Heroes in the Forest

It was sunset on an August night, in a forest just a minute’s drive from the gate to Gaza. Gathered between the trees were about 150 combat soldiers; each with eyes that told a story of pain, love, faith—and most of all—determination.

They had just returned from a week of battling terrorists in Central Gaza, and were preparing for a new monumental mission to begin later that night. The break was for just a few hours—they weren’t even heading back to an established base or outpost. Instead, their bags lay between the anthills on the forest ground, and a couple woven mats were spread out for any tired warriors in need of a nap. Family and local volunteer groups hurried over to bring them homemade food, portable showers, and even a mobile laundromat for their well-worn uniforms.

The young reservists barely noticed any of it. Their heads were still deep in battle. They huddled in groups to talk, or sat still on the ground, staring ahead. A quorum soon gathered for evening prayers, and eventually, some others stood in a circle for a game to break the tension.

I had come with my husband and kids, and our good friend Alice from Chamal Gederot. One of the units in the forest needed a custom $22,000 surveillance system for the upcoming mission, and we brought it for them, sponsored by my amazing readers and friends.

The system is put together by Alice and other volunteer engineers, is approved by the IDF, and allows troops to recognize faces as far as 6 kilometers (3.7 miles) in daylight, and 1.8 kilometers (1.1 miles) in pitch dark. It’s lifesaving for our soldiers, and has already assisted in multiple hostage rescue missions.

The guys were thrilled we brought it, and quickly gathered around to pose for a photo. My little son has learned that at any army base there’s a 90% chance of him being lifted into the air by an adoring soldier, and this time he found himself sitting on one of their shoulders, as they all cheered for the camera.

After going over the surveillance system specs and how-to, we broke into conversation about the past ten months. “Every day is another story,” commented the team commander. “But the craziest one you need to hear from these two guys.”

He was pointing at two soldiers in knitted kippas and small beards. Both were wearing their military t-shirts, but Emmanuel, with his wide grin and round glasses, still had his rifle strung over his side. Moshe’s uniform looked impossibly neat and clean for the circumstances, but his face said that he’d been through it all. The two spoke like an old couple; filling in each other’s sentences, and teasing each other over bits of their story.

“We had set up a makeshift base, on what would soon become the Netzarim Corridor,” Emmanuel said. “I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the 27th of Kislev. We spent Shabbat on that base. An entire Shabbat, oblivious.”

It was the beginning of December, fairly early on in the war, at the height of the battles on ground. The soldiers stopped in a strategic area, and used bulldozers to build four walls out of six foot high mounds of dirt. In between the mounds, they pitched their tents, and set up camp for 80. For now, their mission was to hold ground.

“We were relaxed,” Emmanuel continued. “We even sang the Shabbat songs loudly, and learned the Torah portion together. The meals may have been canned tuna and crackers, but we had a great Shabbat.”

Shabbat ended, it was pitch dark, and most of the soldiers were asleep, when the commander got a phone call. He picked up, listened, and his face went pale. In whispers, he commanded his troops, “evacuate immediately!”

Five minutes later, the troops had quickly but silently moved to outside of the mounds, and the commander explained the urgency. IDF intelligence had learned that there was a Hamas tunnel right underneath the soldiers, with an exit shaft hiding in the center of the camp. The terrorists had been spying on the soldiers all Shabbat, and were preparing a surprise attack.

It was 3:00 a.m. Four soldiers were chosen to set up a reverse ambush—among them was Emmanuel and Moshe. They quietly climbed to the top of the dirt mounds, each facing a different direction, watching the grounds where they had been sleeping moments before, and waited.

But it was pitch dark, and the unit only had one pair of night vision goggles. And that one pair didn’t have a helmet clip.

“Moshe held the thing up to his eyes, by hand, for over an hour,” Emmanuel said, while giving him a hearty pat. “The rest of us couldn’t see a thing. We jumped up in shock when he started shooting into the dark night.”

“I saw a man climb out of the ground,” Moshe explained. “I had to quickly drop the goggles to pick up my gun and shoot, hoping I got him. When I looked again, I saw a body falling back into what must have been the tunnel. Then I saw that he had left a large bomb on the ground. Just ten meters away from us.”

Moshe barely had a second to explain to his friends what he saw. Suddenly they heard a shout of “Alahu Akhbar!” and all at once, the night sky lit up, and a powerful explosion broke through the air.

“In that moment,” says Emmanuel, “I felt an angel of G-d holding the fire back. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like the angel made the fire and shrapnel stop right at our feet.”

The campsite was completely destroyed. Several stray cats lay dead, strewn across the ground. Everything, right up to the boots of our soldiers where they stood atop the dirt mounds, was hit.

Usually, during a blast, those nearby are told to lay low—because the shrapnel shoots upwards. But our high up soldiers were left without a scratch.

“So many miracles came together to save us,” Emmanuel started.

“Some seem natural, and some were a clear hand of G-d,” Moshe continued. “But we know that G-d has been at our side this entire time. He’s coming with us tonight, too.”

