On the morning of October 7, Atara was home from the army.
It was Shabbat and Simchat Torah, and she was in the middle of her training to become an officer in the IDF Education and Youth Corps.
Hours after the Hamas attack, she was called back to her base. Over the weeks that followed, Atara was sent South to secure communities near the Gaza border, clear out military bases that had been overrun and ransacked by Hamas, and later, organize educational and support programs for evacuees living in hotels across Jerusalem.
Ilan was already in the South.
Just a few days earlier, he had completed a year-long course to become a military paramedic. This is a demanding position that combines advanced medical training with the responsibilities of a combat soldier. Military paramedics serve alongside infantry units and perform lifesaving surgical procedures under fire, often in the most difficult conditions imaginable.
Ilan and several friends from his course had decided to celebrate their graduation by spending the holiday at Kibbutz Sufa, which is located along the Gaza border.
When Hamas invaded that morning, they found themselves locked inside a bomb shelter with local residents. They were rescued later that day, and within days, Ilan was attached to one of the elite IDF units sent into Gaza.
He would spend the next two years in combat, treating wounded soldiers, accompanying troops into battle, and carrying a responsibility that few people his age should ever be asked to bear.
The October 7 generation builds a new future
Atara is my daughter. Ilan, as I write these words, is her fiancé. By Thursday night, they will – please God – have become husband and wife.
Over the past few months, and especially during the weeks leading up to their wedding, I have found myself watching them more closely.
I watched them with their friends at their engagement party, at the henna celebration, and at the other gatherings that accompany the joyful chaos of an Israeli wedding.
And as I watched them, I realized that I was not looking only at a young couple preparing to begin their life together. I was looking at a generation – the soldiers of October 7.
Most of their friends are now out of the regular army, although many continue to serve in the reserves. Some remain in the IDF as officers, some are still commanding soldiers, and some continue to fight. Almost all carry something with them from the war.
All Israelis know someone who the war has scarred. We all know veterans who can’t sleep at night because of the nightmares, the sudden memories, the images that remain seared into their minds and refuse to disappear. We know of the emotional price paid by those who fought in Gaza or arrived at the devastated communities along the border in the days after the massacre.
These burdens are not immediately visible. They don’t look like a missing limb or a scar from shrapnel.
As the father of the bride, perhaps I am more emotional than usual. But that emotion has also pushed me to observe these young people more carefully: Atara and Ilan, of course, but their friends as well.
They have given so much to this country and ask for so little in return.
These young people want to study, travel, and begin careers. They want to rent apartments they can barely afford and eventually build homes of their own. They want to hang out with friends, dance at weddings, complain about their professors and jobs, and live ordinary lives.
Even getting married is not simple. Over the past week, as the possibility of another escalation with Iran appeared to rise and fall by the hour, wedding plans were once again accompanied by the familiar Israeli questions: Will flights be canceled? Will reserve units be called up? Will the celebration be able to proceed?
This is what it means to build a life in Israel. Even the happiest moments exist alongside the possibility of war.
Not long ago, many people worried that this generation would not know how to stand up when the country needed it.
They were dismissed as “The TikTok generation,” “The Instagram children,” “The kids raised on video games, iPhones, and instant gratification.”
They were accused of caring more about themselves than about the collective and of lacking the resilience and sense of national purpose that defined earlier generations.
The “TikTok generation” became Israel’s defenders
Then came October 7.
It was these young people who stood up.
They ran toward the Gaza border when others were paralyzed. They reported to bases without waiting to be called. They fought in Gaza and Lebanon. They evacuated civilians, treated the wounded, organized supplies, volunteered in hotels, buried friends, and then returned to their units.
For nearly three years, they have defended this country. And now, at the same time, they are beginning to build it.
They are getting married, going to university, launching businesses, beginning careers, and planning families. They are trying to reclaim the pieces of their lives that were interrupted on October 7, even as many continue to be called back into uniform.
They are not merely Israel’s future. They are the reason to believe that Israel has a future.
This summer marks another personal milestone for me: 25 years as a journalist and storyteller.
Twenty-five years of covering this crazy little country, with its nonstop news, chaotic politics, and endless wars. Journalism can make a person cynical, and Israeli journalism can do that on steroids.
Our politics often seem all-consuming. We debate the same questions endlessly: Bibi or no Bibi? Can Gadi Eisenkot lead the country? Should this party sit with that one? Should Arab parties be part of a coalition? Was the meeting in the Oval Office a success or a failure?
These questions matter, and policy also matters. The people who make decisions about war and peace, the economy, and the nature of the state have enormous influence over our lives.
But sometimes, in our obsession with politics, we miss the point.
When I watch Atara, Ilan, and their friends dance, celebrate, smile, and jump for joy, I am reminded that the story of Israel is larger than the politicians who temporarily occupy its offices.
Israel’s founding generation established a sovereign Jewish state, and later generations have fought to preserve it
Israel’s founding generation dared to do what people before them only dreamed of doing – they established a sovereign Jewish state in the Land of Israel despite overwhelming odds, a massive military invasion, and enormous sacrifice.
The generations that followed fought to preserve it. They absorbed immigrants, built cities, established industries, developed universities, created one of the world’s most capable militaries, and transformed a small, vulnerable country into a center of technology, medicine, culture, and Jewish life.
Every generation has fought. But the responsibility was never only to fight. It was to fight and build simultaneously. The obligation is to pass on to the next generation a country that is safer, stronger, and better than the one we inherited.
We should worry about Israel’s future. The situation is precarious, and the threats are real. The country’s unity is fragile, our politics can be poisonous, and security can never be taken for granted. The last three years have taught us that catastrophe is possible in the snap of a finger.
But worry cannot be the only emotion that defines us.
We must also appreciate and cherish what is being built here. We need to look beyond the politics and cynicism and see the young people who have carried this country since October 7.
They are dedicated and committed. They understand responsibility and have been willing to pay an extraordinary price for the welfare of the collective. They are traumatized, but they are still capable of joy.
That might be the most remarkable thing of all.
After everything they have witnessed, they still choose to dance, to celebrate new beginnings, and to believe in building homes and families right here.
With young people like these, that future can be bright.