By: R’ Binyamin Silver

As our communal attention turns toward the approaching Yomim Noraim, we begin the important process of reflecting upon the past while looking inward, seeking to elevate and enhance our spiritual selves. It is not an easy process, but it is an extraordinarily rewarding one. Rising above the demands and distractions of our daily material existence requires effort. It requires perspective, focus, and a willingness to see beyond the immediacy of the world around us. And often, that perspective is awakened by moments of external inspiration through experiences that allow us to see familiar ideas with renewed clarity and depth.

To my great fortune, I recently had the privilege of participating in an unforgettable mission to Eretz Yisroel, an experience that provided precisely that type of inspiration.

The mission was organized by the Rabbinical Council of America in conjunction with World Mizrachi. The theme of the mission was לחזק ולהתחזק—to strengthen and to be strengthened. While I cannot honestly assess how much chizuk I was able to provide, if any, I can say without hesitation that I returned immeasurably strengthened.

Living in the United States, we follow events in Eretz Yisroel closely. We read the news, listen to interviews, and speak regularly with friends and family who live there. We know the facts so well that each one of us has become an armchair military expert and is secretly considering running as the next prime minister. Yet looking from afar is not the same as experiencing its reality. Attempting to engage with Eretz Yisroel from thousands of miles away is akin to trying to discern an image through a fogged and cracked window. A vague outline is apparent, but without detail or nuance.

Over the course of approximately forty-eight hours, I encountered an extraordinary cross-section of Israeli society. We met Nova Festival survivors, a former October 7th hostage, bereaved families, Roshei Yeshiva of Yeshivat Hesder Kiryat Shmoneh, students of the Yeshiva, reservists, wounded soldiers, Druze public servants, volunteers, and countless ordinary Israelis quietly performing extraordinary acts of kindness. We met Jews who represented virtually every segment of Israeli society and every level of religious observance. While forty-eight hours hardly qualifies one as an expert on a country as complex as Eretz Yisroel, it is sufficient to capture some of the energy that is pervasive among these holy people.

As I reflected upon the experience after returning home, I found myself returning repeatedly to three characteristics that were consistently evident in the people we encountered. They possessed an extraordinary sense of mission, a profound and deeply personal Emunah, and a resilience that can only be described as remarkable. While I certainly can’t capture the entire trip in these limited lines, it is my hope that by sharing some of my experiences, a small measure of the inspiration I experienced can inspire others as well.

A Sense of Mission

Perhaps the characteristic that left the strongest impression upon me was the focused sense of mission that permeated virtually every encounter.

One of our first stops was the small community of Shtula, situated on the Israeli-Lebanese border. As we sat listening to some of the locals, our conversation was interrupted every few minutes by the unmistakable sound of explosions echoing in the distance. Although a ceasefire has officially taken effect, it was apparent that the reality on the ground is considerably more complicated.

One of the presenters had just recently moved to Shtula from the Golan Heights. At one point, considering the consistent shaking of the benches we were sitting on due to the nonstop explosions every few minutes from the other side of the border, I asked him what seemed to be the obvious question, “Why did you move here?” His answer consisted of only three words. “It was necessary.” He did not speak of idealism, heroism, or even sacrifice. There was simply an understanding that if Klal Yisroelrequires Jews to live in that part of Eretz Yisroel, then that was where he belonged.

His short answer contained an entire philosophy of life, frankly, one that I envy: the deep-seated notion of living life with purpose and the willingness to relentlessly pursue that purpose regardless of consequence. I have much to aspire to.

That same attitude surfaced repeatedly throughout our conversations with reservists we met later that evening on a small outpost army base on the border. These were not career soldiers. They were accountants, engineers, physicians, business owners, and fathers who had left behind their families and livelihoods to answer yet another call to miluim. Many of the individuals with whom we spoke were no longer required to serve and were there on a completely voluntary basis. One had received a medical exemption. Another had already aged out of reserve duty. Yet both had volunteered out of a sense of mission-driven duty to protect Am Yisroel. The matter-of-fact nature with which they described taking leave of their jobs and families to defend Am Yisroel was both inspiring and humbling. These individuals are living life as an answer to a higher calling. Far from being entrenched in creature comforts, their life choices reflect a keen focus on values that truly matter.

