Rabbi Avremel returns to the West Bank

Avremel slowly wakes up. The sun has just risen; it won’t start burning for a few hours. This time, he slept peacefully; he has gotten used to the constant crowing of roosters, barking dogs, and braying donkeys. It is his second night in Ein al-Hilweh, a Palestinian community in the West Bank. Through a hole burned into the tent, he sees the Israeli flag.
His host has been up for a while. He hands Avremel sweetened tea and stares at him intently. Avremel senses it’s time to go. His mission is complete: he stayed the night to protect Hamid and his family from another attack by Jewish settlers. Just a few days earlier, they had raided the farm: punctured the water tank, damaged the solar panels, and set fire to the tent. Luckily, Hamid managed to put out the flames in time.
On his way back to Jerusalem, Avremel passes road signs with names written in English and Hebrew. The Arabic has been sprayed over with blue paint. As if someone were trying to erase any trace of Palestinians from the West Bank. Seven years ago, Avremel also believed that "Palestinians aren't from here, so they can simply be resettled and somehow compensated for the loss of land." Seven years ago, he appeared in Palestinian villages and refugee camps in uniform. He marched through the streets fully armed, searched homes, mapped buildings, escorted armored vehicles, and shot. He believed that he was protecting Jews around the world.

Rabbi
"Jews are in danger." Avremel heard that over and over as he grew up in the UK. The Orthodox Jews in his community often quoted Golda Meir, the former Israeli Prime Minister: "We will only have peace when Arabs love their children more than they hate us."
Avremel was afraid to walk the streets wearing a kippah on his blond hair. "I didn’t walk, I ran, to avoid getting into fights with kids." But he could not escape British adults in cars. They would roll down their windows and hurl slurs like "dirty Jew" at him. Small, bespectacled, dressed in black pants and a white shirt, Avremel never reacted. He just picked up the pace to reach the synagogue as fast as possible, where he was safe from insults and bottles hurled from car windows.
He wasn't the only one. Many Jews in the UK still experience antisemitism. The number of antisemitic crimes spikes every time conflict erupts in Israel and Palestine. During the 2008 Gaza War, incidents rose by 60% compared to 2007; in 2014, they doubled compared to 2013. During the Unity Intifada in May 2021 and after the October 7, 2023 Hamas attack, new records were set.
Between 2013 and 2018, nearly one-third of British Jews considered emigrating due to a lack of safety. After October 7, nearly half considered leaving.
Avremel didn’t experience those spikes in his hometown. In 2011, at the age of 14, he moved to the US. He convinced his parents to send him to a yeshiva. "I was done with school. It was just a storage room for kids, not a place to learn anything real. I was bored by the lessons. But studying Talmud was an intellectual challenge," he explains while we are walking in his neighborhood in the UK.
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At 14, Avremel has acne, and still wears white shirts and black jackets, and glasses. He shares a room with three strangers. He wakes at 6:30 a.m., jumps into a van, and ten minutes later enters the mikvah to purify himself. He spends the day doing as told: diligently studying Jewish law, meditating, praying. He doesn’t complain. At least he had freed himself from parental oversight and no longer must run from street fights.
But late at night, he breaks the rules. He sneaks out to Lake Michigan with a Chicago-born friend. They cycle through South Side, the city’s most dangerous neighborhood, and stop at Starbucks for coffee on the way back. It was their little ritual. "Unfortunately, it was cut short. They saw on the security cameras that we were leaving the building."
As punishment, they are banned from going on outreach together. Avremel needs to find another partner to persuade Jewish lawyers to practice Judaism. "The new guy was from rural Pennsylvania. He lacked social skills but was very dedicated. He taught me not to care what others think and just do what you believe is right."
They would walk into glass office buildings and ask at reception if any Jewish lawyers would be willing to talk. "We often succeeded; we didn’t look threatening. But sometimes people told us to get lost."
“From time-to-time security guards stopped us”. Then, Avremel had to figure out how to enter the building. He could not expect any help from his partner. "He was hopeless. I could slip in through the back door during a delivery."
Avremel didn’t have a prepared speech. "We aren’t Mormons. We didn’t get instructions from rabbis on how to deal with rejection or atheists. Our job was to show the beauty of Judaism and encourage people to do a good Jewish deed—even donating a single coin to charity brought you closer to God. It wasn’t about telling people what not to do. If someone ate a pork sandwich, I didn’t tell them to put it down."
One lawyer lent Avremel sci-fi books and recommended scientific articles. In his dorm, Avremel pretended to study Torah while actually reading about the philosophy of mathematics and astronomy. He met regularly with the lawyer. "He told me that listening to me was a sign of respect and I should return the favor by being prepared. To debate, you need to know the other side’s arguments. He was right."
