By Leah Garber
“A voice called, and I went”
– Hannah Senesh
The days grow shorter, the nights turn colder, autumn hangs in the air. Migrating birds paint the azure skies, calling us to escape on their wings, tempting us to wander in their wake towards a promise of tranquility. The first buds of winter’s bloom adorn the fields. A soft melody of autumn rides upon the cool northern breeze. Delicate feather clouds brush away summer dust.
If only, if only this were truly the face of the Israeli autumn between Yom Kippur and Sukkot. How we long to simply soar on birds’ wings, to revel in winter’s blossoming, to savor a cool breeze and dream of better days.
But not yet. Even after 375 days of grueling war exacting unbearable tolls, the calm after the storm remains distant.
On the eve of Sukkot, the sole holiday during which we are directed to rejoice—”the Lord, your God, will bless you in all your produce, and in all the work of your hands, and you will only be happy.” (Deuteronomy 16:15)—it will be harder than ever to truly rejoice. Pure joy without shadows of grief, like smudges on a dirty lens, blurring and dimming our happiness, is a luxury we don’t have.
On Yom Kippur eve, the holiest day of the year, as shops closed, public transport ceased, the airport fell silent, media outlets hushed, and city streets emptied, Israeli citizens gathered in their homes, preparing for the holiday. But on one street in the community of Yakir, a military vehicle bore officers tasked with the most heart-wrenching duty. Shattering the holiday’s silence, they knocked on the Fogel family’s door with downcast eyes and heavy hearts. The parents of Itai, the eldest son in the family, already understood. On the eve of the holy day, their lives crumbled as they learned that their 22-year-old son, Sergeant Itai Fogel, had been killed in action in the southern Gaza Strip.
Grief is no stranger to the Fogels. A month and a half ago, Itai’s cousin, Elkana Navon, was killed in operational activity in Jenin.
At Itai’s funeral, his grandfather, Colonel (Ret.) Avri Navon, eulogized him this way:
“As a grandfather who lost two grandsons in 42 days defending the state—both of you running first before everyone—I promise you, Itai, and Elkana too, that I will be strong to protect and support your parents… Itai, when the army didn’t enlist you as a combat soldier, to fight against Hamas, you were so angry, wondering how your grandfather (an army general) who helps everyone else, couldn’t help his own grandson. You demanded I arrange a tank for you to enter Gaza… I salute you, my dear and beloved grandson.”
There’s something perverse in a reality where a grandfather buries two grandsons who insisted on serving, fighting, contributing to the country, while knowing they risked their lives.
On Sunday evening, mere hours after Itai was laid to rest, a deadly drone struck a training base in central Israel, killing four soldiers and wounding more than 50. It was the attack with the highest number of casualties since October 7. Sergeants Alon Amitay, Yoav Agmon, Omri Tamari, and Yosef Hieb, all Golani Brigade infantry trainees, were killed in the deadly attack, while eating dinner in the dining hall.
Every Israeli is familiar with the exhilaration that precedes military conscription. The preparations, the anticipation, the tension related to unit assignments, and the ultimate desire to serve one’s nation—particularly poignant this year—are all part of this quintessential experience.
This is how these four felt just a few months ago, as they bid farewell to their parents at the army’s reception and sorting base. Donning Israel Defense Forces uniforms for the first time, these young men were realizing a long-cherished dream. As they acclimated to their desired title of “soldier,” little did they know that all too soon, they would be adorned with a new, heart-rending title: “fallen soldiers of the IDF.”
Avraham Tamari, Omri Tamari’s grandfather, has been intimately familiar with loss since childhood. At the age of 5, he was robbed of his father during the 1948 War of Independence. Two decades later, fate’s cruel hand struck again, claiming his brother in a military operation. Now, it has taken his beloved grandson, Omri, a sensitive soul who found purpose in volunteering with children with special needs. At age 81, this Israeli patriarch has endured the unfathomable: the loss of three generations, the burial of three cherished family members. It is a stark, unbearable reality that speaks to the painful Israeli experience.
