Join us as we walk with Yaron, a father of three kids ,who rejoined the IDF to support his fellow soldiers during the war. Together with his deputy Shai, they work tirelessly in dangerous conditions, managing the logistics for 30 outposts to ensure soldiers have the supplies and food that they need.
By Mrs. Bruria Efune
It wasn’t in my plans to go to Rafah today, but sometimes you need to walk a thousand footsteps in a soldier’s routine to understand an inch of what they’re going through.
Yaron was already dismissed from reserve duty obligations a few years ago. He’s in his 40s, has a wife and three kids, and earned his way out after years of service. You wouldn’t pick him out in a crowd. He’s a humble guy who fits in seamlessly. But once you see him, his soft eyes begin to stand out, alongside his gentle smile that never goes away—even when he talks about the heavy heartache of war.
In his regular life, Yaron managed the cleaning crew at Ben Gurion Airport. The moment the war broke out, he jumped into action doing whatever he could to help the victims and soldiers. He organized shipments and deliveries, planned BBQs to feed troops, and brought in a steady flow of donations.
But that wasn’t enough for Yaron. He wanted to enlist, and was frustrated that his exemption didn’t allow him to. So after two months, when the opportunity came, he grabbed it.
“It was Tubishvat, I organized a lavish BBQ for 800 soldiers, we had platters of dried fruits and everything to mark the day—it was beautiful,” Yaron told my husband and me.
Then the base commander thanked Yaron, and commented that he wished he could hire him, and have him back the next day.
“What do you mean?” Yaron quipped. “Get me back in the army, I’ll be here tonight!”
The commander got Yaron’s exemption cancelled, and Yaron got back into uniform. Within weeks, he became the head of logistics responsible for 30 outposts in the IDF’s Gaza Division.
The outposts are spread out all along the Gaza border, from the center of the strip, until the southernmost point, at the Kerem Shalom crossing into Rafah. Most outposts are stationed inside the small towns and Kibbutzim next to Gaza. Each outpost has a group of soldiers responsible for delivering supplies to soldiers in Gaza, while also guarding the kibbutz they stay in.
Yaron, alongside his deputy, Shai, are responsible for keeping all those soldiers fed, warm, and supplied. He also organizes their nightly deliveries to the troops inside Gaza, and drives in the convoys himself.
“Oh it never scares me,” he says. “We’re used to having explosions and gunfire all around us. One time an RPG skid right by my vehicle, and landed next to it with a huge explosion. I just thanked G-d and kept driving.”
He paused. “Actually, one thing scares me. When the Yahalom unit asks me to drive that truck in, so that they can blow up the big tunnels. That truck contains several tons of explosives. We become a moving target of ultimate destruction. All it needs is one hit, and everything in our vicinity is gone.”
Shai nodded. He’s younger than Yaron, and has been on reserve duty for almost the entire year, aside from a few short breaks here and there. At home he has two kids, and his wife is expecting another. Like almost every Shai I’ve ever met, he’s soft-spoken and deeply thoughtful. At this point, after months of working together 24/7, he and Yaron synchronize perfectly.
Yaron gets calls at all times of day and night, whenever soldiers have an emergency need, for anything from power outages and food to minor combat injuries. He seems to love nothing more than keeping his solders’ fridges stocked with food, and their spirits up.
“Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur—organizing all that was hard,” he said. “But nothing like Sukkot! We didn’t think we could, but we did it! We set up 31 Sukkahs, one for each outpost, and one more. We even got them lulav and etrog for the holiday, all donated!”
My husband and I sat in the back of a reconfigured pickup truck, Shai sat in the front passenger seat, while Yaron drove us around some of his outposts, and showed us where his soldiers stay.
We met Alon, Freido, Shlomo, and Omar, all reservists who have been away from home for the majority of the past year. I’ve lived in Israel long enough to have some chutzpah, and some of them were clearly beyond reserve duty age, so I asked.