He never felt intimidated in those conversations. "When you're a teen, you think you know everything. Back then, I truly believed I understood it all."
Those debates convinced him that religion isn't the answer to everything. "It remains static, while reality evolves. And people don’t need religion to know what’s right."
Avremel was never deeply religious. He followed all Jewish rules but didn’t feel guilty for switching on a light during Shabbat. "At nine, I became interested in girls, which clashed with religious life. I was even suspended once for talking about bees and flowers. In an ultra-strict Hasidic elementary school, that was unacceptable."

Tefillin
Thirteen years later, 10,000 kilometers from Chicago, on the occupied West Bank, Avremel rolls up the sleeve of his sand-colored shirt. Just like during his meetings with lawyers, he puts on tefillin—two small black leather boxes containing Torah verses, which Jews tie to their arm and forehead with leather straps.
Avremel no longer tries to convince non-religious Jews to practice Judaism. Now he shows Jewish settlers that not only "loud leftist activists" come to the West Bank, but also rabbis from abroad, former soldiers who know exactly what’s happening on occupied lands.
"Some settlers wear large kippahs and long payot—this extremist group has hijacked Jewish symbols. It’s time to reclaim them. And to show that these Jewish settlers have nothing to do with Judaism. They use religion for their own ends while committing acts that go against Jewish commandments. For example, they destroy olive trees and Palestinian property."
After a few days in the West Bank, Avremel feels at ease. His earlier nervousness has faded. Now he chats with Palestinians and volunteers, takes in his surroundings, and admires the semi-desert hills surrounding Palestinian communities. He embraces the quiet, fully aware it is just a semblance of peace.
"I served one side of the conflict. I returned to try to make amends. That’s why I spent those five nights with Palestinians. I had long talks with Hamid. I asked him how the war in Gaza changed his life, how he views the military presence. He said it’s possible to communicate with the army. It’s the settlers who are the greatest threat."
"Did you tell him you served in the Israeli army?"
"No."
There is silence for a moment. Then Avremel adds: "Before coming to the West Bank, I thought about it. On the one hand, I wanted to confess and just be honest about who I was. But I decided not to reveal it immediately, because I didn’t know how people would react. Maybe some are traumatized by the army. Many volunteers have already completed their military service. But Palestinians never ask if you served. Maybe they don’t want to know. If Hamid had asked, I would have told him. I wouldn’t be afraid. I know the place and his family. It would be different in Ramallah—I wouldn’t have control over who I might run into."

Admiration
Avremel met first Israeli soldiers at family Shabbat dinners, just like the Jewish students who came to the UK to study. His parents’ home was a safe haven for all Jews, as was his grandparents’. "If someone is lonely or in need, you invite and take them in," Avremel’s father tells me while I am a guest at their Shabbat table. "Until recently, Avremel’s mom used to prepare dinners for 30 people. She’s a bit tired now, so we celebrate in a smaller group."
Avremel admired Israeli soldiers, like most young Jews. "They’re seen as tough guys who protect Jews. Those who came to our house had hard lives. They were on the edge of poverty. Many complained. Some offered to teach me Krav Maga, the Israeli martial art. My dad didn’t like it. He didn’t want anyone to militarize his kids."
Avremel told his parents he’d join the army once he was of age. They didn’t believe him.
"When I was 15, I saw the Israeli-Palestinian issue as black and white: Jews had to be protected from Palestinian stabbers. To solve the conflict, I thought Israel should force Palestinians to leave, pay them reparations, and that would be it. Back then, I fully agreed with the extreme views of Meir Kahane."
Kahane, an ultra-Orthodox rabbi and politician, was born in the US in 1932. At age 34, he founded the Jewish Defense League, a far-right religious and political organization in the US and Canada, created to "protect Jews from antisemitism at all costs." In 2001, the FBI classified it as a "right-wing terrorist group."
After moving to Israel in 1971, Kahane organized protests demanding the expulsion of both Palestinian citizens of Israel and Palestinians from the occupied territories. He was arrested multiple times. In 1980, he was sentenced to six months in prison for planning armed attacks on Palestinians. While imprisoned, he wrote the book "They Must Go." Four years later, his radical Zionist party Kach won one seat in the Knesset. In the next elections, it was banned for inciting racism. In 1990, Kahane was assassinated in New York by El Sayyid Nosair, an Egyptian-American citizen, while addressing Orthodox Jews in Brooklyn, urging them to emigrate to Israel. He was buried in West Jerusalem.
