New leaders are rising as the smoke settles

We need to be ready, and worthy.

This testimony has been brewing within me for weeks, but as the words rise from my heart, they get stuck in my throat. It stands as one of the most heart-wrenching accounts of that fateful day, a day that struck a particularly personal chord with me, having two daughters of a similar age serving in the IDF. It's a reminder that this could so easily have been them. The survivors, who now bear the weight of unimaginable experiences, implore us to share their stories. They want to know that we see them, that we will remember, just as they cannot forget. They also want us to learn, do better, and make the sacrifice worth it. So, with immense resolve, I am sharing the account of one brave soul and the 32 others who cannot articulate their stories because they did not survive the bloodbath. From there, I’ll share the light at the end of the tunnel, but we’ll have to get through the painful part first, so bear with me.

On October 12, we laid to rest 19-year-old Shirel Mor in the military cemetery in Ra’anana. It was merely five days after the horrors of that Black Shabbat, and the enormity of the tragedy was still dawning upon us. Living in the community of Ra’anana, we attended the shiva to pay our respects. We learned about the beautiful Shirel, saw photos of her angelic smile, watched videos of her gift with the piano, and as we sat with her grieving family, they unfolded a horrifying narrative of her untimely death. Yet, this family deemed themselves fortunate because, at least, they had a body to bury, and she was not still enduring the torture of Hamas.

Then, in January, I crossed paths with a young soldier who had served alongside Shirel in the IDF. Both were stationed in the Gaza envelope; Shirel was at one base, and this soldier at a base nearby shared the same duty. She saw everything and survived to tell the tale. Her friend Shirel and 21 others did not.

A soldier friend visiting the grave of Shirel Mor on Mt. Hertzel military cemetary

Soldier A. (names removed for security reasons) is a "tatzpitanit" in the IDF or an "observer" in literal terms. Her role is crucial - she monitors the border from a row of computers equipped with sophisticated technology to see and hear. She intimately knows a stretch of 5 kilometers along the border with her eyes closed - every tree, every rock, the direction of the grass in the wind, the faces of the local people, and their routines. These 5 kilometers are her domain.

Twenty-two women in this role, known as “the eyes of the army”, are responsible for the area until the Kerem Shalom crossing, stationed at this army base on the border. Another 22 are at a nearby base. Similar units are stationed at the borders of Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, and Egypt and within Israel for Judea and Samaria, commonly known as the West Bank. These young women constitute the first line of defense, safeguarding the border 24/7. If anything suspicious catches their attention, they report it to the base's commanding officer and dispatch soldiers for further investigation.

Soldier A.'s story on October 7 unfolds about six months earlier when she began noticing activities deviating from normal routine. She and her colleagues reported their concerns to the officers but were dismissed. She observed Hamas practicing the kidnapping of soldiers, timing a 300-meter run to the border. It took them 40 seconds. She witnessed weapons training, exploding model tanks, and more rehearsals for kidnapping soldiers. They erected models of the fence, practicing their breaches with increasing regularity and intensity. On the base on Yom Kippur, Soldier A. forewarned her friends that war was imminent that day, feeling it in the air. It was 50 years from the anniversary of the Yom Kippur War of 1963. Her estimate was off by two weeks, but these young women were not surprised when it all unfolded.

Until we get through an investigation, we won’t understand it. But from what we have so far understood, unfortunately, the army was laser-focused on Hezbollah in the North, who are a significantly more dangerous threat. We underestimated everything Hamas had built because we believed, ultimately, they wanted peace and they were trying to show strength but wouldn’t be stupid enough to break that line and unleash Israel’s wrath. We were so, so wrong, and we are paying the ultimate price for it.

The Gaza envelope area is affectionately described as 95% heaven and 5% the trauma of constant rocket fire. Their duties demanded that the tatzpitaniot (observers) monitor the border 8 hours a day. The remaining time was theirs to do as they pleased in this little slice of heaven. These soldiers formed close bonds, sitting together every night to witness breathtaking sunsets, making phone calls to friends and family, sharing cokes, and cooking together. These friends became a tightly-knit family, brothers and sisters united by the shared experiences of living, working, and defending the country. It's a relationship forged in the trenches, where meaning transcends boundaries.