As my husband and I continued chatting with the duo, I overheard my kids behind me, talking with a soldier in Canadian English. I turned around to see a very tall special forces commander, commiserating with my kids about growing up with immigrant parents.

“I hear you like stories,” he said to me. “You need to meet my guys. Especially Ehud. But I warn you; he’s something else.”

Ehud isn’t actually his name. But this small special forces unit needs to be extremely cautious about their identities, so I’m going to give them all new names for now. The unit of twelve is made up of reservists, all of whom are already exempt from duty for various reasons, but chose to show up anyway. We’ll call the commander Yoav.

We found Ehud at the edge of the forest encampment, standing alone with Motti. Like Yoav, the two stood with perfect posture, and a prepared stance—but in such a natural way that they also came across as relaxed.

Motti grew up in a Chassidic home, and is a father of three.

“The third was born at the beginning of the war,” he told me. “I missed his birth. Our unit was one of the first to enter Gaza, and no one was able to contact us until four days later. I made it home right in time for his bris.”

“Oh wow,” I didn’t know what to say. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. How often to you get to see him now?”

Motti’s eyes grew fiery, “us fighters gave up everything,” he said. “We gave our whole lives and spirit to fighting for Israel. I go home sometimes, but many of my friends can’t anymore. They are sent home—but they can no longer connect with that life, so they come right back. There is nothing left to us but winning this war.”

Yoav quipped, “Ehud came back here with three fractured ribs.”

I looked at Ehud in shock. Never mind the running and fighting—a packed IDF ceramic vest weighs around 70 lbs, and they don’t get to take it off, at all, for days on end. That on top of broken ribs?!

“Meh, it holds me together,” Ehud responded to my bewilderment, and began to tell us his story.

Ehud lives in Ashdod. On the morning of October 7th, as soon as he heard about the terrorist infiltration, he grabbed what he had: a small handgun and a sword.

“A sword?!” I interrupted.

“In case he ran out of bullets,” Yoav explained. “There’s not much in a handgun.”

I listened in awe as Ehud continued. No one brings a sword to a gun battle unless they plan to fight until their last breath. Ehud sped towards the fire knowing that might be his case. He battled terrorists in Kfar Aza and Kibbutz Mefalsim for 24 hours straight. Thankfully he was given a loaded IDF riffle before it was too late. In the morning, he called to check on his mother. She was ok, but scared, and out of food.

Ehud couldn’t let his mother go hungry, and he wanted to comfort her. So instead of taking a break from the fighting for some sleep, he drove up to Ashdod, and brought her groceries.

“On my way back,” he told me. “I stopped for gas, just outside Ashdod. There were a few civilians there, but no other soldiers or police. I was filling my car, when out of nowhere, four armed Hamas terrorists appeared.”

Ehud fought and eliminated the four terrorists entirely on his own, averting another massacre. It was a miracle that he had been at the gas station in that moment, but the moment didn’t allow him time to pause or appreciate it. He checked that everyone was unharmed, and then sped back to the frontlines to continue fighting—and couldn’t stop.

“You saw stuff,” I said.

“Yeah,” he nodded. There was a silent understanding that the events of those first two days are carved into his mind’s eye so sharply that it pains him to rest.

“He kept going until about six weeks ago,” said Yoav. “We were in an intense battle, and an RPG hit him, right in the chest. His heavily-packed vest absorbed the shock, but he broke some ribs. Still kept fighting.”

Immediately after the hit, the team medic gave Ehud a shot of narcotics. It was meant to help him with the pain until he could reach an evacuation point, but instead he kept going.

“About three days later, I realized something was wrong,” Ehud recalled. “So I left Gaza and went to the hospital.”

Ehud was hospitalized for three weeks, before he couldn’t take it anymore, and went right back to his team.

“Broken ribs don’t heal that fast,” I noted. “Does it still hurt?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s not what matters now.”

Motti chimed back in. “We have nothing to go home to, until we win this war. It’s our entire existence. We can’t let this ever happen again.”

“Do you see that you’re winning?” I asked.

“We see the progress,” Ehud answered. “We see how they’ve lost control, and how much easier it is for us to enter and battle on their territory now. They know they can’t smuggle in any more weapons. We’re seeing results.”

“Do you see the light at the end of the tunnel?”

“No, not yet,” said Motti. “We need to keep fighting for that.”

It crushed me to hear that. After everything they’ve been through, and everything they managed to accomplish, I so badly wanted these heroes to at least get a glimpse of the light ahead. I wanted Motti to be able to go home and relax with his baby cuddled in his arms. I wanted Ehud to sit and eat at his mother’s dinner table, no longer needing to reassure her. I wanted Yoav to be able to say that he lead a unit to victory—that they brought the hostages home, and that Hamas was now a relic of the past. We were 320 days in to the war; it was time to see a light.

“The light is the people we fight for,” Ehud broke the silence. “And our homeland, and the help from Above.”

“And we will win,” Motti reassured. “Just let us keep fighting for it.”