"Antisemitism obviously doesn’t justify violence," says Avremel now, at age 27. "Besides, what has antisemitism become? The Israeli government has a long history of using antisemitism for its own ends. The fear of persecution is still alive. Fueling that fear is a very useful manipulation tactic."
This fear, rooted in Jewish historical trauma, "led to the creation of autonomous Jewish self-defense groups around the world at the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th century," writes Yoav Litvin, an Israeli-American psychologist, neuroscientist, writer, and photographer, in an article for Al Jazeera.
“Zionism, a European colonial movement, recognised the potential of this dynamic. It syncretised Jewish longing for safety and self-defence with white supremacist, messianic and fascistic ideologies. This synthesis birthed a new, nationalist Jewish identity that equates Jewish safety with the construction of an exclusivist homeland in Palestine through the displacement of the region’s Indigenous populations. Settler colonial endeavours typically depend on depicting the targeted territory as “uninhabited”, and its existing inhabitants as inhuman barbarians unworthy of any land” (…) Fear in Israel is sustained through militarisation, anti-Palestinian narratives, reframing resistance as “terrorism,” remembering past atrocities, focusing on perceived threats and promoting segregation, ie, apartheid. Chronic fear induces symptoms akin to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), making the Israeli population prone to aggression masked as “self-defence”.
Soldier
Avremel was the first in his family to become a soldier. “Others followed my example. First the boys, then the girls. One of my cousins died. He joined the army because of me. I feel responsible in a way. I set in motion a chain of events that led him to Israel.”
Eli volunteered for the army in 2017. Two years later, he made aliyah—took advantage of every Jew’s fundamental right to return to Israel. Since 1950, when the law was passed by the Knesset, more than three million Jews have used it.
Eli worked as a tour guide at the Western Wall, but really, he wanted to be a diplomat. Avremel is certain he would have succeeded. “He wasn’t as pro-Palestinian as I am now, but he had empathy. His voice would’ve been a voice for moderation.”
On a November morning in 2021, Eli was walking to the Wall to pray. At the same time, a teacher from a boys’ school in East Jerusalem opened fire on passersby. He shot 26-year-old Eli David Kay in the head. Hamas confirmed that the shooter was a member of their organization.
Avremel didn’t dig into the shooter’s motivations. “I could find out why he did it, what his mental state was, but in this case, I felt I should let it go. I don’t need to know. If I met that guy, I’d probably kill him. I’m angry. At the same time, I understand the context.”
We speak 150 meters from the Western Wall, 150 meters from the place where Eli was shot in 2021, 150 meters from where Avremel in 2016 swore “loyalty to the state of Israel, its laws and authorities” and pledged to “unconditionally obey the discipline of the Israel Defense Forces, follow all orders and instructions given by authorized commanders, and devote all his energy and even give his life to defend the homeland and the freedom of Israel.”
Avremel strutted through the Old City, proud as a peacock, in a uniform much too big for him. “I was skinny back then. I had the uniform tailored so it wouldn’t hang off me. I liked how it made my butt look like.”
Avremel shows me photos from his swearing-in ceremony. “Everything changed after that,” he comments. “That uniform? Just being in the West Bank in a uniform is an act of violence. Occupation is violence. And I was part of that system. Even if I didn’t do anything scandalous and tried to treat people with respect, I’m still complicit. Two days before my service started, I spoke with my cousin. She used to be far-right, even more extreme than I was, and later became ultra-left. She told me, ‘One day, you’ll be disgusted with yourself. You’ll wonder why you humiliated a father in front of his children or made a pregnant woman stand in the blazing sun at a checkpoint.’ She didn’t criticize me for joining the army. She just warned me it was far more complicated than believing bad people want to hurt us, so Jews need protection. During that conversation, I thought: whatever—if making a pregnant woman stand in the heat ensures Jewish safety, I’ll do it. No hesitation. When I finished my service, I contacted her. I told her she was right. Even today, when I look at those photos and videos on my phone, I think: who the hell was I? She said it’s good I experienced it firsthand. She offered to organize a tour of Palestine for me to see the other side, the one the army doesn’t show you. I’d be safe, go with her friends. I didn’t take her up on it. Years later, I returned on my own.”
Holy Mission
At his swearing-in ceremony, Avremel’s parents held a banner reading: “We are proud of you.” A magnet with a photo of Avremel in uniform still hangs on the kitchen fridge at home. On the entry table, a framed picture shows Avremel smiling with a rifle at his side.