Beautiful sunsets from the base

The night of October 6th found them up late, and at 3 am on the 7th, they were together, cherishing each other's company. In hindsight, Soldier A. reflects that it was a goodbye party. Within a few hours, most of these soldiers would be gone forever.

On the morning of October 7, Soldier A. was inside the operations room (hamal), surrounded by many screens displaying footage from various cameras. On this particular day, she was on call, following a schedule that typically involves four hours on shift, followed by eight hours of sleep, another four hours on shift, and then eight hours on call, rotating 24/7. As with so many stories that begin similarly, at 6:29 am, the unsettling sound of rockets pierced the air. In an instant, Soldier A. sensed that something was dreadfully amiss. Stepping outside, she was met with a nightmarish scene: the skies were painted with black stripes in a relentless onslaught of thousands of missiles. The rockets landed with alarming proximity, too rapid and overwhelming for the Iron Dome to intercept. Amidst the chaos, Soldier A. instinctively started recording. Given the perilous circumstances, I asked why her immediate response was to document everything. She explained that the magnitude of the situation was absolutely unbelievable. No one had heeded their prior warnings, and she feared that this might be dismissed if not captured on video. In those harrowing moments, Soldier A.'s decision to capture the events on film took on a profound significance — a visual testament to the horror of the day.

As the moments unraveled, each soldier in the hamal felt the weight of responsibility intensify. The urgency in their voices grew more desperate as they relayed the alarming situation to their officers. "They're crossing the border!" echoed through the room, a grim reality unfolding before their eyes and before the cameras lost connection. The terrorists, dressed uniformly in black with only their eyes exposed, moved methodically; the green stripe across their foreheads served as a haunting identifier of their ruthless capacity. The grind of their tractors formed a backdrop for the armageddon happening in slow motion and too fast to stop, both simultaneously.

The war cries “Allah Akbar!” screamed from approximately 500 infiltrators crossing the border. Soldier A. grappled with the overwhelming sense of helplessness in the magnitude of the impending catastrophe. Some of her friends, unaware of the imminent danger, were attending the party at the nearby Nova festival, and she desperately tried to warn them. Rockets rained down, pushing Soldier A. to make frantic calls to as many friends as she could, urging them to escape. In a heart-wrenching and heroic decision, some friends chose to stay behind, sacrificing themselves to protect others. Two soldiers remained standing guard at the entrance to the base despite her warning, facing the terrorists armed with machine guns. Their unwavering courage persisted until their last bullet and their last breath.

In the hamal, the impending danger became palpable as Arabic voices grew louder and warned of the infiltrators' imminent arrival. Many of their friends were already dead, and a baby's cries added to the disarray. One of the senior officers had brought his wife and baby to spend the Jewish holiday of Simchat Torah with them on the base. With nowhere to seek refuge and no means of protection, Soldier A. rose like a courageous leader, encouraging her friends to find solace in what might be their last moments. Yet, the grim reality persisted as injured friends were brought in, some unrecognizable from the severity of their injuries. Despite lacking medical expertise, they desperately attempted to aid injured friends.

Soldier A.'s brother, also a soldier, reached out, demanding her location for a potential rescue mission. Unwilling to reveal her exact whereabouts for fear of endangering him, Soldier A. faced the agonizing task of assuring her worried family that everything was okay. She wrote them a farewell letter, knowing deep in her soul she was not making it out alive, but also not wanting anyone else to die on a suicide mission trying to rescue her.

By 10 am, the devastation had escalated further, and they discovered it was not just their base under attack. A desperate call from Soldier A.'s friend revealed the horrifying truth taking place in the nearby base where a second group of tatzpitaniot was stationed. Three friends, part of Soldier A.'s closest circle, were burnt alive. Shirel Mor was one. Soldier A. was privy to the sheer horror of their death echoing through the phone as she stayed with them in their last moments, through the coughing and the cries for help. The aftermath included the painstaking identification of their friend's remains, reduced to ashes, and sent to America due to the technological limitations of identifying human DNA from so little. It took 35 days.

