The Call of Duty
The challenge of a parent of a lone-soldier
Israel Ellis is an author and entrepreneur. He made his writing debut with “Moving Through Walls” (2020). His new book, “10.7: The Wake Up Call: The global Jihad and the rise of antisemitism in a world gone mad” is scheduled for release in December 2024. For more information, visit www.israelellis.com
I don’t know what filled me with more fear: taking cover in the stairwell of our hotel in Tel Aviv as nearly 200 ballistic missiles, compliments of Iran, bombarded Israel on the eve before Rosh Hashana, or the message that my son got from his commanding officer to report to duty in the North. I think I’ll take the missiles. Here’s a bonus question: What’s better? The reverberation I feel in my chest as the Iron Dome knocks missiles out of the sky, or the disgust and betrayal I will have to deal with when I return “home” to Toronto? Again, I think I’ll take the missiles.
2:0—the missiles win!
Being in Israel to see my child off to war is a most surreal and terrifying parenting experience. Do we stay and extend our Israel visit? Do we leave? Either way, we are filled with apprehension. To paraphrase one of my favorite bands, if we stay, there will be trouble; if we leave, there will be double. But either way, there ain't no satisfaction. Bottom line, it’s a really shit situation, and I’m freaking angry about it all. Eitan is not in “Sadir” (Active Duty); he’s a “Miluimnik” (Reservist). Though you wouldn’t know it. Since the morning of October 7, 2023, he has served over 200 days in active combat. the Golani Brigades have done a lot of heavy lifting, and now he’s going back?!?
“You don’t get it—I can’t leave my team. This is what it’s all about. I made a commitment to serve and defend; this is what I do.” Actually—I do understand. But I wish I didn’t. No parent does. I don’t want him up there. He has given enough. Good thing for the country, and for Jews everywhere, he doesn’t listen to me.
When our children join the IDF, it is a commitment from the deepest part of their Neshama (soul). They are known as Chayalim Bodedim (lone soldiers), drawn to Israel by some kind of homing signal calling them back to the land of their people. They serve, defend, and protect because they understand what the state of Israel means to Jewish survival.
“But, it’s Chag! Why do you need to go?” I know my venting is of no use before the words come out.
“Aba, when we go into the Shetach (field), we do so to ensure that every Jew can pray, bring in the Chag, and make Kiddush at their tables surrounded by family. To be Jewish without fear—knowing that we are guarding them, protecting them. That’s our Chag!”
When he first wanted to join ten years ago, we’d get into yelling matches. “Listen, I get it—but first get your degree, then let’s talk.” Again, with the Aba: “Aba, it’s my obligation! Just because I was born in Chutz La’aretz (outside of Israel), I shouldn’t serve??? If I don’t do this, I can’t be a Jew!” I didn’t need to hear more. My next words were, “What can I do to help?” Eitan wouldn’t want me to tell you this. What he does isn’t for honour—none of our Chayalim do it for honour. It’s an obligation, a duty that runs deeper than anyone on the outside could ever imagine. Twice he’s been awarded Chayal Mitztayen (Soldier of Excellence).
Our son is not an anomaly. He’s one of many boys and girls from our community who have made this incredible commitment to protect, defend, and serve in the IDF. We have met other parents of soldiers and every day, we all live with the jitter in our throats, anxious laden sleepless nights accompanied by cold sweats and accelerated heartbeats in our chest; our eyes lifted upwards, silently praying for their safe return. ‘Hashem Yishmor’ (May God watch over them).
I am grateful to be connected to our soldier heroes from Toronto, though I will not mention them by name. We are now living in a country - Canada - that is betraying us every day, and I seriously fear reprisals against them by a government morally misaligned and on the wrong side of history. But to whoever is reading this, you know who you are. You know that we get it. You can hear it in my voice and words. We are a village in Canada, connected to a village in Israel, in a profound way. As parents of lone soldiers, our prayers and thoughts are with each other in ways words can’t capture. A glance is enough to communicate the thoughts we dare not say aloud. Everywhere I look, the scars of war are visible. On the body of someone at the beach, a boy in a wheelchair, the blank stare of a young man sitting alone in a café. Not all wounds are visible, and I find myself worrying more about what I don’t know than what I do.
“Izzy (a privilege few are allowed), I promise you—I know what I’m doing, I know why I’m here. My head’s on straight. Trust me. I know how to fish. I appreciate the concern—don’t worry so much. And don’t tell my parents any of this—especially my Mom, you know how she is (smile/wink).”
