You are a member of an eternal people,

A letter in their scroll.

Let their eternity live on in you.

Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, 2015

Our soldiers prevailed not by the strength of their weapons but by their sense of mission, by their consciousness of the justice of their cause, by a deep love of their country, and by their understanding of the heavy task laid upon them: to insure the existence of our people in their homeland.

Yitzhak Rabin, 1967

When a person doesn’t have gratitude, something is missing in his or her humanity.

Elie Wiesel, 2000

When evildoers approach me to devour my flesh; my tormentors and my foes against me—it is they who stumble and fall. Though an army would besiege me, my heart would not fear; though war would arise against me, in this I trust.

King David, Psalm 27:2–3

It didn’t start on the seventh of October and it didn’t end after. Every rocket, every attack, every name on the news tears another piece of normal life away from us.

Two documents tell the story of how Israel’s war in Gaza came to an end. They are written in different languages, for different audiences, and they describe two entirely different realities.

Courage, however, when fueled by anger, can turn inward, and anger, even when righteous, can cloud judgment.

When I woke up, it was 8:00 a.m. Nothing in the air hinted that in just a few moments, my life—and that of all of ours—was about to change completely and forever. I was pleased it wasn’t too late, and I suggested to my father that we go to the mikveh together on the way to synagogue. We were standing at the entrance to the house when I suddenly heard something. It was distant, and it sounded like a siren—but I wasn’t sure. Then my father said, with strange certainty, “It’s a real alert.” (Later we would discover that just 12 kilometers away, in the heart of Jerusalem, my late grandmother had said the exact same words—“A war has broken out”—to her aide, at that very moment).

The way he said it made me run upstairs to my home office, where WhatsApp Web was always open on the screen. I saw just one image—a white Toyota pick-up truck full of Hamas terrorists in the center of Sderot—and I understood everything, instantly. I didn’t need a second look. I rushed back downstairs, already stuffing items into my army duffel bag along the way. I leaned over to whisper in my wife’s ear so the kids wouldn’t wake: “Hey, Honey. Chag sameach. A war has started. I’m going down south to kill them all. I’ll be back, don’t worry.”

Naama jolted awake: “What?! Why would you say that? You’ll scare the kids!” But my head was already somewhere else. I muttered something like, “They need to know. This is a big war. But don’t worry—it’ll be okay. I have to go.” Now she was fully awake, and she and my father were rushing around, helping me pack things for the road. I grabbed my tefillin, cold water, some snacks, and quietly kissed the kids goodbye while calling A.

A is always two steps ahead of me—sharp and professional. A good friend, in life and in the army. He knew the commander of the Lotar unit well and suggested we join up with them.

At this point, only two things were crystal clear to me: In the strategic chaos that had just begun, big plans were pointless. We needed to move fast—get to the south (and the north) and eliminate every terrorist as quickly as possible. And I wanted to stick with A while doing it.

A answered right away, with his trademark sarcasm: “Where are you, Ansbacher? The war’s almost over. You’re gonna miss all the terrorists.”

I arrived at the unit; the base was fairly quiet. Vehicles started arriving, but it was clear that the surprise we had been caught in was perfect. I found A, gave him a short hug. “What’s up?” He smiled, “As usual, we’re going to save the country and all that. “

 I went to get ammunition, but the door to the storage area where it was kept was locked. An indifferent soldier was wandering there and said something like, “No permission to take ammunition,” and I almost pushed the soldier physically out of my way. It was exactly like a scene from 1973 again, I told myself. 

I grabbed a full crate of 5.56 ammunition and shoved it into my vehicle. Better safe than sorry. That ammo later served all the counterterrorism teams around us in the first days. I looked for a vest and a weapon, and the combat soldiers offered me to take, for now, the equipment of D, the unit’s Operations Officer, who was already down south. We were supposed to link up with him. My eyes sparkled when I saw the upgraded tactical vest loaded with magazines. The weapon was excellent too—a shortened M-4 with a new optical reflex sight. 

I muttered something about handing over the gear to him but vowed to myself not to give that equipment to anyone at that moment. I didn’t have grenades, nor did anyone else at that stage, and that was very troubling. We were promised they would arrive later. The unit commander was rightfully hurrying. He organized an improvised convoy of jeeps, armored vehicles, and civilian cars, and glanced inside our vehicle: “Okay,” he said after a brief look, “vehicle of characters, you’ll follow behind me, move out, shoot.”

