BCP Contributor Alisa Avruch shares the emotions and experiences of being in the US and having a son in the IDF.
On October 7th, I became the mom of a soldier at war.
I used to be a regular Jewish mom like you. Focused on carpool, Amazon returns, and finding the perfect one-pan-dinner.
Oh, and also a hyper-vigilant mom, who tightened bike helmet straps, sent booster seats for carpool, and refused to allow her kids to sit in the front seat of a car until they were almost old enough to drive themselves.
Suddenly, I was the mom of a kid who was dealing with guns. And grenades. And rocket launchers and explosives and other dangerous stuff.
And so I became a new kind of Jewish mom.
Alongside Jewish moms of kids who languish in dank, dark tunnels; kids who race against the 15, 14, 13 seconds of a siren’s wail; kids who barricade themselves into university libraries against shouts of Genocide to the Jews.
A sisterhood spanning generations and millennia, through cattle cars and pogroms, Inquisitions and Crusades.
A long line of Jewish moms who can’t protect their kids.
As we navigated this new world, I felt simultaneously an intense isolation, and incredible connection.
Isolation, because I did not know anyone else like me. Having a son in the army is almost unheard of in my circles; plus, I live in NY, not Israel. There was no rulebook, no support system, no one to ask questions from or commiserate with.
People told me, “Oh, yes, I have several nephews who were called up, I know what it’s like.” Only they didn’t. Not at all.

Because this was my kid we were talking about.
At the same time, there was this intense sense of immersion into the essence of Klal Yisroel as a whole, and Eretz Yisroel in particular. My fears and desperate worry for my son were inextricably interwoven with my fervent pleas for the matzav. I didn’t have to “imagine what it was like,” in order to daven or fully empathize – in some small but significant way, I was already a part of it.
Slowly, gradually, we groped our way through. I joined a WhatsApp group of moms of Lone Soldiers, which was a lifeline for me (shoutout to the indefatigable Nechy Eisenstadt and all the Bravest Moms). We started getting the pattern of my son’s Reserves unit – 1-2 weeks in Gaza, then a short break, when we got to speak to him even if we couldn’t actually hug him. The parent chat that my husband had joined during his training was re-activated, and we were able to get some updates, as well as participate in fundraising for crucial supplies that the unit requested–which, to me, is the ultimate expression of a Jewish Army: “Mom? Dad? We need more stuff – can you send it please?” (We later found out that the updates that we received to the chat from the logistics officer of my son’s unit were done at the officer’s own initiative and are outside of army policy–another gift.)
We also gained an intimate view into the broader world of life on the other side. Of mothers of young children, sending their husbands off to fight. Of middle-aged moms juggling single sons, married sons, and sons-in-law in combat, plus daughters and daughters-in-law and grandchildren all over the country, who needed comfort and care and emotional support. Of soldiers who were in for weeks or months at a time, who did not have the luxury of breaks to refresh or contact home. Of communities and yeshivas that were attending a funeral every few weeks–or days.
We saw, too, the incredible unity and resilience of Am Yisrael–and each and every one of its members. Soldiers without yarmulkes, wearing tzitzis… and soldiers with neither, singing “Elah al Avinu Shebashamayim.” Soldiers who are wounded and insist on going back to fight… and soldiers who have lost legs or arms, yet say they have no regrets in protecting their people. Jews from all neighborhoods and backgrounds joining to prepare food for soldiers… and an upscale secular apartment complex where residents wash 120 bags of laundry from displaced families–Every. Single. Day.
I checked the news multiple times a day, and scanned the photos of Hutar Lepirsum (Cleared for Publication), matching names and ages with faces of smiling young men who had made the ultimate sacrifice. Because every single one of those boys and men were somebody’s son, grandson, brother, maybe husband and father; a family that now was grieving, that would forever have a gaping hole where there was once hope and love and potential.
The intensity of my emotions ebbed and flowed. I cherry-picked the passages from Tehillim that now stood out in stark reflection of our reality: enemies and revenge, prisoners and pits (and surely it was no coincidence how often the word “Chamas” appeared in those very perakim). I was startled to find that the tefilla said at the end of sefer Tehillim opens with a plea for captives – was it so common in our history, then, that it was incorporated into the printed tefillos? My daily davening, something I struggled with for decades, now became an oasis; for once, I looked forward to that intense connection through the words of Re’eh na ve’anyeinu, Refa’einu. Velamalshinim, Shema Koleinu, Sim Shalom. On days when the heaviness got pervasive, I pushed through till the evening and escaped to the rocking chair in my dark living room with a box of tissues, earbuds, and my War playlist, dominated by Ishay Ribo and Chayala Neuhaus.