The remains of the hamal at an army base where the tatzpitaniot worked and died

The attacks were merciless. Soldier A. and her fellow soldiers found themselves in a surreal situation, forced to tend to injuries the likes of which they had never witnessed. In a gruesome revelation, Soldier A. recounts a friend who sustained a gunshot wound to the head and another who was shot in the leg, with her desperate efforts to resuscitate him proving futile. The challenges mounted as attempts to call the Air Force for aerial support went unanswered, leaving the besieged soldiers to fend for themselves.

“My friend got shot in the head. He was unconscious. We took turns pumping his heart for seven hours. He woke up from a coma four weeks ago. That was exciting news. I couldn't see my friends like this, and I just wanted to go help them. I'm not a doctor. I don't know how to do any of these things, but I couldn't stand to the side and not do anything. Another friend was dragged in, he got shot right here in the leg. He was screaming and screaming. I tried to help him, I did everything I knew how to do, and he died after 20 minutes with my finger in the bullet hole.”

Then there is the haunting story of a fellow soldier who attempted to save an elderly woman from the nearby Kibbutz. The valiant effort tragically ended in the deaths of both the soldier and the 80-year-old woman, his brutal beheading captured on video and sent to his family via WhatsApp from his phone. Another eight unarmed non-combat soldiers went to the neighboring kibbutz to help, sought refuge in an outdoor bomb shelter, and all fell victim to the terrorists. Among them was an autistic man who volunteered in the army, displaying unparalleled courage as he fought his attackers, unarmed.

The toll on the soldiers' mental and emotional well-being became increasingly strenuous. The soldiers faced the heartbreaking loss of friends and colleagues by the dozen. A fellow soldier, badly wounded, reached out to Soldier A. for help. She risked her life to rescue him soaked in blood, carrying him 100m on her back, running, zigzagging to safety under live gunfire. I should note that Soldier A. is barely 5 feet and petite, and her friend is over 6 feet, broad and muscular. She doesn't know where the physical strength came from; she didn't think at all. “Friends don't leave friends behind,” she shrugs. The overwhelming fear and uncertainty persisted as the soldiers waited for rescue, with moments of camaraderie and surreal discussions about life beyond the ordeal offering fleeting respite from the impending danger.

Some of the devastation in the hamal on the morning of October 7

“He was screaming at me that everyone died. And I have to bring him inside like this. I tell him I’ve got him, but he has to calm down. Every five minutes, he forgets because of this trauma shock, and he starts screaming again. Everyone's dead. Everyone's gone. I figured out how to do a tourniquet to stop the blood gushing. Apparently, that saved his hand. Another friend was dragged in. He had 70 grenades thrown at him; he was a mess and a miracle. He can't walk anymore because they amputated both his legs, and he is deaf now. But he survived all the grenades. No one was coming to rescue us because we were all just trying to survive. We were exactly like sitting ducks waiting to be slaughtered."

Around 5 pm, a glimmer of hope emerged as an elite IDF commando unit arrived to evacuate the injured. However, the relief was short-lived, as the remaining tatzpitaniot were left in the hamal unguarded while the combat soldiers tried valiantly and relentlessly to lock down the base. Fear escalated when footsteps and shouting in Arabic were heard on the roof, signaling the presence of terrorists armed with an RPG. The powerless soldiers sought refuge in a closet, grappling with the intense fear of an imminent attack.

Huddled in a closet, the fear was so overwhelming that she contemplated the unthinkable—preferring death to the paralyzing terror that enveloped her. The smell of blood, sweat, and fear surrounds them. Smoke is everywhere. Grenades, bullets, missiles, and RPGs explode at a rapid-fire pace so loud they could barely hear their thoughts. Her life flashed before her eyes. The shared sense of doom led to surreal conversations among the trapped soldiers, discussing plans that they knew will never come to fruition. Soldier A.'s attempt to rally her friends, even those not religiously inclined, toward unity and purpose is a poignant testament to her leadership and their collective resilience in the face of imminent tragedy.

