees, and is not enthusiastic about Sarah Netanyahu's call for families to lower the volume. And you, what are you doing this Sunday?
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The war in the south is far from over, and the northern border is not far from opening, yet it can already be said that one of the things we will never forget from this campaign is the wills of soldiers. These are chilling texts, and often inspiring. Words you can go with decades ahead.
But other than that, we must not forget that these are letters written by young men of 19 or 20 years old. Not an age to write a will. They wrote them, usually, like they write anything, on the tiny keyboard of the smartphone. Neither fountain pen nor rustling stationery. No curly signature and no charred margins.
After they finished writing, they probably chuckled, and sent a friend or friend for safekeeping, along with frightening instructions, that these words could be read, or passed on to parents, "Only if something happens to me. Great?" The vast majority of these letters we will never know or read, Amen! But we must all take into account that whoever wrote a will at the age of 19 has already changed, and is no longer the boy he was.
I know, because I myself wrote one. This was in 1983, when there was terrible tension with the Syrians on Mount Hermon, and we, the members of the nucleus of Beit Rimon, were supposed to be the spearhead force in case a campaign began. "You understand what the word 'tip' means, yes?" the Deputy Commander asked us with a strange smile, giving us fifteen minutes to write a will.
In those days, contrary to what my children think, we no longer wrote about papyrus, nor dipped a feather tip in the ink we produced ourselves. Suddenly, we were much more developed. We wrote on pages and lines of "Daffron" with a "stick" pen from Afan, but emotionally we were deep in the Stone Age. And I remember the pen and paper details, mainly because I have no idea what I wrote. It is clear to me, however, that this was nonsense.
We were a different generation. When we didn't know what to say, we preferred to fool around, and admittedly most of the time we didn't know what to say. We grew up on the humor of Sanderson and the tracker, and "Jaffa Pictures" and Dudu Geva, and we were champions of subject linguistics. Cynicism was a lifeline, and we needed it because we grew up in homes where boys weren't educated to talk. On trips, when the girls sang with their eyes closed, "If a bouquet of thorns hurts, that's what you like," we sang dumb nonsense songs. The will, I suppose, was also accordingly. How lucky that in the end the tension with the Syrians ended with nothing. Our spearhead kept playing backgammon and wist between tours, and my stupid and shameful will was lost and forgotten. What luck.
Since the beginning of the Gaza campaign, I have read several wills of soldiers who will no longer return. Alongside the pain and sorrow, I couldn't help but be amazed at the emotional maturity and mature words these wonderful young people chose to write. I just want to mention that we patronized these young people, we are the antiquities. We called them the TikTok generation. We mocked the spoiled who ask, "How much do you want the hard-boiled egg?" And now, all we want is for them to return home safely, and take this country in their good hands.
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