But at first, his parents were against the idea. They feared for their eldest son's safety and worried about “negative influences that could undermine his faith.” To reassure them, Avremel chose to serve in a men-only battalion.
Netzah Yehuda—Eternal Judea—was established in 1999 to enable ultra-Orthodox Jews to practice their religion during military service. Its motto is a quote from the Torah: “And your camp shall be holy.” In 2017, when Avremel served in the unit, one of its commanders explained to the newspaper Ma'ariv what that meant: the Netzah soldiers were on the West Bank on a “holy mission.”
In 2005, the battalion became part of the Kfir Brigade, which fights on the front line in what the IDF calls “the war against Palestinian terrorism.” The media regularly reports on human rights violations committed by both units. In 2015, a sniper from Netzah Yehuda shot and likely killed an unarmed Palestinian during a protest near Ramallah, and several soldiers tortured Palestinian prisoners. In February 2016, one of them was sentenced to nine months in prison for shocking Palestinian suspects with electricity. In October 2021, four Netzah Yehuda soldiers were arrested for beating and sexually assaulting a Palestinian detainee.
In April of this year, when I meet Avremel on the West Bank, media reports are discussing potential sanctions against the unit. The U.S. State Department is considering limiting military aid due to repeated human rights abuses. The issue later quieted down, and no sanctions were imposed.
“Did you know about these violations when you decided to serve in Netzah?”
“Yes and no. When I joined, the battalion had a good reputation; it was seen as a successful pilot unit that allowed ultra-Orthodox Jews to practice Judaism during service. By 2016, there were already many such units. Netzah was known for being stationed in the hottest spots on the West Bank, where the army needed control. That appealed to me. After all, if I wanted to protect Jews, I needed to be at the heart of the action, right?
It went like this: central command would send in Netzah, the situation would calm down. After four months, another unit would arrive, and things would escalate again. They’d send Netzah back—and so it went in circles. I saw brutal violence with my own eyes. I also heard about a Palestinian who shot two soldiers—one died, the other was left in a vegetative state. They found the attacker. The boys from the unit escorted him to a police base. Along the way, they beat him so badly he was covered in bruises. They may have broken a rib or two”.
Machine Gunner
Though Netzah Yehuda recruits weren’t particularly religious, they mostly came from religious backgrounds, says Avremel. The battalion attracted “young ultra-Orthodox Jews who had dropped out of school or rebelled against their parents, poor youth, extremists from Jewish outposts, and religious nationalists,” writes Yagil Levy, professor of political sociology and public policy at the Open University of Israel, in a 2022 opinion piece titled “Time to Disband Netzah Yehuda.”
During his six-month military training, Avremel still celebrated Shabbat and participated in mandatory prayers. But after completing basic training, he started sneaking out for cigarettes. He secretly used his phone on Shabbat. One soldier regularly reported him to the command for swearing. “Profanity, of course, is forbidden in a religious unit.”
The commanders didn’t punish him. “The Israeli army needed every soldier. Even someone as crazy as me,” says Avremel, laughing. “From the beginning, I pushed myself into places others avoided. That’s probably why they chose me to be the machine gunner. I was supposed to create a fire barrier. It doesn’t require strength. You just have to be crazy enough to charge forward with a weapon that sometimes doesn’t stop firing even when you let go of the trigger. You can’t stop, or your team will overtake you and enter the line of fire. During training, one thought kept running through my head: How the hell do I stop this damn weapon? What were they teaching us? That gun was a nightmare. I never used it in combat. The unit I joined after training already had its own machine gunner.”
Initiation
“Jesus fucking Christ, this is emotionally exhausting,” Avremel came into this conclusion in his first week of service.
At the beginning, he had no idea what was going on around him. His spoken Hebrew wasn’t good enough, let alone the slang.
“They took you into the army without knowing the language?” I ask.
“During recruitment, they test your level. If it’s too low, they send you to a special language course, but it’s co-ed. Ultra-Orthodox soldiers were sent straight to their units. Before I threw my first grenade, I did a two-week crash course. It was mainly intense grammar and army-related vocabulary: formations, acronyms.”
When Avremel spoke English, he had to endure punishment: lying down with his arms on gravel for a few minutes. During training, he watched what others did. “I’m a fast runner, so I didn’t struggle with the timed exercises. I just had to make sure I was running in the right direction and joining the correct formation.”
He tried his best. For every mistake one soldier made, the entire squad was punished. “It was meant to teach us responsibility.”
As his Hebrew improved, Avremel began to joke around. He used words with similar sounds but different meanings. “Like the verbs: to scratch and to scratch your balls. During training, you had to raise your hand and ask permission to go to the toilet. Once I raised my hand and asked if I could scratch my balls. The guys rolled with laughter, even the commanders.”