Then, after 3 months, it was over–at least for now. My son’s unit was sent home, “to rejoin the economy and to rest and recover for the next stage of war.” And with the relief comes the struggle to hold on to the gift I had gained in those months:
My tears.
.
.

All around me, I see the intensity of awareness diminishing. And I get it–it’s hard to keep up that urgency, the drive, the nosei b’ol, on a constant and long-term basis. And it’s normal and healthy to get back to ‘real life’–to a degree. But let’s not kid ourselves – our tafkid is far from over.
I’m sure you’ve heard stories of nissim. As there must be. As there have always been.
But perhaps you didn’t know that at the beginning of this war, the US army projected what Israel could expect, based on the United States’ experience in a similar guerilla conflict with ISIS: Four to 20 casualties a day.
Now, 230 Yiddishe neshamas is a tragedy beyond comprehension, multiplied by mourning families and lost doros. But to paraphrase an old Yiddish saying – it could be much, much worse. And I have no doubt that someday, we will be zoche to see how each tefilla, each kabbala, each tear was instrumental in a life saved, an injury healed, an attack averted.
Objectively speaking, the situation now is not much better than it was on October 8th. Our boys are still fighting, the hostages are still in danger, Hamas is still entrenched. With the northern border heating up, regional tensions rising, and U.S. patience wearing thin… we surely have a long road ahead of us.
.
Right now, as you read this, a mom is living in a hotel room with her husband and 4 rambunctious kids, with no kitchen, no job, and no idea when her home will be safe enough to return to.
Imagine it was you.
Right now, as you read this, a man is lying in the inky blackness of a dismal cell, 100 feet underground. He is sick, he is starving, and he has long despaired of ever seeing his family again.
Imagine it was your father, your brother, your husband.
Right now, as you read this, someone’s 19-year-old kid is fighting in Gaza. He has seen things no one should ever see; things that he can never un-see. He is tired of the constant boom of artillery; of the black dust that permeates his eyes, his nose, his mouth; of the stench of fear and sickness and death. He is tired of weeks without showering, of eating tuna and protein bars, of wearing his boots and ceramic bullet-proof vest 24/7. But mostly he is tired of mourning his friends, of missing his family, of the unrelenting threat to his life and the lives of his buddies.
He sometimes wishes he could quit. But he can’t. Klal Yisroel needs him.
And he needs you.
Looking for inspiration? Check out these resources:
Behind the Bima Podcast – War-related interviews with Rabbi Efrem Goldberg
Sharejustonething.com – Take on a kabbalah for the zechus of a solider
nationonpause.org/ – Do something extra on Shabbos for a hostage
community.partnersintorah.org/partners-in-protection – Learn for 10 minutes a week with a non-frum partner, in the zechus of a soldier
https://betweencarpools.com/download-hebrew-names-of-hostages-for-davening (for extra credit, choose some names and then find their pictures on https://www.timesofisrael.com/spotlight-topic/those-we-are-missing or nationonpause.org)
Here are some of the perakim of Tehillim that I found particularly relevant: 3, 13, 20, 22, 23,30,35, 55,59, 64, 79, 83, 140
Alisa, you are an inspiration for us all. May Hashem watch over your precious son along with all of the rest of Klal Yisroel.
thanks for the inspo- i just took a kabala from Sharejustonething.com and i am so happy to be doing this to protect a fellow yid. Alisa, the zchus is yours too! thank you for the opportunity and may all yidden be safe
Ty!
You can also contributr to Eshet Chayal – they send amazing care packages to families of soldiers & reservists https://thechesedfund.com/brachah/eshet-chayal or Zelle: A8421099@gmail.com Please write “eshet chayal” with the transfer
Such a beautifully written post. Thank your for inspiring us!
Crying as I read this, tears are spilling out of my eyes trying to imagine your pain. We are with you!
Such a truthful, beautiful and well captured depiction Alisa! Sending you a hug and tefillos for all our incredible soldiers! May your son’s transition back to life , society and day to day living be with blessing, healthy accompaniment and peace.
Thank you for sharing! So beautifully written!
May we merit the Geulah quickly and bring an end to all suffering!!
Thank you for sharing with us your son’s story and glimpse into your every day life and every day life of most Israeli citizens since Oct 7.
May Hashem give bring ur son back safely and may Hashem guard over all our boys and girls, husbands and fathers in this never ending war.