Ode To Lone Soldiers: A Letter of Nachis and More Reasons I Didn't Help Israel

by David Kilimnick

Dear Lone Soldier...
This is our war. Thank you for fighting it. Thank you for your courage. Thank you for running away from your parents. I get it. I see them in shul. They're annoying.
You are Nachis to so many people. And to your parents as well. Even though you left them. As I bring you this ode from a man who didn't serve in Tzahal, let us focus on the Nachis you bring.

Lone soldiers, you bring such Nachis to your parents. American parents Nachiskate how their children are in the IDF. The only Nachis my parents got when I moved to Israel was telling people, 'Our son made Aliyah and he asks us for money. That's our kid. He lives in an apartment in Jerusalem we paid for.'

You did it of your own volition. You didn't have the mandatory service requirement. You didn't have to become a citizen, but you did it. That word 'citizen' scares me. Anything with citizen in it, I run. I don’t want to pay more taxes. I've suffered enough for the Jewish people. I have been asked to join shul committees. And I am sure your parents have been on the committees.
These young people who move to Israel and join the army, they see a future of good for the Jewish people. They see hope. They never served on a shul board. They never had to deal with a committee. They can make decisions and get stuff done.
You are Nachis to so many board members who discuss if you should be recognized for your service in the shul bulletin. Board members who have to decide if they should honor you or a local community member who bought Israel Bonds and knows people who will donate in their name. Board members that decided you shouldn't be honored. A board that decided you won't bring in enough money.

You chose to serve your people. When all other kids your age in America are at college drinking as much as they can, you decided to serve in the Israeli army drinking as much as you can.
You are Nachis to so many soldiers in our IDF that smoke too.

You are brave. The extent that you were willing to go to not have to see your parents, it's commendable. In my parents' generation, kids used to run away to join the circus. You joined the army. You ran off to defend our people.
I tried running away at 19, but then I saw a bus coming. I was not ready for public transportation. I ran back home. My parents were able to drive me places. I was not raised with public transit abilities. The prospect of having to hold onto a railing while in motion was not for me. My middle class Jewish upbringing did not make for me interacting with strangers during travel.
You are Nachis to your parents who are proud of their child who is not afraid to use Egged.

You don't even speak Hebrew. You joined an army where you don't know the language. Your Jewish Day School experience didn't set you up for this. When they taught you Hebrew, they thought you might end up needing to interact with Jews in South America. They didn't think Tzahal.
You are Nachis and you don't even know what it means. 

You were adopted and you didn't tell your parents. That's a stinger.
You were adopted by a family in Israel who gives you an eight-inch-wide bed for only seven hundred dollars a month, to use once every six Shabbats. And now you sleep head to toe with a kid you're not related to.
You are Nachis to the people that adopted you for $700 a month. The way they sometimes kick the youngest out of the mattress of centimeter thickness for you to sleep on Shabbat once every month and a half shows pride.

You left your family, and the army decided it was a good idea to constantly remind you that you're alone, a lone soldier. They thought a daily reminder about how you're missing your family would be a good help when thinking about your parents.

You were brave enough to make friends when you were all alone.
You were branded alone, and you still made friends. You sucked it up and made friends, as lonely as you are. You realized that there are thousands of other lone soldiers. And you became lonely together. Now you're with thousands of people and still lonely. A lone soldier. All alone.
You even made Israeli friends, and you can now drink and sing karaoke in Hebrew. And you still have no idea what is going on.
Maybe we should change it to soldiers with friends. That sounds less depressing. I made Aliyah and I was alone. I didn't do the army. I was a lone citizen. I was just called an Oleh. It should be lone Oleh and popular soldier with friends.
You are Nachis to all the people who love you, even though you are alone. A lone person with friends.

The Mitzvahs you do are amazing. Saving lives is a such a Mitzvah. And then honoring your parents by allowing them to Nachiskate at Kiddish about how their child is saving the Jewish people in secret ops. Personally, I wouldn't lie to my parents. I would've told my parents I was cooking Mana Chama on guard duty. But you make them proud, and you speak a better Hebrew than anybody else that came out of Torah Academy Day School.
You are Nachis to your parents who still won't move to Israel.
You love Mana Chama. And Mana Chama loves you. You are Nachis to chicken flavored noodles.

I am not that brave. But I can thank you. Thank you. Todah Rabbah, if you know what that means.

Postscript: This Ode is self-serving. I need it. I need it because I feel guilty. And the best way to deal with guilt is to throw it on others.
In my heart, I am with you, but we all know what that means. It means I am not there. It means I am relaxing in America right now and going out for ice cream later. Good, fatty American ice cream.
I am not on the front lines with our brothers and sisters in this constant battle for Shalom and good in our world. You are alone, lone and a loser, and we appreciate all you do for our people. As long as you remember that you're alone.
Todah Rabbah vKol Hakavod Lachem