The training was exhausting. Avremel slept poorly. He even nodded off during a 40-kilometer march in full gear.
“What the hell did I do?” he berated himself. But he clenched his teeth. After all, he had joined the army to ensure the safety of himself, his family in the UK, and other Jews. That kept him going.
He spared his parents the details. He told his mom he was on kitchen duty or guarding the front gate. He didn’t want her to lose sleep.
He sets off on his first patrol in the field together with another recruit and an officer. When they leave the base, an order comes: Palestinians from one of the nearby villages are throwing stones at cars. The squad is to support a special unit of the Nachal Brigade, which is already there.
They set off. The road to the village is blocked. Avremel, the other recruit and the officer get out of the jeep and climb up the hill. The driver drives on, covering them. Out of the corner of his eye, Avremel sees the crowd on the hill getting thicker. A moment later, stones and Molotov cocktails are thrown at him.
It often happens like this: complete chaos. Avremel takes part in missions, but he doesn't really know what they're for. The first doubts pop up in his head: What am I doing here? What is the Israeli army doing here? Are we supposed to protect the Jewish people from the Palestinians? Is it about keeping them away from each other? Why is it necessary to scare Palestinians by setting off flares at three in the morning? What is the purpose of shooting in villages, randomly stopping cars with Palestinian license plates and humiliating Palestinians at checkpoints? And what does trans porn on the phone of one of the routinely detained Palestinians have to do with the security of the country?
To this day, he keeps coming back to these questions. “I have come to one conclusion. Neither the ideology I believed in as a teenager, nor the pro-Israeli, anti-Israeli or pro-Palestinian arguments I have heard since October 7, and even more so the slogans I heard as a child, will give me the answer”.

Peace
During his military service, Avremel learned that the Palestinians could not be simply displaced.
“You cannot bribe, suppress or erase the Palestinian identity and the ambitions for self-determination that flow from it. It is impossible. Later, I began to doubt whether the Israelis should displace the Palestinians at all. Not because it was not nice of them. It was simply not in Israel’s interests. The implications on the international stage would be enormous”.
As a child, he was fed the following statements:
The Jews want peace, but there is no one to negotiate with. You can’t do it with Hamas, and the PA is too corrupt.
While serving in the army, he pondered over alternative solutions. He asked Jewish settlers whether, in the name of peace, they would give up the land they had seized from the Palestinians. “There will never be peace here. Why are you even asking such a question?” said the first one asked.
“He lived in an outpost near the guard tower. People from this settlement were known for using brutal violence against Palestinians. One weekend he brought me a cake and homemade food. Many settlers did the same. In gratitude for our protection”.
“And what did the other settlers you asked say?”
“They claimed it was their land. They wouldn’t give it up.”
In April 2024, Avremel hears from a young Jewish woman from the oupost of Malachei HaShalom that the settlers have to be here because they are “defending state lands from the Arabs.”
“And the state can’t protect them?” Avremel asks as we stand in the middle of the outpost,in front of a white container where the woman lives with her husband and a few-year-old daughter.
“It’s not a priority. The authorities do not realize how dangerous the Arabs are. The rulers think they are poor people. And they want to kill us and take all the land for themselves.
The petite woman has a soft voice and an engaging smile. She wears loose pants, a blouse, and an openwork sweater. She has covered her curly hair with a flowery turban. She resembles a hippie.
Her husband comes out of the container when he hears conversation. He has a gun in the belt of his jeans. He says that he watches at night to protect the outpost.
"The politicians are sitting in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, they don't know what the situation is like here. They want to maintain the status quo, give the land to the Arabs so they'll be quiet. But that's not how it works, it's really a strategic place, and a flashpoint," the woman repeats.
She emphasizes that she knows what she's talking about. She's from here. She grew up nearby, in Kochav Ha-Shachar, a settlement founded in 1979 by nine young couples, partly on confiscated Palestinian land.
In 2015, a Palestinian associated with Hamas shot a 25-year-old resident of the settlement as he was returning home from a basketball game. After Rosenfeld's death, Jewish settlers established the settlement of Malachei HaShalom, or Angels of Peace. Bezalel Smotrich, the far-right finance minister calling for ethnic cleansing, legalized it in early 2023. The woman we met moved there during the first stage of the war. "It's a beautiful place. It's a small settlement; 18 families live here. We help each other. We make sure this land remains Jewish." One couple recently left settlement, they established an outpost not far from here. We pray that it will also be legalized”.

