Basic training came with its own internal curriculum, underscored again and again by our commanders. One theme, repeated to the point of exhaustion, was re’ut—the covenant of comradeship that binds a platoon from the most senior to the newest recruit. Another was time: “Time matters more than the task,” we were told endlessly. The clock, in the IDF, is no mere instrument of order; it is a moral demand.
In this short reflection, however, I want to linger on a third principle—one drilled into us every single day: we are fighters.
This mattered all the more because our training was the first in the Home Front Command (Pikud HaOref) to certify its participants at Rovai 03, a step above the Rovai 02 typically assigned to Shlav Bet (Stage II), designed primarily for desk and administrative roles. Day after day, we heard the refrain: “You are fighters. Take the training seriously. Go all the way.”
The weapon was long, heavy, and unwieldy; it certainly did not feel like an extension of my hand
To be honest, even after completing the 03 track—not to mention the somewhat modest version we received—we are far from seasoned combat soldiers. “You need to feel that the weapon is an extension of your arm,” we were told constantly. But in truth, the weapon was long, heavy, and unwieldy; it certainly did not feel like an extension of my hand. A single month of training is incomparable to the seven or eight months undertaken by infantry units (Rovai 07).
And yet, the fact remains: we were trained as fighters, with the intention of integrating us into combat battalions of the Home Front Command and into various operational roles. That fact, for me, carries deep significance.
A Nation of Fighters
The census at the beginning of the Book of Bamidbar—the famed count of six hundred thousand—was, in fact, a military census: “From twenty years and upward, all who go forth to the army in Israel—count them according to their legions, you and Aharon” (Bamidbar 1:3).
The Ramban, in one interpretation, explains that this was not a demographic survey but a readiness assessment for war:
Moshe and the princes needed to know the number of those who would go forth to battle. […] For the Torah does not rely on the miracle that one will chase a thousand. Thus, the Torah mentions “all those who go forth to the army among Israel,” since the count was for army purposes. (1:45)
The mythic figure of shishim ribo—six hundred thousand—upon which entire worlds of Midrash and mysticism have been built, is first and foremost a count of fighters. That alone reveals something about the Jewish people: we are, at our core, a nation of warriors.
It is no coincidence that Yitzchak Avinu wished to bestow his blessings on Esav, his firstborn. Esav was “a man who understood hunting, a man of the field.” Yitzchak preferred him because he was worldly, attuned to the twists and complexities of reality, and capable of navigating them with the cunning of a seasoned hunter.
The mythic figure of shishim ribo—six hundred thousand—upon which entire worlds of Midrash and mysticism have been built, is first and foremost a count of fighters
According to the original plan, Esav’s earthly skillset was meant to serve the spiritual vision articulated by Yaakov—“ish tam yoshev ohalim.” Yaakov would be the guardian of the great ideal that grows in the stillness of the tent, while Esav would execute that vision within a complex world. Together, the two would unite the perfection of the Tree of Life with the worldliness of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.
Esav ultimately exited the stage of Jewish destiny. But the original duality reappears in the historic partnership between the children of Rachel and the children of Leah: Rachel’s sons carry the spiritual ideal, while Leah’s sons—foremost Yehuda—bear the national body. The prophet envisions their ultimate reunion:
Take for yourself one stick and write upon it: For Yehudah… and take one stick and write upon it: For Yosef… and bring them close, one to the other… and they shall become one in your hand. (Yechezkel 37:16–17)
The conclusion is clear: the Jewish people cannot be Yaakov alone, dwelling in tents. Alongside the tent, we must also become Esav—the man of the field—an identity expressed today above all in military service.
Returning to the World of Action
Every time we remove the Torah from the ark on Shabbat or holidays, we recite the verses of the Ark setting forth at the head of Israel’s battle camp:
“When the Ark would journey, Moses said: Rise up, O Hashem, and let Your enemies be scattered….”
This is how the Torah travels within the Jewish people. This is how we move toward our collective purpose.
Without a camp capable of carrying the Ark, the Ark remained enclosed in our synagogues and study halls
For two thousand years, circumstances pushed us out of the earthly arena. We ceded the realms of warfare, geopolitics, and the shaping of material reality. In their place, we cultivated survival—survival rooted in the magnificent enterprise of the Beit Midrash and the faithful observance of halacha. Without a camp capable of carrying the Ark, the Ark remained enclosed in our synagogues and study halls.
Today, we have merited to return to the world of action: to establish a state and to create a Jewish army—a Machaneh Yisrael within which the Shechinah dwells.
As a young child in London, I often joined Chabad activities and remember the pride of belonging to “Tzivos Hashem”—the army of Hashem fulfilling His commandments. During basic training, I had the privilege of adding another layer: the pride of belonging to the army of the Jewish People, “Yotzei Tzava b’Yisrael.”
These thoughts rose in me each time our commanders reminded us: “You are fighters—fighters in the army of Israel.” May we be found worthy of that title.