When my son Eitan was serving in Gaza, the heat could reach over 40°C. These guys would go days on end with no change of clothes, always in ready mode. It is common for chayalim to develop a scaling dermal infection that breaks out on their backs. They tell me the itch and discomfort can be agonizing. “Sometimes we have to rip off our vests and stand against a wall or post and just let loose,” Eitan and J. grin, with that knowing look of “been there, done that.” I would talk to Eitan daily during these times. “Tani—what can I do for you, buddy? What can I tell you to give you something to look forward to?” “Aba,” he’d respond, “take me to a hotel with a swim-up bar.” So last month, we made a detour and went to Cyprus. The grin on his face when we swam up to the bar was, well, priceless. I cried. But like all good things, the moment was fleeting. Soon, the reports started coming in: “IDF enters Lebanon.” The messages on his unit’s WhatsApp were clear: “Bags ready at the door… make whatever personal arrangements you need to… could be today, tomorrow, next week… for those who are observant, keep your phones on during Shabbat.” “The shit is starting to get real Dad, —sorry,” he smiled weakly.
This is the surrealness of the moments as the parents of a lone soldier. One moment, we are in Toronto, hanging out by the pool in our backyard; the next, we’re having Shabbat dinner with all our children. Another moment and I’m jogging with my son on the Tayelet in Tel Aviv; another moment and we are licking our chops at our favorite steakhouse in Kerem HaTeimanim; another and we are chilling the day away at the beach. And in a flash, I’m standing outside our hotel, on Chag, my son fully geared up, his pack and vest at his feet, saying goodbye as I bless him and hold him tight—trying to hold back the tears. I don’t want this moment to pass, but like all others, I have to let it go. Moments. Go figure.
My son tells me, “Go home, Aba—I’m not alone.” He assures me, “There is no ‘lone’ in lone soldiers. Every mother in this country is my mother.” He’ll tell us about a patron who anonymously paid his bill, or food dropped off at his flat after a long day, or friends who invite him for dinner when he gets time off. He’s never without someone—sometimes a complete stranger checking in on him.
There’s an unexpected gentleness in this country of quick reactions. If you stumble, someone is there to catch you. Conversations shift quickly once I explain why I’m here. “HaBen Shelanu” (Our son), I say, in my poor Canadian-accented Hebrew, and people’s eyes light up. My wife, Limore, manages much better. She speaks Hebrew like a native, and they quickly face her and disregard me—could be her fluency, or maybe the older guy is just trying to pick her up—right in front of me! Nothing surprises me here. I digress. Every conversation’s second sentence is always, “Hu Nasui?” (Is he married?) No one asks if he’s single. I guess they don’t want to give him the evil eye. Ph’too, I spit on the sidewalk. Still, no one notices me. “Give me his number—I’ll take care of him,” they say to my wife.
I haven’t been subtle here. Being the parent of a lone soldier is a full-time worry, a weight I carry when he’s serving, and I feel like a feather when he’s released—until I imagine him navigating Tel Aviv traffic. What our kids are doing is very dangerous. Eitan sends me a picture after arriving at base, all geared up and holding two grenades. “Got one for you too, Aba,” reads the caption. Not too many parents receive a picture like that. These kids are dealing with live ammo, going on missions, and enduring tough conditions. Yes, being the parent of an IDF soldier is most stressful—but there’s another side. There’s a sense that we, as parents, we did something to give him this fire, this purpose. It’s in our DNA, a connection deep within us from biblical times. And while my heart is in my throat, I also feel a powerful pride—not something to wear on my sleeve, but a deep knowingness that this is my child, a protector of our people.
Israel is in perhaps its longest war, and I pray that what we do now counts for something—that we don’t lose our resolve. We are not a country under siege; we are not victims. We live by the words “Never Again” because of the strength, resilience, and outright chutzpah of the kids from our homes. Whenever I meet a Chayal from our community I place my hands on their head, “May you be blessed, and may God watch over you. May His light shine upon you and bring you peace.”
Amen.
Am Yisrael Chai!
To help support lone soldiers in Israel, consider giving to Friends of the IDF or the Association for the Soldiers of Israel.
If you are a parent or sibling of a lone soldier in Israel and want to share your thoughts, we would love to hear from you too. Feel free to connect at adam@catchnews.ca
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May Hashem bless and protect your son. Words fail me as I sit with tears on my cheeks to adequately thank him and all who protect us.
Your son is a terrorist