Amidst the palpable fear, a call from Soldier A.'s brother brings hope—a promise of rescue within 20 minutes. This is the point where she finally describes breaking down. 20 minutes was a lifetime to wait. The ensuing minutes are each a whole eternity. She has it recorded on video, it’s too hard to watch. Two grenades landed less than two meters away from her and failed to explode. But they sat and waited; seconds passed like hours, wondering when they would explode. “You're there. You're waiting for them to explode, and they are not exploding”.

At 10 pm came their liberation—13 surviving soldiers originally believed to be lost, returned to the operations room, defying all odds and getting them to safety after fifteen and a half hours of living hell. She had heard one call his mother to say goodbye, and here he was! Their journey from the hamal, filled with the echoes of tragedy, to the gas station where they gathered was a symbolic passage from the certainty of death to the possibility of living. She describes it as the longest 7 minutes of her life.

“A soldier takes me by the shoulders and looks me in the eye. He tells me his name. His three best friends just died. He told me, if you cry, I cry. We're not crying. We're strong. He asked what I needed. I didn't have water all day. I didn't have food. The Hamal was filled with blood. And I desperately needed to go to the bathroom. That's all I asked for - water and the bathroom. Then we left the hamal in two lines. I felt like I was getting out of the concentration camps. The whole base was filled with my friend’s bodies. Half of them are burnt, half are without legs, arms, or heads. They cut them to pieces and did horrible things to them that I will never be able to unsee.”

In the aftermath of this traumatic experience, Soldier A. reflected on the profound changes that have altered her life irrevocably. The camaraderie and shared moments with friends, once a staple of her existence, are replaced by an emptiness that permeates every aspect of her daily routine. An empty void, a silence that echoes in her job, in the absence of shared sunsets, and in the absence of humor. The weight of loss and trauma is palpable in her words as she poignantly expresses living each day as a perpetual reiteration of that haunting October 7, an indelible mark that time has ceased to progress as it once did.

The collective grief, grappling with the indescribable loss of friends, brothers, and sisters who will forever be remembered as heroes, is intense. She paints a vivid picture of resilience and tragedy among the 22 girls stationed at the base, survivors of a holocaust. While these girls were spared by a series of miracles, 15 on the other base died horrible deaths, and six were taken hostage, two of whom have since been confirmed murdered. One was rescued early in the war. She says what all the survivors say - it was a matter of a series of miracles and some luck that she is alive.

She lost 32 close friends that day from her base. Even the elite soldiers who came to their aid were unaware of the overwhelming number of terrorists that had breached the base (150 bodies of terrorists were collected afterward), and many were ultimately sacrificed in an attempt to save the trapped soldiers.

Of these 22 tatzpitaniot, 15 were murdered, 7 taken hostage (2 have since been confirmed murdered) and one rescued.

But here is the thing. She is back at her job, watching her 5 square km vigilantly, determined that no other soldier dies on her watch. She has trauma; some days feel impossible, others manageable, but either way, she gets up and carries on. She refuses to feel anger. She says anger won’t bring her friends back. She has lots of questions; we all do. And they will be answered. But now, she says, is the time for unity, focus, strength, and determination. It’s not over. She has friends still held hostage in Gaza. They must be brought home. And then there are the ones who died heroically defending friends, family, and our country. They must be remembered, and this is her mission.

Finally, I asked Soldier A. what the one thing she wanted us to know after everything that happened. She didn’t have to think long before she said the most important thing in the world is that it’s time for Jews to come home to Israel. It’s time to be proud of who we are and become who we can be. That’s it, that’s her message. When she completes her service in a few months, she will travel in the tradition of many released IDF soldiers and then complete a degree to enter politics and change the world. Soldier A. hates being called a hero. She says she did what she needed to do, as they all did, and she is not different from anyone else. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to our next Golda Meir.

This period of Jewish history had us at our most divisive in a very long time. We were not behaving like the people we are capable of being. There were reasons for it, but the systemic problem was a breakdown of systems that no longer served our purpose, which needed to be dismantled and reconstructed with a new vision. We all agreed on that but couldn't agree on how or who would lead it. October 7 was a seismic shock of indescribable proportions, a tragedy none of us would wish for.