Demolitions
When Avremel was stationed near Malachei HaShalom, the soldiers were ordered to demolish the outpost and evict the residents. They did not do so. “Some of the guys from Netzah had family there. The connections with the West Bank are also something that distinguishes Netzah from other units, in which mainly non-religious guys from Tel Aviv serve”.
Avremel's unit warned the settlers from Malachei HaShalom that the army wanted to get rid of them. They assured them that they had no intention of carrying out the order. This is confirmed by Jozef, Avremel's colleague from the army, whom we meet by chance at an Israeli kosher vineyard, established on grabbed Palestinian land. Yosef's cousin has been living in Malachai HaShalom for seven years.

"The army has destroyed his house 40 times. Netzah would never do that. Netzah defended Jewish land. But I have to admit that a lot has changed since we served together in the unit. Now the army and the government are finally beginning to understand that Malachai HaShalom is a strategic place, because it is on a hill from which they can control the area and ensure the safety of the Jews who are being terrorized by the Arabs. And not for a year or two, but for five decades. They are throwing rocks and Molotov cocktails at cars. You can't just evict the Arabs, they live here after all. So, you have to learn to live with terror."
Avremel wants to know why the government changed its mind and legalized the outpost.
"Do you want to know the real reason?" – Jozef asks Avremel, who nods. “The settlers used to be pariahs, the lowest social class in Israel. Some of us look different from the rest of society, we are different from the norm, because we are sheepherders and are discriminated against for it. The police and army treat us worse than Palestinians if we end up in prison. But since the war, that has changed”.
The settlers are increasingly having a say in politics. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has a majority in the Knesset thanks to settler-backed parties. Both Bezalel Smotrich and National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gevir are settlers. “The fighting in Gaza has also increased the settlers’ influence over the military and provided a smokescreen for further plundering of Palestinian lands,” writes the British “The Economist.” "One government member put it this way: while all are distracted, last year because of the protests against the changes in the judiciary, and now because of the war, we are achieving unprecedented things for the settlements.”
Jozef, who always had the “shiniest shoes” in the army and was the only one in Avremel’s barracks who spoke English, has just moved back in with his parents, is about to start a business school. He walks confidently across the parking lot, with a gun in his pants. He has been serving in the army again since the beginning of this year. In September, when we exchange voice messages, he says that he will serve for a while longer. “It won’t end that quickly.”
I ask him about Avremel.
“What kind of soldier was he? How do you remember him?”
“As a passionate man with a calling. He really believed in what we were doing. He believed that what he was doing was right. That is unusual for soldiers who do not live in Israel. He didn’t whine, he didn’t complain. When the toughest guys screamed in pain during intensive training, he didn’t even stutter. He always helped others, whether it was cleaning or practicing religion. He encouraged others to get through the training”.
“Did you notice any change in his attitude towards the Palestinians?”
“You can’t talk about politics during your service. We didn’t bring it up then. I didn’t see him for six years after that. We only talked this year, in Jerusalem, when I went to visit him. We disagree on many things. For example, I think that if a terrorist carries out an attack, his entire family should be displaced. Wherever he carries out the attack: here, in Israel, or in Germany.”
Holy Land
Avremel and Yozef’s unit also refused to demolish part of Ofra, a settlement established in 1975 without the consent of the Israeli government. Some of the unit’s recruits came from there.
“They were so hot-headed that headquarters moved the entire unit farther north. They wanted to keep us away so that more moderate units could do the demolition,” Avremel recalls.
“Some in the unit would rather go to prison than obey an order. If the army’s goals didn’t match theirs, they said it was bullshit. They criticized headquarters for not believing that the West Bank was Jewish land. They believed that by demolishing illegal settlements and outposts, the army was trying to curry favor with the international community”.
Avremel was never obsessed with “the holy land that the Jews have received from God.” He approached the issue of Israel pragmatically, like the rest of his family: Israel is home to Jews who need to be protected from attacks. His parents, like other Hasidim, have never openly supported the existence of the State of Israel. There is no Israeli flag in the house, the idea of singing the Israeli anthem never crossed anybody’s mind, only his younger brother, who lives in Israel, has applied for Israeli citizenship.
Avremel's father has said that he prefers a German passport (his father fled Nazi Germany for Great Britain, like 70,000 other Jews, Avremel's great-grandfather died in a concentration camp in the southern Reich). It would be more useful to him in Europe than an Israeli one.
Avremel would not be able to live in Israel. "Because of the lack of tolerance for queer people and the general Arab influence, not enough liberal voices."
