"I have spent nearly every one of the last 91 days inside a Merkava 3 tank with my IDF reserve unit"

A friend of mine, with whom I worked closely on my biography of Menachem Begin, wrote an extraordinary letter from the front. We reprint it with his permission.

One of the great privileges of doing the work that I do is that as I write books, I am able to bring on board talented young people to help me with research. Many of them remain friends for a very long time. About a decade ago, when I was working on Menachem Begin: The Battle for Israel’s Soul, I was fortunate to get to know Gabi Mitchell, who became a close partner in the writing of that book.

A decade later, Gabi is Dr. Gabi Mitchell, who works as Director of Undergraduate Studies at the University of Notre Dame at Tantur.

A few days ago, I came across a letter that Gabi, married and the father of three girls, just wrote from the front (hardly the optimal circumstances for writing, obviously). I was deeply moved by it, and through his wife, reached out to get his permission to reprint it here. Gabi’s words give us a glimpse into the myriad thoughts that young and not-so-young Israelis—sons and daughters, but also husbands and wives, fathers and mothers—have as they slog out this war, with grit, determination and bravery, day after day, week after week.

Gabi writes his own Substack, called Invisible Boundaries, which I hope you’ll check out here. Gabi is a person with a deep soul and an able pen—and on behalf of all of us, I thank him for allowing us to share his post, which you can read on his Substack here, as well.

Here is what he wrote; he is the inner life of a man who has lived mostly in a tank for the last three months:

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A personal update: On October 7, 2023 Israel was assaulted by Hamas terrorists bent on causing irreparable physical, emotional, and spiritual damage on innocent Israelis. They murdered, raped, mutilated, and kidnapped people of all ages, genders, faiths, and nationalities.

91 days later, many of us are stuck on October 7, 2023. Hostage to a moment that can never be forgotten. 

I think I may be one of those people. I have spent nearly every one of the last 91 days inside a Merkava 3 tank with my IDF reserve unit. Instead of being a girl dad, I swung sledge hammers, threw grenades, loaded shells, and replaced innumerable tank treads. I stood in the heat, cold, miserable wind and rain on guard duty - usually in the dead hours of the night. I participated in planned operations, emergency operations. I slept. I went days without sleep. I feel like I’ve aged years, and yet somehow reverted to a younger time in my life when my world was nothing but the comforting steel walls of my tank and my fellow crew members.

I guess I am stuck on October 7th, 2023. I can remember that day so vividly. The sudden rush of adrenaline when we were awakened by the first sirens. The sense by midday that something extraordinary and terrifying was happening, and the desire to downplay the alerts popping up on my phone. The anticipation for the call from my reserve unit. And the frantic drive from Beer Sheva to Jerusalem that night - my anxious wife digging her nails into the steering wheel and my daughters shrieking each time they saw rockets flying towards us and our Iron Dome missiles light up the black sky.

I am stuck on October 7th, 2023. I haven’t read many witness testimonies, I haven’t watched the videos. I am focused on the mission: prepare the tank, remember your position, do your job.

I’ve spent nearly every day since October 7th, 2023 in a real life Think and Do tank. I thought about my family - my wife carrying the parenting burden by herself, worrying about me while simultaneously being my hero, and my daughters who must make sense of war, death, and absence without me. I thought about my friends, my country, my faith. I thought about how Israeli society must look itself in the mirror and address the polarization manifested in its political system. I thought a lot about food - when will it arrive, will it be warm. I thought about the many mistakes I made in my life. I thought about the merits of squatting in the woods vs porta-johns vs home toilets. I thought about disease, and how to avoid it. I thought about the political and geopolitical consequences of Hamas’ attack and Israel’s response. I thought about Yahya Sinwar and Hassan Nasrallah - their strategic motivations and calculations. I thought about the average Palestinian in Gaza, the West Bank, and East Jerusalem: how are they experiencing this tragic episode and what kind of world they desire. I thought about my childhood, my broken relationship with my father. I thought about my children and how I hope to raise them, knowing they will experience more violence in this land and will interpret these events in their own, unique ways. I thought about work, my energy work, my foreign policy work - my unfinished professional ambitions. I thought about how this war looks like from the outside. I thought about peace: what does this word mean? I thought about sleeping through an ambush and being shot dead in my sleeping bag. I thought about the five stages of grief and asked myself: “what stage am I in today?” I thought about showering. I thought about love. I thought about death. In particular I thought about those who were killed on October 7th, 2023 and those killed in the days and nights that followed. But mostly I thought about life. The lives that have been taken. The lives that have been irreversibly changed. I thought about life as it was, and I thought about The Day After.

I have much to share on these subjects. On being at war, what I saw while serving alongside my fellow Israelis and what I think it says about the future. Every day I took notes in a diary, to organize my thoughts and record my experiences. But the first day I put on my uniform I decided to reduce my social media presence. Until the task was complete. Until I return home to my family and can be a father and husband once again. What a privilege that will be. 

I hope you’ll be interested in hearing what I have to say once that day arrives. But until then, it's still October 7th, 2023.

Thanks, Gabi, for sharing your soul with us. Come home safely, my friend.

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