We set off. The destination was basically south. It was clear that more information would come later. Counterterrorism combat soldiers had already been involved in serious firefights since the morning hours. One squad found itself in a confrontation in central Sderot, and another sniper team that reinforced the Nahal Oz outpost was awakened by the sound of automatic fire accompanying the infiltration of dozens of terrorists into the outpost and fought them at point-blank range. Both squads fought the battle of their lives while simultaneously reporting the events to the unit commander on WhatsApp. 

The commander decided to send one force toward Sderot and personally go to rescue the snipers from Nahal Oz. That’s how the day began. We arrived at the Sderot junction. We began to see things on the road. Many strange things. The horizon was full of smoke columns. Suddenly, we saw wrecked vehicles on the sides of the road. Every war has a “welcome to war” image, some kind of scene you see that suddenly plunges you into a new reality. It’s always sudden with no warning. In the Second Lebanon War, I remember passing by a burned Merkava tank. But in this war—it was a completely bullet-holed family car. Someone worked on it with a machine gun. We stopped, unloaded weapons quickly, looked inside. There was no one left to save. Inside my mind, there was an internal conflict because I know this is war and a major event, but my body still functioned as if it was an isolated terror incident. 

Then I looked up and saw the entire road filled with such vehicles. Like a kids’ room where the mom entered, accidentally stepped on a toy car, and in anger kicked it scattering all the cars everywhere. Not one vehicle was in a normal position, and certainly not in the center of the road. You start recognizing details—a baby stroller, Kalashnikov magazines, documents, clothes, bodies. On the road and inside vehicles. Also quite precise clusters of bullet holes near bodies, meaning shattered windows at close range. I also began recognizing various weaponry—RPGs and the like. The radio was on; the IDF spokesperson said there were 60 Israeli fatalities in the south. A said to me, “Nonsense. It won’t end with less than a thousand.”

“What?” I was shocked. “Why do you say that?” Instead of an answer, he just motioned toward the burning, smoking horizon. This is the south of the country, but different. This is the south like a Hollywood movie or a ridiculously well-made video game. 

Right next to the bus stop, on the road, lay a dead elderly police officer. His eyes were open. All his IDs and credit cards were scattered around, along with a family photo. The combat soldiers were mostly engaged in fighting and had no time or particular desire to deal with him. Suddenly I had a strange feeling, as if someone, or rather some force, was pushing me toward him. Instinctively, death repels you. You don’t want to get close, lest you catch it. You also don’t want to expose yourself and your memory to harsh sights. So I recoiled, but the force kept pushing. I believe that force was the entire nation. The people of Israel now and of all generations pushed me from behind and whispered in my ear: “Don’t worry, Yair, you are now a mitzvah-bearer. You are here at this moment and time, our envoy. Take care of his honor, he is one of us.” 

I bent down to him, gathered his belongings, placed them neatly on his chest, closed his eyes with my hand, and covered him with a piece of cloth. I prayed a brief improvised prayer for the elevation of his soul. I don’t remember what I said, only that I felt how strange it was. Here I am, at forty, in the independent State of Israel, forced to do the same mitzvot my grandfather Mordechai Ansbacher, of blessed memory, did when he was a boy in the concentration and extermination camps of the Holocaust. Unfortunately, that officer, may G-d avenge his blood, was only the first. Later, the young guys from the counterterrorism unit would call me every time they found a body, “Hello, Rabbi! Rabbi! Come here!” I wasn’t a Rabbi, not at all suited for this role, but I had a beard and tzitzit, and there, at that place and time, that was more than enough.

On the way south, we passed near a base. A white pickup truck tore through the fence and entered inside, and gunfire was heard from within the base. We hesitated for a moment – should we stop and deal with it or continue driving toward the kibbutzim? After a few moments of hesitation, we quickly dismounted from the vehicles and entered the base. The combat soldiers gathered near a two-story command building. A asked me to place the drone in a convenient spot for takeoff and signaled me to do so in the middle of an open kill zone a few meters away. I was already familiar with the routine. This wasn’t the first or second time. I ran toward that spot hoping not to get shot and laid the drone on the ground, unfolded and ready for takeoff. A soldier standing on the second floor of the building shouted something like, “Hey! Watch out, they’re shooting at you!” and I, still in “cheer everyone up” mode, said something like, “They’ve been shooting at me for two thousand years.”

