Soldiers' Salaries

Photo:Senai Guedalia, widow of Israel Defense Forces soldier Yosef Guedalia who was killed in Kfar Aza on Oct. 7, celebrates his 24th birthday and lights the first Hanukkah candle on his grave at Mount Herzl Military Cemetery in Jerusalem on Dec. 25, 2024. Eliana Mandell Braner is the executive director of the Koby Mandell Foundation. ( JNS) As we make our way through Hanukkah, it’s impossible not to reflect on the holiday we experienced last year. My husband was in the Israel Defense Forces reserves, and I lit the first candle alone with our four children. There was a sense of uncertainty and disruption of the stability we once knew. This year, like then, many mothers will stand before the burning candles without their partners—some due to reserve duty, and others, sadly, because their husbands fell or were murdered in the past year. Our hearts break for the new families who have joined the circle of bereavement, for the children who will grow up without a father, for young women who became widows, for families that will never be whole again. The state of our nation has changed. We have stabilized to some degree, and we feel more secure, but the road ahead is still long. A hundred hostages still wait to return home, we all pray and hope for their return. The rift within our people hasn’t healed. Many men leave their families for 70 days or more, and their absence is felt even more strongly during the days of Hanukkah. In too many homes, there are empty chairs at the table. This current war is the embodiment of the struggle between light and darkness—good against pure evil. In the face of absolute darkness, the Jewish people united to illuminate the darkness. Since Simchat Torah, civilian organizations have emerged everywhere, and I was privileged to be part of this light, both as a giver and receiver. Twenty-three years ago, when I was 10 years old, my brother Koby Mandell, who was just 13, and his friend Yosef Ishran, 14, were stoned to death by Palestinian Arab terrorists. I clearly remember the moment my father came to tell me, “Abba, we don’t joke about things like this,” I said to him. It took me time to understand the meaning and years to internalize the finality of death. The first thing my father said after being told they found the boys was, “I won’t let the terrorists destroy my family, I won’t let them win.” And this was the approach that guided our family from day one. It’s OK to cry, to be angry, to hurt. And in the same breath, we won’t break. We will live life to the fullest and have days filled with joy and happiness. Following the murder, my parents, Seth and Sherri Mandell, established the Koby Mandell Foundation, providing support to bereaved families through summer camps, holiday activities, support groups and therapeutic meetings. My parents used their deep pain and transformed it into meaningful action, into a light that illuminates onto others. In the past year, while men and women were drafted into reserves, we, too, were drafted to support the newly bereaved families who joined the circle of pain. We were privileged to be part of the light fighting darkness, aiming to ease the pain that bereaved families feel every day. Meeting with bereaved families is a powerful and moving experience. My body remembers the pain they’re now experiencing, and the identification with them is deep and tangible. Every time I meet a new family, my heart breaks anew. But along with the pain, I see the immense strength they possess. The bereaved families that I have met are inspiring people, they get up every morning, holding the deepest pain in one hand and hope in the other. They remind us about the tremendous strength within the Jewish people, about the light and power within us. They didn’t choose this mission, but they carry it with courage and try to choose life each day. As we stand in front of the burning Hanukkah candles and reflect on the past year, we can clearly see, along with the immense pain, and despite the darkness surrounding us, that light prevails. With each candle we light this year, we’ll remember those who are not with us and those who are fighting for us, and we’ll continue to believe that good conquers evil and that hope is eternal. Yet, in the end, hope alone does not adequately prepare us to confront the harsh realities of our world. As much as we might want our personal and national futures to be better, simply believing that they will be won’t suffice, for it is through resilience that we can transform suffering into purpose and darkness into light. In many ways, I believe that resilience deserves to be one of the most important lessons to come out of this war. Resilience doesn’t forget or ignore pain. Rather, it demands that we harness the tools to take that pain and leverage it to make us continue onward. It won’t be easy, and it shouldn’t be easy. But if we hope to harness the spirit of bringing light into a dark world, then resilience is the crucial response. Both in those days and today.