I use a lot of sources to keep up to date on the news. Unlike the days of Walter Cronkite on CBS news, there is no single trusted source in today’s media. One of the people that I read is Danny Gordis. His “Israel from the Inside” substack posts are filled with a great deal of facts, stories, opinions, and thoughtful pieces. Today’s post was extremely powerful and hit me deeply, bringing tears to my eyes. Having been to Israel 3 times last year (May, July, and September), and working with many different organizations in Israel with daily contact with Israeli’s, it hit home. It’s what I have seen, heard and felt. While on a zoom with one of my partners last week, she let us know that she may have to leave in a few minutes because she got the “10 minute alert” that the Houthi’s had fired a ballistic missile at Israel. Sure enough, a few minutes later she said, “I have to go” and off she went to her safe room. The rest of us stayed and talked until she returned a few minutes later.

I urge you to read this story from Danny Gordis’s “Israel from the Inside”. It is an English translation of a Facebook Post (in Hebrew)from yesterday. And if you subscribe (paid or free), you won’t regret it.

I died on the 120th day of the war, but I didn’t tell anyone

I was killed on the 120th day of the war, but I didn’t tell anyone. The battles were raging and I didn’t want to hurt the guys’ morale. At the end of the month, I got leave.

My wife Talia picked me up from the train and hugged me tight, as if she were drowning in a frozen sea and I was a wooden door. So of course I didn’t tell her I was dead; everything had already fallen on her shoulders these past months. The moment I entered the apartment, Romi, my four-year-old daughter, came running from the neighbors, jumped on me and refused to let go—so I didn’t tell her either that Daddy was dead. Why break her heart?

After Romi fell asleep, Talia waited for me in bed with white wine. “I missed you,” she wrapped her warm thighs around my cold body. We made love. Not because I wanted to (the dead don’t need sex), but just to make her happy. It didn’t work; she stayed distant (or was it me?), and when she asked what I’d been through—I stayed silent (no reason to bring horrors into bed).

A few days later I went back to the battlefield, and two weeks after that I saved five soldiers from death.
“You’ve got balls of steel!” the battalion commander slapped my back. I wanted to say I was dead, so I hadn’t really risked anything, but since my actions had revived the unit’s spirit, which still hadn’t recovered from the death of Gilad the platoon commander, I replied, “Thank you, sir.”

At some point I was sent home, back to “normal life,” but between me and it stood a transparent, impassable border, behind which I watched them like a fish in an aquarium. And the world that once excited me—turned faded; work at the computer store no longer interested me, nor did poker games with friends, and at home, with Talia and Romi, I felt like an invading germ.

Until… One Saturday, Romi fell in the living room. “Daddyyyy!” she cried and I froze, hypnotized by the sight of blood trickling down her forehead, the clear tears dripping from her eyes, the yellowish urine that escaped her, and I thought about how many shades of fluid are in the human body, and remembered Sergei and the bullet he took to the head. That night, after we got back from the ER, Talia said I had to get help, that she couldn’t reach me, that she was out of strength. But all I heard was blah-blah from someone who doesn’t understand how the world works and how bloody and stinking and monstrous it is.
Better she doesn’t know. Let her put on an avocado mask and go to sleep.

But she kept nagging, so I went to the living room and stared at the sidewalk, seven floors down, and wanted to jump, because I felt like a foreign body that life had rejected. The window wouldn’t open. Turns out the frame was bent by a rocket that fell nearby. So I gave up and went to bed.

The next day, Assi, who’d been with me in high school and in the unit, came into the store. Since it was already noon, we went to the hummus place, gossiping about Victor who learned to jump with his new leg, about Barry who got a better hand than the one he lost, and about Udi who finally proposed.
At some point, there was silence and I asked if Talia had asked him to come talk to me. Assi nodded, because there’s no bullshit between us.

“So why is she worried?” he asked.
“It’s hard for her to accept that I’m dead,” I answered honestly, because I no longer had the strength to hide it.
Assi wasn’t fazed and speared a pickle from the plate. “Remember when you died?”
“The day Sergei was shot.”
“Mmm… half a year.” He bit into the pickle. “And what’s the hardest part about being dead?”
“That I don’t feel anything.”
“Really?” He looked at me, picked up a fork and stabbed my hand.
“Ow!” I jumped, “Are you nuts?!”
“Turns out there are some things you do feel,” he grinned, like a kid who just egged the principal.
I glared at him. Really? Seriously?! That’s your reaction to my death?! Seven years of psychology studies for this?! I got so angry I threw an olive at his eye.
“You son of a—” he flung pita at me.
So I threw a shish kebab at him.
A wave of stupid laughter took over and we kept pelting each other with fries and falafel until the owner lost it and kicked us out.