There were lighter moments as well. Through the wonderful organization of Grilling for the IDF, our group provided the requisite BBQ to the soldiers stationed at the base to show our hakaras hatov and, of course, snap the perfect picture for the folks back home. Following the meal, several of the soldiers sat around a backgammon board under a camouflage net designed to shield the base from Hezbollah drone detection, while other soldiers relaxed nearby. In the corner, a large TV had been hastily attached to the concrete shelter wall. It was a scene straight out of every military movie I have ever seen. Attempting to make light conversation, I remarked sarcastically, “It’s just like being at home.” One of the soldiers laughed. “It’s much better than home,” he replied. “Here I don’t have four kids screaming in my ear!”

That same mission-driven sense was pervasive during our visit to Yeshivat Hesder Kiryat Shmoneh. Five precious talmidim of the yeshiva have fallen in battle since the outbreak of the war, and at present nearly two-thirds of its three hundred students are serving in miluim. Those statistics are sobering enough, but they reveal only part of the story.

Over a surprisingly good breakfast served in the Ezras Nashim of the yeshiva, I had the opportunity to converse with some of the talmidim of the Yeshiva. One of the talmidim told me that he had been drafted into the Israeli Navy and had been stationed on a boat patrolling the Gaza coast. He then remarked that four days after completing an extended period of military service, he returned to the Beis Medrash in Kiryat Shmoneh. Curious, I asked him how he was able to transition so quickly from the battlefield back to learning Torah. After months in combat, I imagine that a person would need some time to recover and refocus. He looked at me with genuine surprise. “How could I not immediately return to the Bais Medrash? This is what I am fighting for!” His military service and learning are not competing elements; rather, they are both components of the same mission, ensuring a vibrant Am Yisroel on Admas Ha’kodesh.

Following breakfast, standing on the mirpeset of the Yeshiva overlooking the Chermon, Rav Barkai, one of the two Roshei Yeshiva, pointed toward the distant hills and explained that one of Yehoshua ben Nun’s battles during the conquest of Eretz Yisroel had taken place in that vicinity. He then remarked that his own son’s unit is presently stationed nearby and that he often reminds his son that he is continuing the very mission that Yehoshua began more than three thousand years ago. In the United States, we study Tanach as a historical record. In Eretz Yisroel, Tanach is a living and breathing document. To them, the wars of Yehoshua were not merely historical events; rather, they represent the opening chapter of a story that continues to unfold today. His son’s military service is simply the next chapter in that book.

Emunah

We had the great privilege of visiting Beit Binyamin in Tzfat. A retreat home in the hills of Tzfat, built in memory of Binyamin Meir Airley hy”d. A place where soldiers, survivors, and grieving families can come to breathe again. We were welcomed by Binyamin’s parents, Jen and Rob, two beacons of emunah who exemplify what it means to cling to faith in times of difficulty.

After hearing their inspiring story and about the incredible programming they run in Beit Binyamin, we were treated to a tremendous spread on the rooftop overlooking Meron and the Arizal’s mikvah. Over lunch, we heard from a diverse cast of characters, each of whom exemplified a truly unique and meaningful faith in Hashem. Avishag and Shimon, a young Israeli couple who survived the Nova festival, related how grateful they were to stay in Beit Binyamin. They dressed as secular Israelis—the full costume: ponytail, tattoos, earrings, etc.—but peppered their remarks about being spared at the Nova festival with so many exclamations of emunah that one could have confused them for seminary girls.

The haunting words of Yitzchak Avinu upon giving the brachos to Yaakov Avinu came to mind: “הקול קול יעקב והידים ידי עשיו.” “Reb Moshe Shapiro ZT”L elaborated on those words and explained that Yitzchak Avinu wasn’t merely observing; rather, he was defining a new reality for his descendants. No longer was the Jew to be an angelic-esque, ivory-towered being existing only in the spiritual realm. Henceforth, the Jew was to be engaged in the world, cloaked in the trappings of materialism, והידים ידי עשיו, but with a spiritual center unique to the soul of God’s chosen people, הקול קול יעקב. A far more spiritual reading of the time-tested adage: don’t judge a book by its cover.