But look at us now. The people of Israel and Jews everywhere are united at levels we haven’t seen in decades. Listen, we know Bibi only has a personal agenda, and the fact that leaders from the government, the IDF, the Shabak, and Mossad need to be held accountable for the greatest security failure in Israeli history. Especially in light of the ignored intelligence. The urgent need to replace old leaders with new leaders who worry more about our people than their political stature is also clear. But despite the wishes of American politicians, the people of Israel also know what our priorities are - we need to get our hostages home and secure our borders, and then we can find the leaders that will build what we desperately need in a whole new and united way. We knew that new leaders would begin to rise as the smoke settles, and they are. We see them every single day. People like Soldier A. and hundreds of others who rose when they were called to duty.

Commander of the 98th Division, Brig. Gen. Dan Goldfus is fascinating and one to watch. As a decorated soldier and a senior leader in the IDF, he went off script at a press conference. Despite the potentially severe consequences, his unauthorized and courageous call out of the leadership in Israel made my heart sing.

“I ask at this opportunity to address our leaders, from both sides, and I hope that they will have the time to listen to the heart of a soldier. I have been fighting since the morning of Hamas’s October 7 onslaught, and I have not stopped fighting since. Since then, I have not stopped sending soldiers, and gone with them, into the fire. We are fighting. We are not getting tired. We are determined to win, determined to bring home the hostages, directly or indirectly. Don’t worry, we, the people of the military, the commanders and troops, have taken, are taking, and will take responsibility for every action. We will not run, just as we don’t run from the fire. We will not run from responsibility.

We bow our heads over our resounding failure on October 7, but at the same time we push forward, carry out operations at the highest level of quality, protect our values, and attain many achievements on the battlefield. But you [political leaders], you need need to be worthy of us. You need to be worthy of the soldiers who lost their lives. You need to be worthy of the reservists who don’t care what [political] side they are on, and fought and fight alongside each other.

Make sure that everyone takes part. You must make sure we do not return to October 6, that all the effort and sacrifice won’t be in vain. This you must keep well in your minds, every day, every hour. From my heart, I ask of you to be together, united, push away the extreme, and adopt the togetherness. Find what unites. We on the battlefield found it, and we will not give up on it.

Make it worth it.

As Daniel Gordis states in his thought-provoking Substack (Israel from the Inside with Daniel Gordis) , “In ordinary times, Goldfuss might well have been fired. Except for the nagging little fact that he was right, and Israelis trust him and the other military brass far more than they trust the government, which ordinarily would have called for Goldfuss’ ouster.” The phoenix is rising. There will be others like him. A new era is beginning, and I am so proud to be a part of it. Am Israel Chai!

If you’ve read to the end and have a place in your heart that hasn’t shattered yet, I will share something exquisitely beautiful. This is a song written by an officer for his girlfriend a few days before the massacre. “I If I Die Tomorrow” was found written on a piece of paper in his pocket and put to music. Soldier A. translated the words so you can follow along in English. Have a box of tissues nearby.

If tomorrow I die, have a party. Don't be sad. Even though you have reason.

If tomorrow I die, call everyone. Don't tell them about the blood. Tell them about the sea.

Tell them about how much I wanted to be better and about how much I loved to live. About how you got stronger with me. And how could it not be. From tomorrow, I will no longer call you Capara.

I won't hug you anymore at night. You will only remember me when you sing my song, the tunes.

If I tomorrow, I die. You won't be alone. I will be here forever. And hold your hand again.

When you discover another truth, when you find another one and he gives you everything, you can tell him a little about me.

About how much I wanted to feel. And about how much I loved to live. About how you got stronger with me. And how it could not be. From tomorrow, I will no longer call you Capara.

I won't hug you anymore at night. You will only remember me when you sing my songs, the tunes.

And as much as I wanted to feel. As much as I loved to live, I left a ring in my jacket pocket that I've been dreaming so much for you to see. The dress that you said you would put on. You are the most beautiful woman in the world. And now if you're reading this, promise me that you will find a happy ending.