“What if…” Assi wondered as we walked back to the store, “it’s not that you don’t feel, but that… you’re afraid to feel?”
“Afraid to feel what?” I asked, and immediately thought of Ortal, Sergei’s wife, who after years of fertility treatments finally got pregnant, and how he came back from leave beaming and showed us the ultrasound of the boy. “Check out this mega-penis! Just like his dad!!!”

48 hours later, he took a sniper’s bullet. A bullet that wasn’t even meant for him. I was supposed to go to the window, but I was breaking a record on a dusty Game Boy I’d found, so I asked him to go instead and… I started to cry, because he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t.

“Now I know you’re alive,” Assi said, “Know why?”
“Why?”
“Because dead men don’t cry.”

He put a comforting hand on me and suddenly there was wild gunfire, fighter jets tearing through the sky, which stank of smoke, of decay, someone cried “Yama! Yama!!” Or maybe it was “Mama! Mama!!” And my hands searched for a weapon, but I was in civilian clothes, in the middle of Bialik Boulevard—

“I’m losing my mind,” I told Assi.
“You’re not, bro! You’re feeling, don’t run from it, don’t run!” And he hugged me tight and didn’t let me fall.

That evening I went to Talia, who was folding clothes, and said I wanted, like before, to read Romi a bedtime story. “Not sure that’s a good idea,” she refused to look at me. So I pinched her butt, like we used to do to annoy each other when we were dating. It surprised her, even confused her.

“Assi came to visit me at the store,” I said.
“And…” she glanced at me.
“He stabbed me with a fork.”
“Too bad it wasn’t a pitchfork,” she looked at me for a few seconds and must have seen something that changed her mind, because she picked up a book from the couch and handed it to me.

I read Romi a story about a turtle who wanted to be a butterfly, and the night lamp painted colorful animals on the walls. She fell asleep before the end, where the turtle, drawn in black and white the whole book, suddenly glowed with colors. And even though it was a predictable and silly ending, I teared up, and stroked her tiny, sweet fingers, moving with the rhythm of her dreams, and I couldn’t understand how in the same world horror and love could live side by side.

And I thought of Sergei, of his wife, of the baby in her belly, of corpses and kisses, screams and butterflies, and everything inside me stormed and raged and cried… and I didn’t run from it… I didn’t run. I didn’t run.

I know far too many people like this brave man. Far too many Israeli friends that have been through hell and back since October 7th. Rami Davidian, the farmer who saved 750 people from the Nova Festival on October 7th – the look in his eyes as he told us how he untied dead women from the trees he was looking at, their bodies abused, to give them dignity, is something I will never forget.

I have heard stories from my friend Yaron about October 7th, the first four months of the war in Gaza, and the most recent hostage release during the last ceasefire, that I will never forget. There are more that he cannot share. My friend Tal goes back into reserves in what seems like every other week. I’ve been to army bases, had barbecues with IDF soldiers and families from Kibbutz Alumim. Hearing the members of Kibbutz Alumim who fought the terrorists on October 7th is something I will never forget. As one member pointed out the 3 places he was shot that day, the places where bullets still remain in his body, I often wonder how, or if, they will ever recover.

Then I think about the work Dror Israel is doing with children and families in Israel. I think about Hapoel Jerusalem Football Club and the work they are doing with Trauma Soccer and their neighborhood leagues which get Jewish and Arab children in Jerusalem to play and learn together. I think about Hersh Goldberg-Polin (z’l), one of the leaders of their fan club and how much a future of peace and healing mattered to him. I think about Israel Volunteer Corp-Sword of Iron, mobilizing a community of over 44,000 people who want to volunteer in Israel to help rebuild both the physical and emotional state of the country. I think about what I do and what else I could do, to make a difference.

The Jewish people and the citizens of Israel have a long road ahead of us – first to win this war against evil and get the hostages back, and secondly to recover from what we have seen and what we face on a daily basis. It won’t be easy but we can do it together.

My question to you is what will you do? Will you be like Talia and Assi and do the difficult thing to help? Will you stand by while the author of that piece and so many others suffer in silence? Will you shake your head in sadness at the murder of ​Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim as they left a Jewish communal event or at the firebombing in Boulder during a peaceful march to have the hostages in Gaza returned or will you take action and do your part.

History is waiting to be written – the question is what will your role be. I hope that the writer of the piece in Danny Gordis’ “Israel from the Inside” inspires you to take action. I know it inspired me to do more.