“The army gave me my exemption ten years ago,” Freido told me. “I had to put up a fight to get back in. But we don’t have enough soldiers, we all need to get up and come back.”
“He’s not even the oldest one here!” Quipped Yaron. “I’ve got a 77-year-old in uniform, on my team. He’s as energetic as ever, from sunrise down, he’s lifting heavy boxes, and jumping on his feet to bring whatever the soldiers need.”
Yaron explained that when older reservists come work in the logistics team, they can free up a younger soldier to train for combat, or another more intensive role.
As we drove through each outpost, Yaron and Shai pointed out all the bullet holes and broken walls. They had endless stories of what happened at each spot on October 7th, and the people who survived the horrors—including at their own post, right near Moshav Mivtachim. I slowly began to realize that they were living in an endless repeat of the events, driving through each nightmare again and again, every day.
“It’s still going on for you, isn’t it?” I asked. “And you’re living inside of it.”
“Yes, but I have soldiers living in Kibbutz Nir Oz,” Yaron spoke slowly. “Not an inch of it went untouched by terrorists. A third of the community, gone. Let me show you.”
I had met many of the children from the kibbutz when they were first evacuated to a hotel in Eilat, before being moved to temporary homes in Kiryat Gat. It’s hard to forget their beautiful faces and the innocence stolen from their eyes. I was scared to visit the place they had run from, scared of the feelings that it would uncover.
Over a year has passed, and the kibbutz still lays the same as it did on October 8th. The smell of ashes greets visitors right at the gate, and shocking sights of homes burnt down, or riddled with bullets surround the small road. The only change is the hundreds of posters everywhere, displaying faces of hostages taken from the small community, and of those murdered in their homes.
Yaron pointed to a group of soldiers, gathered outside what used to be the preschool. “That’s their base now.“ He didn’t stop though, just kept driving, right past them, in a route he had memorized.
Then the truck stopped, he opened the door, and climbed out. We followed him.
“This is the Bibas family home,” he said.
We stared at the abandoned yard. Toddler tricycles sat on the porch, covered in a thick layer of dust, the name “Bibas,” written on them. A baby bouncer sat empty, next to a stroller tossed aside. The image of Shiri hugging her two babies wrapped in a blanket flashed into my head.
“This is where time froze,” Shai whispered. “This is where you can hear the ground crying.”
Shai and Yaron stood still, staring at the home. I held back tears, and watched how theirs flowed only on the inside.
“You come here often?” I asked.
“At least twice a week,” said Yaron. “I keep coming back, hoping that something changed. That maybe I’ll see a sign… something that means they’re home.”
The road to Rafah, down the Philadelphi Corridor, was a short drive away. There was no blur between the horrors of the kibbutz and the gate into the war. The soldiers carried the hostages in their mind’s eye, and kept them there as they put on their helmets and ceramic vests.
“Only two months ago, I wouldn’t be able to take you here,” Yaron said. “It was way too dangerous, flooded with terrorists.”
I put on a helmet and vest, feeling the weight the soldiers carry every day. It felt odd to calmly stroll onto the Philadelphi Corridor, where not long ago, many soldiers spilled their blood to clear it up.
“We’re still blowing up tunnels here,” said Yaron, reminding me of the explosive truck he had to drive. “Here’s where the terrorists smuggled in all their weapons through Egypt. We can’t ever let that happen again. We can’t ever be so naive again.”
“Yaron,” I asked. “Can you explain to me, after a whole year, away from your wife and kids, barely sleeping on an uncomfortable little bed, risking your life, long after you’ve been exempt from duty… how? From where do you have the motivation to keep doing this?”
“What do you mean?” He was confused, like my question made no sense. “We have to do something, we need to bring them back, protect our children, our only home. That’s not a motivation I can explain. It comes from the soul. My soul couldn’t rest if I weren’t here.”
A pause. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”
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