From Chiyuv to Zechut: A Milluimnik’s Open Letter to the Charedi Community

Dear member of the Charedi community,

If you’re expecting a tirade about why you should join the army, a moral lecture filled with outrage, this isn’t that. I’m not here to feel superior, to blame, or to argue.

I’m also not writing here about the sugya of milchemet mitzvah, Shevet Levi, or a halachic argument for why Charedim must serve¹. I, and the rabbis I admire who have made such arguments², cannot convince you. You have your gedolim, and they are telling you not to serve. They know all the arguments and have still come to their conclusion. You’re trust in them is admirable. No one should, or could, shake that. Any attempt to do so would likely be naïve or at least misunderstand your community.

So how should we see each other? I’ve served my share of days since the war and am currently back in milluim. Many have served far more. How do you see them? And how should they see you? What kind of relationship can we build?

The Charedi parties are on the brink of leaving the coalition. Once again, this issue is in the spotlight. Ignoring it is no longer tenable.

I know, many others know, too, that there is great beauty in Charedi life: chessed, middot tovot, mussar, deep commitment, faith, community, self-restraint, tzedakah, and of course, unparalleled Torah learning. You and your community contribute immensely to Israel, and I have no doubt that contribution will continue to grow.

Perhaps that’s where the conversation should end. We appreciate your community; you appreciate our service. Let’s stop the fighting. I imagine many of you hope for that, and if so, fair enough.

But I think that would be a shame. Because if I’m being honest, despite seeing so much beauty in your world, I have felt a deep resentment. And relationships built on resentment are bound to fail.

You might say: So, go deal with your resentment. Well, here is my answer.

my wife just told me our son was crying because I won’t be at his mesibat siyum this Friday. I wasn’t at his Chanukah mesiba either. He felt it wasn’t fair. And he’s right, it’s not.

What do I tell him?

I told him he has a zechut. A great privilege. "Do you remember the Maccabim from Chanukah?" I said. "You're part of a family of Maccabim! You’re not just a little boy in gan—you’re helping Am Yisrael. When you do something good in gan, you get a nachat note. Well, Hashem is writing you a thousand nachat notes, because this is the biggest nachat in history."

Did it help? Maybe a little. He’s still frustrated. But perhaps the only real relief from the feelings of injustice is to transform them into pride.

At the start of the war, my wife and I even felt betrayed. One podcast guest passionately claimed that Kollel guys and their wives should get free coffee just like soldiers, because their mesirat nefesh is the same, or even greater than ours³. Maybe that shocks you, maybe it doesn’t. Perhaps you even agree. But for us, it was devastating. To compare our sacrifice to yours, that comparison revealed a profound lack of understanding.

Could explaining the difference help? The difference between battle and an air-conditioned Beit Midrash? Between not knowing whether your spouse is alive, and allowing them to go to night seder?

I’m not sure it would. Because your community feels you have the zechut. The ultimate zechut: to be part of the Torah world.

And maybe that’s the shift we need. Those who serve need to adopt the language of your world, not resentment, not comparison, not even obligation (moral or halachic). No more looking sideways at each other. We need the language of privilege. A privilege that only those who experience it can truly understand. A privilege of historical and spiritual magnitude.

You know your privilege.

What is our privilege?

In religious terms, it looks like this:

To wake up and say Modeh Ani and Elokai Neshama, with a real awareness of what it means not to wake up, like our friends.

To grab a moment to learn Torah, after being under fire, sleep-deprived and hungry, and finally understand the verse: Ki ha’adam yamut ba’ohel⁴.

To sing Gam ki elech b’gei tzalmavet, Lo ira ra ki Atah imadi and feel David Hamelech’s reality, warrior, afraid, but cradled by Hashem’s love.

To know what Gidon felt as he fought in fear, in the middle of the night, and overcame it.

To follow in the footsteps of Shimshon, who went to Gaza to rescue his people, alone,even when not all his people were with him.

To perform chessed quietly, after three days without sleep, whisper to your friend: “You rest, I’ll keep watch.”

The Chessed, of crawling out of a tank under fire, dragging an iron cable through the mud to save a sinking one. Pulling harder to help your friend.

To hold each other, after losing a comrade, and sing by the Chanukah candles in Gaza, understanding the Maccabim’s sacrifice.

To turn off the white light, switch on the red-infrared, as not to be seen by the enemy, just to read a few lines of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai’s teachings, hiding and understanding him in hiding.

To see limmud truly bring one to ma’aseh, when faced with Shabbat, niddah, and moral dilemmas in combat.

To understand bitul⁵: letting go of your ego, becoming a cog in something greater. If you need a wheel, I will be that wheel.

To know that emunah is not abstract, but lived, and to be willing to give the ultimate korban to protect Hashem’s people.

To read Torah not just as history, but as living truth, as part of the legacy of Yehoshua, Gidon, Shaul, David, and Yehuda Hamaccabi.

We are not nebech. We are not miskenim. We are privileged.

We are part of something great, living through a historic moment. Those who gave their lives will be remembered as heroes. Those who served with them are privileged to have kept the Jewish people alive and served Hashem with greatness.

You might feel sorry for us. Don’t.

We don’t need your hafrashat challah or your perek of Tehillim. Our wives do hafrashat challah, and they know real sacrifice. We say Tehillim with a kavanah few outside this reality can imagine.

So what do we need from you?

Nothing. You're right. You have no obligation. Your rabbis told you so. We don’t expect otherwise. We will learn to appreciate you without it.

It is our privilege to do this. We have the greatest zechut—perhaps the greatest zechut in the history of our people.

You might say this sounds like ga’avah, but It’s not personal pride. It’s pride in Am Yisrael, in a Torat Chaim, a linign torah, and in Eretz Yisrael. Hashem chose us, not to be superior, but to carry a sacred responsibility. That’s what we carry, with honor.

Sure, we don’t always live up to that zechut, whilst in the army. We don’t always daven enough, learn enough, do enough chessed. I definitely don’t, it is hard. But that is our challenge.

So how should we see each other? How should you see us? I believe privilege is the right language.

Let me now speak inwardly to my own community of servicemen and women:

The more we see ourselves as privileged, and the more we help those around us adopt that framing, the less room there will be for resentment.

So, the next time someone says, “Ah, poor you,” or “Don’t go back—haven’t you done enough?” or even, “That must be awful, I’ll daven for you”—correct them, gently.

Say: It’s my zechut. Thank you for your concern, but truly, it’s a privilege.

And, if you are charedi and you want to create mutual respect, think about adopting this language when you meet a chayal:

“I cannot begin to understand the sacrifice you’ve made for Am Yisrael. You carry a tremendous zechut—and I admire that about you.”

It has been the greatest zechut for many of us to be small parts in the fight for Am Yisrael in Eretz Yisrael.

1. For a short and well-argued discussion of this see: Charedi Enlistment: A Torah Conversation? - Tzarich Iyun

2. Rabbi Tamir Granot, who lost his son in the war, put out the following video: If Your Brothers Go To War | Rabbi Tamir Granot responds to Chief Rabbi Yitzchak Yosef

3. This was the podcast: War Update With American Oleh United Hatzalah Volunteer Daniel Esses | Kiddush Club - News for Jews

4. This is taken from the explanations on Parshat Chukas, that explain the verse of when a man dies in a tent, as refering to real dedication in the tent of the torah, and a yeshiva student has to be metaphorically willing to sacrifice everything for torah study.

5. An important idea in Jewish thought, especially hasidic thought, regarding the nullification of the ego in the face of God.