As I continued to ponder this pasuk, we had the privilege of hearing from a remarkable Tzfat local, Tehilla Dolinsky, who told us of her proof that she has a personal relationship with Tzion. To properly appreciate the story, I must briefly paint the picture. She was wearing a flowing white, almost wedding-like dress with a matching white kerchief covering her hair to complete the outfit. To be sure, it was a Wednesday in the middle of the summer. Her husband wore jeans and long peyos. In other words, a typical Five Towns couple.

She began her tale by describing the anguish of watching her husband repeatedly leave home for miluim, the internal struggle, the strain on the family, and the hardship to her children that accompanied each departure. At one point, she said she had had it and told her husband that he could not go back. Period. Upon reaching an impasse, they agreed to consult the family Rav, who, to her chagrin, felt that her husband should return to miluim despite the difficulty.

She described to us how she left the meeting with the Rav in tears and turned to the Ribbono Shel Olam in heartfelt tefillah. “Tzion,” she pleaded, “I have sacrificed so much for You. If this is truly a relationship, then show me that You care for me as well.” Only moments later, her husband received a telephone call from his commanding officer informing him that circumstances had changed and that his unit would no longer be deploying. Here, she paused and confidently stated to us, “You see? I have a real relationship with Tzion!” While I suspect that this can only occur in Tzfat, her faith was palpable and contagious.

We also had the opportunity to hear the inspiring tale of Shlomi Ziv. Shlomi was one of four hostages rescued from Gaza on June 8, 2024, in a daring operation carried out jointly by the Shin Bet, the IDF, and the Border Police’s elite Yamam counterterrorism unit. The rescue came at a tremendous cost. Yamam officer and team leader Arnon Zamora was killed during the mission, which was subsequently named in his honor—Mivtza Arnon.

Shlomi spoke to us for more than an hour. Interestingly, he began his story not with October 7, but years earlier, with a traumatic incident during his military service that left him suffering from severe PTSD. He described the difficult process of confronting that trauma through years of therapy, learning to understand it, and developing the tools necessary to live with it. Years later, on October 7, he was working as part of the security team at the Nova music festival near Kibbutz Re’im when he was taken hostage by Hamas terrorists. He would spend the next 246 days in captivity, much of that time alongside fellow hostages Almog Meir Jan and Andrey Kozlov.

As he described those seemingly endless and impossible months, He returned to the trauma he had experienced years earlier. Remarkably, he told us that he believed the very experience that had caused him so much pain ultimately helped prepare him to survive captivity. Having already confronted severe PTSD, he had learned how his mind responded to trauma and had developed tools to cope with fear, uncertainty, and emotional distress. Those tools, he explained, became invaluable during his 246 days as a hostage.

Shlomi himself described this as the remarkable Yad Hashem that he could only appreciate in retrospect. An experience that for years had represented one of the most painful chapters of his life had, without his realizing it, prepared him for an ordeal he could never have imagined. The trauma had not ceased to be painful, but he could now see something hidden within it: the tools he would one day need to survive. What had once seemed only a source of suffering had become, in his eyes, an extraordinary example of the hidden Yad Hashem guiding his life.

Resilience

The final impression that has remained with me is one that, in many respects, encompasses the previous two. If a sense of mission explains why people continue to serve, and Emunah explains how they understand the sacrifices they are called upon to make, resilience explains how they continue to shoulder those burdens each and every day.

There is a tendency to equate resilience with toughness. We imagine individuals who somehow become immune to pain, capable of absorbing hardship without being affected by it. That was not what we encountered. On the contrary, the people whom we met spoke openly about their fears, disappointments, exhaustion, and grief. They did not deny the emotional toll that the war has taken upon them, nor did they pretend that the sacrifices demanded of them had somehow become easier with time.

Their resilience lay elsewhere. It was found in their remarkable ability to continue despite those burdens.

