Words from the Heart, for a Day Like No Other

Memorial Day in Israel isn’t just another date on my calendar. It’s a day when time slows down, the breath changes, and the heart tightens—only to slowly open again, together with the tears. It’s a day when the reality of war doesn't leave you alone, even for a second. Because even when you're no longer in uniform, the battle often continues—inside.

My name is Itamar. I’m a former combat soldier and commander in the IDF Paratroopers Reconnaissance Unit. Today, I’m a rebirthing breathwork therapist, a psychology student, and a proud graduate of the Brothers for Yoga community. What began for me as a spiritual journey in the jungles of Sri Lanka quickly turned into something else entirely—a raw emotional survival mission that took me to the lowest places, and slowly, back to life.

“Mom, how do you pack a bag for war?”

On October 5th, I landed back in Israel after ten days of silence and meditation. I was floating—calm, centered, clear. Two days later, on the morning of October 7th, everything collapsed. Messages from my reserve unit started pouring in, and within hours, I was on my way to base.

I remember asking my mom, “How do you pack a bag for war?”She put in a banana and a pita with hummus.I’ll never forget that moment.

Days later, I was in the Gaza envelope, traveling in armored convoys, scanning for terrorists, passing bullet-ridden vehicles, breathing in smoke, diesel, and death. It was surreal—horrific and yet routine. A strange blend of violence, duty, and brotherhood.

And then—Gaza.

We entered the Strip shortly after. I remember crossing the line at sunrise—it was stunningly beautiful. My brain, half-joking, thought of the childhood game “land and sea.” Tasks, buildings to clear, roads to secure. Despite the destruction, the gunfire, and the constant stress—I still believed: "It won’t happen to me."

But on December 16th, it did.

We received intel on a tunnel system in a Gaza neighborhood and moved in. Then—a blast. Loud. Deafening. Shrapnel, screams, blood, amputations. My teammates—wounded. Some gone.

I watched my friend, Shalev, carried on a stretcher. Lifeless. That moment burned into me.It wasn’t just another mission—it became a scar. In my body. In my soul.

Back to “normal” — but what is normal?

Just ten days later, I was sitting in a college classroom. The professor was speaking about research methods. I couldn’t hear a word. My head was spinning, my body on high alert, nights filled with nightmares. I felt like an alien in a world that had no idea what I’d been through.

Eventually, I realized—I couldn't do this alone.

I reached out. To breathwork. To therapy. To yoga. To safe spaces.To Brothers for Yoga.

There, through movement and stillness, with others who had walked similar paths, I began to heal. Not by forgetting, but by feeling—fully.

The burned forest will grow again.

That’s not just a poetic line—it’s something I’ve lived. The more I allowed myself to feel the grief, the fear, the loss—the more space I found for love. For intimacy with life itself.

Meeting death so closely, so honestly, stripped me bare.And in that rawness—I chose, again and again, to live.

I am not alone.

My story is not unique. It’s part of a wider, painful truth: thousands of Israeli soldiers live with PTSD. For many, every single day is a quiet battle. On Memorial Day—it’s louder.Simple tasks that others take for granted become mountains to climb.Brothers for Yoga has become a sanctuary for many of us—a place of healing through the language of the body, breath, and heart. There, we begin to reconnect. To remember. To breathe. To live—not just normally—but with growth, depth, and purpose.

An open heart. An open breath.

So on this Memorial Day, if your heart feels heavy—give it space. Don’t push it down. Breathe with it. Share it. Write it. Feel it.

Because from brokenness, healing can grow.And from that healing—hope.

My name is Itamar, and my journey is ongoing. But today, I have tools. I have community. I have hope.Thank you for the honor of walking this path with an open heart.

I’ll end with a few translated lines from a beautiful Hebrew poem that speaks deeply to me. It’s from “Will You Walk in the Field” by Chava Alberstein—a piece that, to me, captures the very essence of the spiritual process of healing and choosing love in the face of pain:

“And you breathed the quiet, calm scent of the plowed field, and saw the sun reflected in the golden puddle. And things were simple, and alive, and allowed to be touched. And allowed to be loved. And yes—allowed to be loved.”