During his military service, on New Year's Eve, Avremel decided to kiss his friend in front of the rest of his unit. “Just for fun. I'm straight. But we wanted to provoke this homophobic group a little. You know, they had a Middle Eastern mentality. The guys didn't want to touch the food I was preparing for many weeks. I had to convince them that it is not contagious”.

Conversations
After returning to Israel, Avremel wants to talk as much as possible about the occupation of the West Bank, which has lasted almost eight decades. He takes advantage of every opportunity he can.
“Many Israelis don't know much about what's going on there. They imagine this area
as the Wild West, where a few nutcases do crazy things they would never do. They use sources of information in one language. I'm lucky, that they listen to me because I served in their army, in a unit they know and respect. That's why they trust me. Whether they agree with me or not.”
One evening in Jerusalem, Avremel engages in conversation with a passerby who shows him the way.
"How do you know Hebrew so well?" the Israeli asks.
"I served in Netzah Yehuda."
"Really? Thanks for coming."
Avremel then shares his frustration with him.
"I protected people from the Palestinians, and now the settlers are just kicking Palestinians out of the West Bank. Couldn't they have done that seven years ago? I would have saved a year and a half of my life."
"Are you sure? It's not the army?"
"Dude, I was there. They do it together, it's intentional, they've been doing it for years."
"Really?" After a moment of reflection, the Israeli states:
"You know what, the Palestinians clearly deserved it."
Despite this comment, Avremel considers the outcome of the conversation a small victory. "At least he was surprised. And for a moment he thought about what happens to the Palestinians.
Avremel will have many more such short conversations: on buses, at bus stops, on the streets. He will try to be more careful about what he says. He will not start by saying that what is happening in the West Bank is madness. "I am trying not to discourage people from me anymore. I am trying to build a relationship."
He knows that he has to be careful with his words. Some people have already turned away from him. Some have blocked him on social media. Several people have commented on his posts: "Don't forget that you were in our unit, you crazy motherfucker. You should not behave like this, turn against us."
Avremel spends a lot of time with the soldiers. He even celebrates Passover with them. He doesn't intend to talk to the settlers. He knows he won't convince them.
He'll change his mind in time. “Nobody really addresses their concerns”.
“Right-wing nationalists who support the expansion of the settlements, like Smotrich, don't listen to them?” - I ask.

“These politicians are interested in the settlements, not the settlers”.
Joseph confirms this. “There are a few politicians who offer help, but they are in the vast minority.

Jish
The journey, which was supposed to last two weeks, is getting prolonged. Avremel feels that he can't leave, he still has a lot to do. But fatigue is taking its toll. The narrow streets, the smells and sounds in the refugee camp Shuafat bring back memories of a night raid on another camp - Kalandiya. Avremel begins to hyperventilate. He wants to get out of there as quickly as possible. He hears Israeli soldiers saying that "this tourist will get into trouble here."
After this trip, he needs a whole day to recover.
As a soldier, he had only been to Qalandiya once. "You don't just go there. This place is like a fortified citadel."
The United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East established the camp in 1949 to temporarily house Palestinians who had to flee their homes during the 1948 Arab-Israeli war. Qalandiya was inhabited by residents of 52 villages, mainly from the areas of Lod, Ramla, Haifa, Jerusalem and Hebron. At first, three thousand people lived there, now four times as many. The camp, which was supposed to be temporary, has turned into a city. And a place of armed resistance, like other refugee camps, with numerous hiding places, meeting places, and training grounds. From the beginning, the occupation forces sought to increase control over the area: walls, towers, and gates were intended to isolate the camp from Jerusalem. The effect was the opposite.
“All these actions helped to further politicize the camp and contributed to its transformation into a pillar of the Palestinian cause,” writes curator and researcher Ahmad Alaqra.
Avremel goes on a night raid in Qalandiya along with 250 soldiers, police, and special forces. He thinks they are going to track down members of a gang stealing cars from Israel. But he is not sure. Ordinary soldiers do not have the full picture: they simply follow orders; they do not ask questions.
It's one or two in the morning. Avremel is sipping an energy drink. When the time comes, they leave the base through the back gate. They get off right next to the steep hill they have to climb to get to the camp. Avremel realizes that the stretcher attached to his back is limiting his ability to escape and fall to the ground. He panics.
And then it begins. Avremel hears dogs barking. It's always like this: first you hear dogs, sometimes whistles. "That's a signal that the jish, or army, is coming."