A week ago, we commemorated the anniversary of October 7. At the poignant ceremony for the victims’ families and hostages, Yonatan Shamriz—who lost his brother, Alon, who was kidnapped to Gaza and tragically killed by friendly fire—delivered a stirring address. Among his words, Yonatan said: “A year ago, the most beautiful place in the world turned into hell. Sixty-four members of kibbutz Kfar Aza were murdered on that accursed day, including my dearest friends. Nineteen kibbutz members were kidnapped, among them my beloved younger brother, Alon.”
He continued: “From this inferno, a new generation has risen, one that believes in us, in a just and united Israeli society. A generation that believes in the Israeli spirit, that will rebuild from the ruins and create a better, more virtuous nation. A country that pursues truth, sanctifies it, and never lets it go. A nation built on mutual responsibility, where we do everything for our friends, everything to bring back the 101 hostages in Hamas tunnels. A country where we’ll be proud to raise our children.”
These young people are Israel’s pride. Until October 6, they were considered pampered, self-absorbed TikTokers, yet overnight they transformed into a generation of lions—brave, determined, brimming with love for their people and homeland. They are better and more devoted than any leaders or politicians. They left behind political disagreements to fight side by side with Jews, Muslims, Druze, and Christians, religious and secular, native born and new immigrants, who left worried families overseas, each a human being in every fiber of their being, who gave us everything until there was nothing left to give but hope.
Concluding his speech with a voice broken by tears, Yonatan Shamriz addressed his late brother: “Alon, my heroic brother. Thank you for showing us the way, for setting the standards. We won’t rest until we make things right. We are the generation that will rise from the ruins and establish the new Zionist vision. Rise up, Israel. Am Israel Chai.”
Last night, I attended a remarkable event at which renowned Israeli musician Gilad Segev, the brainchild behind Passerby, who through his holy work, “Project Heroes,” shared songs and stories, telling 38 tales of supreme heroism from that black Shabbat of October 7, and the subsequent days of combat. Thirty-eight chilling stories, featuring young men and women—Jews, Druze, and Arabs, soldiers and civilians—all residents of this land who chose to risk their lives to save others.
Their mission was fulfilled; they indeed saved many, but at the cost of their own lives. The hall last night was filled with the families of these heroes, bereaved families whose loved ones’ stories of bravery will not bring them back but offer some comfort nonetheless.
Among the heroes was Corporal Matan Abargil, who fought valiantly alongside his comrades against terrorists while defending Kibbutz Nir Am. When the Hamas terrorists threw a grenade into Matan’s armored vehicle, he leapt onto it to save others. Severely wounded, his last words were, “I tried to protect all of us and all of Israel.” Moments later, he succumbed to his injuries. The other soldiers were saved thanks to Matan’s heroism. Segev’s poignant storytelling paints a vivid picture of the raw courage displayed in the face of unimaginable terror. Matan’s final words resonate with a profound sense of duty and love for his nation, echoing the sentiment of so many others who found themselves thrust into extraordinary circumstances during the last year.
This year Sukkot will be different. It will emphasize the gap between Sukkot of 2023—when life was still what it should be—and the aftermath. The 1,200 victims of October 7 were celebrating the holiday, the last they would ever celebrate, unaware that the next day they would fall prey to the cruelest massacre the state has ever known.
Hundreds of IDF soldiers who have fallen since then spent Sukkot of 2023 with loving family and friends, not knowing those would be their last embraces. The 101 hostages never imagined that within days, they would transition from paradise to hell on earth, abandoned for over a year. We all believed we were safe and protected within our borders.
This year, as we sit in our sukkot and gaze through their branched roofs at the twinkling stars, we’ll find among them angels’ tears—shed by the finest men and women of this land; heroes, who in their final acts of bravery, have redefined and reinforced the vision of the Jewish state. Their actions have etched a new chapter in the annals of our national ethos, one that speaks to unity in the face of adversity. This generation embodies not only a willingness for self-sacrifice for Israel’s future but also a renewed, purer vision for a better tomorrow, a tomorrow toward which they will pave the path. They are the reason we must continue to believe that, in the end, the longed-for calm after the storm will arrive.
Autumn birds, carry on your wings our prayers for peace, our gratitude to our heroes, and our hopes for the safe and immediate return of all the hostages.
Chag sameach.
Together, united, we will overcome.
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