One of the more surprising military terms we encountered during basic training — not in any formal class but as an offhand remark from one of the commanders — was lachvor. To join (onto something).
Stealing, of course, is strictly forbidden in the IDF. Beyond the Torah prohibition of lo tignov, the value of re’ut (camaraderie), repeated to the point of exhaustion throughout the course, is utterly incompatible with taking what is not yours.
But lachvor is something else. It means that when there is unspecified equipment — army-issued items whose ownership is not assigned — one may “join” it for the benefit of the platoon or squad. The army lives by “one for all,” but also by “all for one.” Much like a family, where an unmarked item is available for everyone, so too in the army.
In my brief service, I never quite had the chance to join any equipment. Once, when a soldier was pushing a cart of food, I asked — half-jokingly — if I could join a banana, and he graciously gave me one. But that hardly counts.
For I did, in fact, join — though not to an object. I joined a place.
A Place to Belong
Our training was meant to take place in Nabi Musa, the Home Front Command’s training base. We prepared for a month away from home, except for weekends. However, things did not go according to plan, and aside from our three-day field week, the entire course ended up at the Home Front’s base in Ramla. Apart from a few soldiers who needed (or preferred) to remain on base, we returned our giant army duffel bags home and became daily commuters.
On the one hand, returning home each evening is a positive. No denying that. On the other hand, commuting from Jerusalem during rush hour was non-ideal, and I struggled to maintain my remote chavruta and to carve out a little quiet time for learning and writing before the military day began (formally at 08:30 with roll call, followed by flag formation).
My solution: the shul.
What does a rabbi do upon arriving at a military base — or any place, really? He heads to the shul
What does a rabbi do upon arriving at a military base — or any place, really? He heads to the shul. That is what I did, and what I found was a beautiful, orderly beit knesset with a modest but solid library, all of it just a stone’s throw — less than a two-minute walk — from the area assigned to our platoon.
I connected immediately. Or perhaps, to borrow the army’s term, I joined it.
A Sanctuary Within the Base
The shul sat adjacent to the base’s “shekem” — the canteen area — which was outside our designated boundaries (gvulot gizra). But the pull was strong. Each morning, I rose around 5:00, reached Ramla in about half an hour, and by 6:00 or shortly thereafter (including a ten-minute walk from the shin gimmel) I was already in the shul: davening, learning with my regular chavruta (via phone), and managing a bit of writing or work before the army day began.
Whenever the schedule opened up — during some lunch breaks, or in those idle stretches of “dead time” (zemanim metim) — my legs carried me back to the beit midrash
Whenever the schedule opened up — during some lunch breaks, or in those idle stretches of “dead time” (zemanim metim) — my legs carried me, discreetly and in the appropriate dosage, back to the beit midrash. Even at day’s end, once we changed into dress uniform and received our end-of-day briefing, there were days when I preferred to linger in the shul for a while before heading home.
On the few occasions when a commander saw me outside our assigned zone, a simple “I just need something from the shul” sufficed.
That small sanctuary became my quiet refuge on base — and, in truth, something much more.
A Shul and More
First, I was moved to witness the steady stream of soldiers — male and female — who came daily to pray. Only a few wore kippot. Yet they arrived, consistently, to pour out their hearts before their Creator. It was deeply stirring.
One evening, I found myself present for a weekly shiur given by a civilian rabbi, arranged by an organization that brings Torah learning to soldiers. Dozens attended. The warmth and familiarity between the soldiers and the rabbi were evident.
My regular presence in the shul also led to several short but meaningful conversations with the young conscripts serving on base. All of us were bound to the tight IDF schedule, so the exchanges were brief but rich. Without exception, each expressed admiration for our Shlav Bet platoon: men who left their families and work in mid-life to join the army.
The shul gave me a great deal. Yet I was also a little saddened to find myself its sole beneficiary from our platoon. We never prayed there as a group, never held a short Torah session, never left even a small imprint of our presence.
I fully understand the constraints our commanders faced: compressing a 03 training program into a single month is pressure enough. Add the endless last-minute changes, the desire to maintain a buffer between our Haredi platoon and the base’s mixed population, and the inherent difficulty of precise scheduling in a dynamic reality — it is entirely reasonable that the shul did not rise to the top of the priority list.
Still, I believe that even a few daily minutes — Mincha and ten minutes of learning — could have added something profound. The idea of a “Haredi basic training,” after all, is to create a supportive environment. Making humble use of that beautiful resource — a shul and beit midrash just meters away — could only have elevated the experience.
In practice, this did not happen, and the shul remained my private, quiet corner. But for that, too, I remain deeply grateful.
