While we prepare for Pesach, here in Israel we’re also cheering on the next batch of draftees to the IDF. With scenes of oversized backpacks, freshly shaved heads, singing and dancing, and fathers blessing their sons, “draft day” carries mixed feelings of nerves, excitement, uncertainty, but most of all, immense pride. This year, I’ve been watching my own students for whom I was a madrich last year stepping up to the plate, making the bold decision to draft as well. But to really understand the significance of their choice, especially as young men coming from outside of Israel, we have to rewind to just before the war.
After completing my army service in September 2023, I returned to my yeshiva as a madrich. I was excited to keep learning and be a guide to the next group of guys, many of whom were in the exact place I was just a few years earlier, on the edge of big life decisions about their future. My own time in the army had been one of reflection and growth, in which I felt I had insight, experience and faith to offer, which I wanted to use and be there to help others through their own journey.
Shortly into the year came Oct. 7, and by Oct. 8, I was already back on base. I honestly thought I’d be home by Shabbos, assuming this would just be a quick operation. Early on, someone brought mini sifrei Bereishit for us to learn, prompting another soldier to joke, “Let’s just hope we don’t make it to sefer Shemot!” Little did we know that what we expected to last only a few weeks stretched into four long months—well beyond Bereishit, and I ended up missing months of learning and connecting with the students. By the time I was finally released in February, I was eager and ready to dive back in.
But just weeks later, I got the notice that I was going to be called up again starting at the end of March for another six weeks. And this brought me to the same struggle that has been debated since the start of the war, of who really has to go? I wasn’t an official citizen yet, and my yeshiva role didn’t have a backup for me, while I knew my unit in the army did. I tried telling myself that staying was just as important, and that I had done enough. But deep down, I knew what I had to do, and found myself putting on my uniform yet again. I went back, and while it was frustrating, I understood the realities and repercussions of being in a war, yet still was a bit disappointed about the missed opportunities for impact at the yeshiva.
Fast forward to now, and I was speaking with one of my former Shana Alef students who had just decided to draft, and to combat no less. The year before he wasn’t sure, so I asked him what changed. He said, “I spent the whole year watching my madrichim run in and out of combat. How could I sit back after that?” His, as I am sure many others’ decisions, did not necessarily come from just a flyer, speech or a well-written article. It came from seeing and meeting people in his own circle not only believing in the value of making aliyah and serving the country, but living it, something that reassured me when I was in the process of deciding to draft just a few years ago. It made it more familiar and tangible, and showed that it is in fact possible to upend your life from America, join the people and fight for the country, finding purpose, meaning and eventually making it successfully in Israel.
Yet, as personal as these choices seem, the decision one way or another does not discard its impact. There’s a famous Midrash that tells about a group of people who were traveling in a boat. One of them took a drill and began to drill a hole beneath himself. His companions said to him: “Why are you doing this?” He replied: “What concern is it of yours? Am I not drilling under my own place?” They said: “But you will flood the boat for us all!” (Midrash Rabbah, Vayikra 4:6) Being a part of the nation, there’s no such thing as “my own little hole.”
Every decision, whether to stay in America, to draft, to move or not to move impacts everyone. While we sometimes think we’re making individual choices and that our choices do not affect anyone, we’re shaping the environment around us. When someone chooses to stay in America, it doesn’t end with them. Their kids grow up with that as the default, their friends and peers are more likely to understand that as the norm and stay as well, becoming harder for anyone to imagine a different path. But when someone chooses to move, to serve, to build a life in Israel, they change the narrative. They normalize staying, pushing and truly showing their faith in the mission. They become the support system for others who want to do the same and who eventually will have the ability to do the same because of them.
Chazal reinforce this lesson through the story of Yetziat Mitzrayim, teaching that 4/5 of Am Yisrael didn’t make it out of Egypt. Why? Because they didn’t believe enough to take that step into the unknown, realizing that they themselves were part of the national destiny, and Hashem left them to die in the plague of darkness. But the ones who did go, who saw themselves as part of the whole, and trusted in Hashem’s promise and in the mission of Am Yisrael, were the ones redeemed and became the foundation of our nation whom we speak about to this day.
And just like then, we are still faced with the same test, to see ourselves as part of something greater. It’s tempting to believe that our nation can thrive on the efforts of those in Israel alone. Israel has its own army, economy, government and agricultural systems. But that perspective overlooks the deeper reality of our interconnectedness as a people, something vividly illustrated right now by the current market crash.
Triggered by global tariff fears, the ongoing economic downturn has significantly impacted anyone with money invested in the stock market. But what is unique in a crashing market is that no single portfolio can recover alone, and the only way to recover is when confidence returns across the board and everyone buys back in. If your investments are tied to the system, your recovery directly depends on everyone’s recovery as well. And it ends up turning out that if one hopes and prays for their investments to go up, they are also praying for everyone else’s as well! The Gemara has a similar teaching, that if someone davens for others and needs the same thing themselves, they are answered first (Bava Kama 92a). Because when we care about the klal, Hashem cares about us. So when we look around today and wonder why things aren’t “rising,” economically, spiritually or nationally, we must realize that we cannot rise alone—we can only rise together.
It’s no coincidence, then, that as Pesach nears, we turn to matzah, the unrisen bread of humility and simplicity, and not the puffed-up chametz, representing materialism and ego. Right now, with the markets, the war or any other adversities we may be going through, our portfolios might feel like matzah more than chametz—flattened, simplified, humbled. Yet it’s matzah, not chametz, that signifies our redemption. Our task isn’t to ask why this happened, but rather, “What now?” and “How will we respond?” We should embrace our current circumstances as an invitation and opportunity to refocus on what truly matters, which is what the matzah and Pesach is all about. We can not afford to drill holes in the boat, even if they are just ours, hide in the dark, and let the rest of the nation sink or move on without us. This Pesach, let’s reconnect with our collective mission, and may we each find our own crucial role within all of Am Yisrael.
Brian Racer is originally from Teaneck. He served as a lone soldier in the Nachal Brigade and learned at Yeshivat Lev HaTorah in Ramat Beit Shemesh. He is currently studying communications and political science at Bar Ilan. He can be reached at [email protected]
