I Will Never Forget

Betsalel Steinhart, Director, Ramah Israel Institute

I have been an educator and tour guide for my entire professional career. I have taught thousands of North American Jewish teens. In my history class, I teach students that the Yom Kippur War of 1973 will be forever remembered. How many times had I wondered what it was like to feel fear at the moment of extreme calm? Hundreds of times, I've relayed the notorious stories of reservists being pulled from their homes, leaving their families behind to serve their country.

Never did I think that I would experience the same feeling. On the morning of October 7, 2023, Simchat Torah, I was in the synagogue with my family when we heard the sirens and the booms that followed. We took cover in the miklat (safe shelter) twice. I had that familiar feeling that another ‘round’ of Hamas–Israel had just started, thinking that it would probably be a few more days of sirens and then back to normal. How wrong I was.

My son Matan, seven months in the IDF and nearing the end of his basic training in the Golani Brigade, was about to get called up to the Torah. I suggested to Matan that I go home and get his phone, despite the fact that we do not use our phones on Shabbat—and after enough persuasion, he agreed. After getting called to the Torah, he would go. Just before he began his bracha, two soldiers—from his unit—came in. He gave them one look and pulled me with him. He hugged his mother and brothers, and we raced home. I packed his bag, I gave him a bracha, and he was off in a car with his friends doing 100 miles an hour to get to his base. Yom Kippur 1973, all over again.

Matan receiving his beret from his commander

Matan returned to his unit and completed his training by participating in the masa kumta (beret trek). IDF soldiers endure long and intense training to prepare them for any scenario they may face. For those in a combat role, this unique trek marks the end of their training and the beginning of their service as IDF fighters. A special ceremony is held, and the soldiers' families are invited. October of 2023 changed all of that. No parents or families were invited. I served as a Golani combat soldier myself and had long awaited seeing my son participate in this special milestone. I had no opportunity to put that beret on my son’s head. Instead, a small ceremony was held. Matan was named “chayal mitztayen” (outstanding soldier), and his commander had the honor of placing the beret upon him in my place.

As of this writing, Matan has not yet come home. We were able to visit him on his makeshift base and reveled in the pictures of his beret trek ceremony.

These are historically bad times. We are tired, drained, and heartbroken, yet strong, determined, motivated, willing to do anything it takes, united, and very passionate.

I tried to get called up myself, but after repeated efforts, I was told by my officer that “our time has passed, the younger generation are fighting this fight, help in other ways.” Like so many, I took that literally, and my life has since become a whirlwind of action and emotions—driving to the airport to pick up much-needed equipment (instead of picking up tour groups like I am used to), delivering supplies to army bases together with Ramah Israel staff, tying thousands of olive green dri-fit shirts with tzitzit for soldiers to wear, going to funerals and shiva houses, working to bring the hostages home in any way possible, and above all trying to inspire my family with the most precious of gifts—the gift of hope in the face of pure, unadulterated evil.

I will never forget the Shabbat morning of October 7.