I’m not a crier, but this month I’ve cried more than I ever have in my life. To type that last sentence took a lot actually. Anybody that knows me knows that that sentence could not be more true, I’m a tough kid, hell, I was a Golanchik, to every extent. I was a sprinting, shooting, never stop no matter how much weight was on me, no matter what obstacle was in front of me animal, that had fire in his eyes and saw only that Golani tree and the Israeli flag. But this month, I cried.
I cried out of sadness, I cried out of hope, I cried out of inspiration, and at the end of it all I cried out of pride. My first tear was shed at Ezra Schwartz’s funeral.
Back in May, I was released from one of the greatest highs of my life, a high called the IDF. A phase of pride, of intense bleeding Zionism, and feeling that I was doing the right thing and going down the right path toward giving my life some meaning but more importantly giving myself and establishing myself as a die-hard Jew. No matter what, I was Jewish thick and through, proud of it, and anyone that would threaten Israel, was threatening all the Jews of the world, and they’d have to go through me.
During this phase, I made the best of friends a man can ask for, people that would do anything for me and I’d do anything for them. Taking a bullet for each other was an expression we took seriously because we meant it. I found myself and grew into the man I am today, a man that humbly knows I have much more to learn and grow, that hopes to forever grow. So when it came to deciding on whether to go back to America or not for a year, my heart said no, but my mind said yes. I had too much to gain from America in one year to not go. And so it was, with heartfelt goodbyes and what we call in the army “shvizut,” I got on a plane, and took off, leaving everything behind that defines me and who I am: my home, my new family, my brothers and sisters.... Read More: Times of Israel Blog