 Honestly, I felt like an older brother to these young guys. I remembered well the feeling of being a young soldier in the Second Lebanon War, and how good and important it felt back then to know we had experienced reservists with us. This time, that was my role. We stood near the building’s wall, and A activated the drone, which began buzzing above us. At one point, I saw a very senior officer whom I had met before. He looked completely stunned, wandering around like an ordinary soldier with no clear purpose or objective. I gave him a Chinese-made enemy radio I found on the ground and told him to pass it to the 504 unit. He nodded but wasn’t really functioning. Suddenly, a wounded guy appeared shirtless; his hand was bandaged improvisationally and bleeding. A few moments later, a female soldier in a similar condition showed up. I think I, together with another fighter, helped cover her.

Suddenly, a grenade rolled toward us. Someone shouted “grenade,” and everyone quickly moved back under pressure. A and I took a symbolic step backward. There was indeed an explosion—not a particularly big one. Grenades made in Gaza. We both smiled at each other and continued on. That was the terrorist’s last act. Now, thanks to A’s drone, we knew exactly where he was. On the ground near us lay two dead terrorists—Kalashnikovs and full combat vests still with them. After the third one was eliminated, it became clear that we had to move on. With us were guys from the General Staff’s Negotiation Unit, excellent people and good friends. They went down to the lower floor of one of the buildings that housed an observation command post that had been attacked and eliminated the terrorists remaining there. There, they also found several female soldiers who had been killed by the terrorists.

We collected the terrorists’ weapons, disassembled them, and headed back to the vehicles. 

Later, we watched footage from the GoPro cameras recovered from the dead terrorists. One thing stood out very clearly. The moment they encountered IDF fire, they scattered and became disoriented. All the members of the squad—about ten terrorists—kept calling out the name of their commander, over and over again, waiting for his direction to know what to do next. Their ability to show flexibility and adapt to what happened once the original mission went off course was virtually nonexistent. Right up until the bitter end—the moment a precise shot rang out, and the GoPro camera (along with the head it was strapped to) dropped to the ground. 

This is likely what happened to Nasrallah as well. He awoke to a new day in which everything he had known was no longer relevant. Instead of quickly adapting to the new circumstances, he froze—and lost everything.

Excerpted from Dr. Yair Ansbacher’s Like a Lion, He Shall Rise: The War We Failed to Foresee, the Devastating Price We Paid, and the Miracles That Saved Us.

Weapons are to defend life, not to destroy it recklessly. It is not just a code. It is part of our Jewish identity. We are taught to sanctify life even when surrounded by enemies who glorify death.

As part of my training, my commanders and the army itself stressed the importance of being a good person: it was a priority.

I hereby give testimony,
To things I’ve done

To thoughts I’ve thought,
And songs unsung

Hate resides in my heart,
But not in my action

Been touched by desire,
And fell for distraction

Who among us is pure?
In deed and deeper?

Not the warmonger,
Nor the peacekeeper

And I’ve seen too much,
Jaded my core

And felt not enough,
So I embellished the score

My punishment’s been harsh,
Realigned my path

That’s the blessing,
To see through the wrath

I take refuge in Truth,
In the firing line of libel

Still, I demand justice,
While I swear over the Bible

At least I’m honest,
Recognizing my faults

Only to be used as their ammo,
Then accused of assault

For the words I’ve used,
And the Hope I hope

A cartridge of adjectives,
Against an ancient trope

If that deems me guilty,
Guilty I am

But not silent or weak,
Nor a sacrificial lamb

We will never return to the innocence of October 6—but we can still choose to show up for one another. Only we can safeguard our children’s future.

Two years since Hamas launched the largest ever terrorist attack against Israel, the war has yet to end.

It is impossible to describe the cruelty of an enemy that hides behind the innocent, using women and children as shields. Each time, my heart broke, but my determination grew stronger.

On October 7, I was supposed to go to the Nova festival. I had a ticket from a friend who worked there at the bar. I had some friends who went there, but I decided not to go because my father wanted me to stay for Sim’chat Torah in the morning.

I have a few unusual marks on myself. These can seem to be from a variety of situations—but their actual history is a short honest-to-God war story about self-sacrifice that gives me the knowledge that there is a God and that He does care about us.