One of the individuals who embodied that quality perhaps more than anyone else we encountered was Nattalie from Shtula. We spent an afternoon with Nattalie in a newly installed shaded seating area adjacent to the On the Border Café, directly across from the colorful mural painted along the concrete border wall. It is a beautiful little corner of a community that has endured an extraordinary amount.

More than two and a half years of Hezbollah bombardment damaged or destroyed approximately 64% of Shtula’s buildings, 80% of which have since been repaired over the past year. Just a ten-minute drive from the café brings visitors to a sharp bend in the road, the precise spot where, on July 12, 2006, Hezbollah terrorists killed and seized the bodies of Israeli reservists Ehud Goldwasser hy”d and Eldad Regev hy”d. Three other soldiers were killed in the attack, and five more IDF soldiers were killed shortly thereafter in a failed rescue attempt, events that triggered the Second Lebanon War. Today, Shtula is home to just 197 residents, with the nearest supermarket roughly a 25-minute drive away.

Originally from Argentina, Nattalie has lived in Eretz Yisroel for decades and has become one of the driving forces behind this small border community. Her energy is infectious, her optimism genuine, and her commitment to her community unwavering. After spending even a short amount of time with her, one almost instinctively understands why Shtula has endured.

She introduced us to another woman, the community manager of Shtula, who carries herself with the same remarkable passion, bravery, and determination. Both women echoed essentially the same message: Yes, it is difficult to live here. Yes, there are risks and hardships that most of us can scarcely imagine. But living here matters. This community matters. And we will carry on. No enemy will determine whether we remain in our homes or whether this community continues to exist. As I listened to them speak, I thought to myself, perhaps Hezbollah had simply underestimated the women of the North.

The lesson of resilience was perhaps illustrated most poignantly in a conversation I had with the commander of the military outpost we visited.

The Av HaBasis spoke candidly about one of the greatest challenges confronting reservists. Popular discussion often focuses on the transition from civilian life to the battlefield. Far less attention is paid to the reverse transition, which in many ways can be even more difficult.

One week a person is responsible for commanding soldiers under combat conditions. The next week he is expected to return home and resume the role of husband and father as though nothing has happened. He explained that these transitions are often extraordinarily difficult.

Then he shared a story. After returning home from an extended period of miluim, he was preparing to leave the house with one of his young sons. The child was moving slowly and, almost instinctively, he barked an order in the same commanding tone he had grown accustomed to using with the soldiers under his command. His son immediately burst into tears, ran back into the house, threw his arms around his mother, and cried, “אני רוצה שאבא יחזור לשדה.” “I want Abba to go back to the battlefield). He told me that hearing those words from his son was devastating. It was a painful reminder that returning home from the battlefield did not necessarily mean that the battlefield had left him. And yet, he continued to move forward. Resilience.

A Closing Thought

My final thought brings us back to Rav Barkai, of Yeshivat Hesder Kiryat Shmoneh. He noted that the Yeshiva is studying Maseches Sukkah and posed a simple question on one of its famous passages.

Citing the teaching of Chazal, “כל מי שלא ראה שמחת בית השואבה לא ראה שמחה מימיו” ,he asked:
Why Chazal emphasize one who did not see the Simchas Beis HaSho’eivah? Shouldn’t the emphasis be on one who did not participate in the simcha?

He answered that there existed a dimension of simchah that permeated the Beis HaMikdash itself. Merely witnessing it transformed a person. One did not have to dance. One did not have to sing. The joy itself radiated outward from the place where the Shechinah resides.

Perhaps that is the secret. Simply being present in Eretz Yisroel enables one to experience Emunah on a deeper level. Maybe that is what we were witnessing, something that cannot quite be replicated elsewhere. Certainly, circumstances played a role, but it seemed that, at the very least, there was an element of nature in addition to nurture.

I returned home strengthened in the knowledge that my people have an unwavering sense of mission, profound emunah, and extraordinary resilience. These were not qualities I had merely heard or read about; I had seen them firsthand, lived by ordinary people confronting extraordinary circumstances. אינו דומה שמיעה לראיה. I gained a renewed appreciation not only for the strength of Am Yisrael, but for the privilege of belonging to it.