When my daughter told me, in the spring of 2022, that she was planning to join the Israel Defense Forces as a lone soldier, I was very proud, a little nervous, and not at all surprised. Tal had been talking about this since she was 15. When she informed me that she wanted to be a combat soldier, the first thing I heard was my grandmother’s voice in my head – “A soldier, meile, but combat, noch?” – and my anxiety level dialed up a bit. Still, I accepted Tal’s decision, giving myself a little pat on the back in the process. What a brave mother I was, allowing my child to draft into a combat unit. And what a good Zionist. All our visits to Israel, all the day-school tuition and summer camps, had reinforced one of our most fundamental values. Our child was making aliyah.
In the last few weeks, though, I’ve asked myself: If I had known this war would break out, would I have tried to talk her into taking a safer, non-combat job? Or delaying her enlistment by a year? I wish I could say that I pondered this question, but honestly, there was nothing to ponder. The answer is yes, of course. I would have begged her to choose a different unit, would have played every card in my hand – including the guilt card – to convince her to change her mind. Having a child in a combat unit during wartime is every mother’s nightmare. Knowing that your child is carrying a gun is disturbing enough in peacetime, but knowing that your child may have to use that gun to save her own life is chilling.
Just as I know that I would have pressured her to stay out of combat, I also know it wouldn’t have made any difference. And now, even if leaving the army were an option, she would choose to stay. She is doing exactly what she signed on for. Like every other soldier in the IDF, she took an oath to fight for Israel, even if it meant sacrificing her life. She believes with all her heart that this is what she is meant to be doing. When we talk on the phone, I listen for overtones of fear or regret. I don’t hear any.
Going down the road of faith
But how is that possible? How can she be sleeping in a bunker surrounded by rockets and not be scared? After many sleepless nights and many conversations with other parents of lone soldiers, I’ve realized that when we look to the future, two roads stretch out before us. We can go down the road of fear, of worst-case scenarios, of haunting images that freeze us in our tracks, or we can go down the road of faith – in our children, in Israel, and in God.
Is it magical thinking? Perhaps. But it is what allows us to get through the day, and, even more important, allows our children to do what they have to do. The Torah teaches us to choose life: “U’vacharta ba-chayim.”
If Israeli soldiers allowed themselves to go down the darker road, they would lose their way. Instead, they follow the light. They focus on their love for the Jewish homeland and the Jewish people, on the holiness of their mission, and their eyes shimmer. They are part of something greater than themselves, and they know it.
I, too, am learning to focus on the light. I have had friends come up to me and wrap their arms around me. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” they say. “You must not sleep at night.”
And yes, there are a lot of sleepless nights and plenty of tears. But most nights, I do sleep, because what Tal needs right now is a strong mother. If my daughter’s job is to dive into the deep waters, my job is to be a buoy. Being the strong one doesn’t come naturally to me, but I am getting better with practice. I am choosing the road of hope, and I’m trying my hardest – for myself, my husband, my children, and all the Jewish soldiers on the frontlines – not to veer off-course. I am digging deep inside myself and finding courage I never knew I had.
I am choosing life.
The writer is a poet and Hebrew-English literary translator. Her work has been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Midwest Quarterly, Passengers, Poetica Magazine, Zeek Magazine, and The Jewish Literary Journal.