A father’s letter: 'I see the light you carry, soldier, even when you don’t' - opinion

Dear Soldier…

I don’t know your name, but I feel like I do. I know the weight you’re carrying—the weight of a country on your shoulders, the weight of the world shattered into pieces, dust in the air that never seems to settle.

October 7 broke the world open, didn’t it? It tore apart the earth, cracked the sky, and left us standing in fragments of what used to be. And there you are, standing right in the middle of it, holding the line… holding everything.

There’s no easy way to say this, no way to wrap it in neat words: I don’t know what it feels like to be where you are right now. But I want you to know this—you are not alone, not for a second. Even when it feels like the world is silent around you, like the dust is all that’s left, we are with you. Every breath you take, every step you make… we are with you.

You’re not just holding a rifle, not just wearing armor—you’re holding something far greater, something invisible but unbreakable. You’re holding the lives of everyone you’re protecting. The lives of those who can’t stand where you stand. And that’s not nothing. That’s everything.

I am the father of soldiers in this fight. And I imagine there are moments when it feels like God has turned away, like the world is abandoned. Maybe it feels like the divine has left you in this dark place. But even in the dark, there’s something burning in you… something that can’t be extinguished.

Hester Panim

There’s a story in our tradition about Hester Panim… when God hides His face. It’s easy to feel that now. But even in the silence, even when the light feels far away, you’re there. You’re the light, even when you can’t see it. Every choice you make, every time you refuse to give in to the darkness, you’re writing something new—something no one else can write. A song that only you can create.

Did you know the last mitzvah in the Torah is to write a song? Not to follow the rules, not to recite prayers, but to write. That’s what you’re doing right now. Every step you take, every moment you stand tall, you’re writing that song. It’s not an easy song—it’s not made of soft notes or gentle harmonies. It’s a song of blood, of dust, of courage, and fire. And still… it’s a song that sings. You’re making it sing, even when you can’t hear it yet.

This is your song, the song of a soldier who holds everything in the balance, who carries the weight of a broken world and still finds a way to keep going. And in doing that, you’re bringing something sacred into this world.

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise—you’re more than just a soldier. You’re part of something bigger than any of us. Behind the armor, behind the weapon, there’s a heart that refuses to give up. And that heart? It’s carrying all of us. You’re not standing alone. Every one of us is there with you, in every breath, every choice.

The dust won’t always be there. I don’t know when it’ll clear, but it will. And when it does, we’ll be standing on the other side of this because of you. You’re the one holding the pieces together. You’re the one making us whole again.

So stand tall, stand strong. Even when everything around you feels broken… you’re holding it. You’re making it sing. And we’re singing with you, even when you can’t hear us yet.

We are behind you. We are with you. With everything we have.

With all my heart,Am Yisrael

The writer is the father of a number of IDF reserve soldiers who has requested to stay anonymous.