There's still a fence to cross. And they're already in Qalandiya. They march through the streets, and Avremel is consumed by fear. "That was the first and last time. At other times, I didn't care whether I'd get shot or not. The important thing was to defend the Jews, and that's it”. But in the narrow streets of the camp, motivation and automatisms instilled during training disappear for a moment. Avremel cannot look up to see if someone is dropping something on his head. Someone with a gun could be lurking around every corner. The whistles grow louder. You can hear the bang of objects falling to the ground, the whistle of stun grenades and shots. Avremel's squad searches three apartments.
They find nothing: no Israeli license plates, no cars or motorcycles. When they prepare to join a convoy of armored vehicles, stones start flying at them. They are fired upon. They cannot retreat. They are stuck in a narrow street for an hour.
That night, Avremel will not reach the convoy. He will return to the base on his own.
The return
He has been gone for six months. Returning to Great Britain, to his family home, to routine, to Friday dinners with family and friends, to a kitchen covered in instructions: what to do step by step on Shabbat, what to cook, what to serve, brings him peace, calms him down. Daily walks to the nearby park help him to breathe, gather his thoughts.
He returned to a place that has not changed. Boys with sidelocks sticking out from under their helmets speed down the street on scooters and bikes. Girls in skirts are just finishing school, leaving the yard fenced with high fencing, talking in Hebrew. At the entrance to the park, on the wall, you can see the Star of David. Someone crossed it out. On a bench in the park, someone has carefully carved a swastika.
At first glance, Avremel's parents haven't changed that much either - his father jokes, his mother runs back and forth, handing me sometimes a banana, sometime water, so that I don't go hungry or thirsty. But Avremel knows that his parents have come a long way, as he has. “They grew up with me. Once, religion was the first priority, but over time, the most important thing was the children's well-being, their comfort. I, an autistic boy, and as we know, autistic people are not very flexible, have grown out of ideological purism, abandoned the black-and-white image of the world, forced myself to learn the arguments of the other side”.
Avremel puts on a red Guatemalan yarmulke for Shabbat dinner, but he doesn't wash his hands before eating a piece of challah.
“Everyone does what they want” - his mother comments. She had previously hoped that Avremel would “return to them,” return to the bosom of faith. But there is no going back from where he is. His parents have come to terms with it. “At first, they thought I was just going through a phase of non-religion”.
In recent years, and especially in recent months, so much has happened that Avremel feels exhausted. Maybe in the future he will decide to go to therapy to cure his PTSD. But for now he intends to cope on his own. He saves his energy. He tries to limit contacts with friends. Until noon he works remotely - he wants to pay off his debts as soon as possible, he borrowed money to finance his recent trips, including to the Balkans, where he talked about working for peace, looked at deep-rooted traumas. He was provoking, as usual: he asked Bosnians if they would sleep with Serbs, and vice versa. “Everyone swore they would never do it in their life”.
Since he returned to the UK, he hasn't gone out much, he hasn't gone to the town. His world has narrowed to his family home, to the neighborhood where he grew up, to the place where he fled insults as a child.
Now he feels welcome here. He feels at home. Safe.
After October 7, Avremel had long discussions with his father about the Hamas attack. He was convinced that Israel had no choice - it had to fight, otherwise the Jews would never be safe.
Avremel was already thinking about the consequences. He feared that Israel might fall into a state of interminable war, like Afghanistan.
"There is an expression in English: a hill to die on, referring to an issue for which you fight fiercely, regardless of the consequences. Israel fights for every hill, no matter the cost”.
When we speak by phone in June, Avremel is certain that this war will end quickly.
"Israel has exhausted all its means. It cannot free the hostages and get rid of Hamas at the same time."
In August, he believes that the hostages' families are the key to ending the war. They are the ones who can put pressure on the government. In early September, he sends me a screenshot from Sky News about a general strike and protest by Israelis who are categorically demanding the release of the hostages after the bodies of six hostages murdered by Hamas were found in Rafah.
"After returning home, when the emotions about returning to Israel and the West Bank had died down and I started to put everything in order, it dawned on me that both sides of the conflict are demanding unattainable things: Israel will not destroy Hamas, the Palestinians will not regain all their lands. There are no options. A compromise is needed. The Palestinians must recognize that the division of Mandatory Palestine in 1947 into two states, although unjust, did happen. The Jewish side must finally understand that the Palestinians will stay there. There is no way to get rid of them, and cooperation will bring benefits. Jews will never be safe in a militarized country. They have let themselves be convinced that occupation is the only way to protect them. And without a safe Palestine, there can be no question of a safe Israel. These arguments about borders that cannot be protected? From a military perspective, they do not make sense. No border can be completely secured. People often receive a one-sided message: either extremely pro-Palestinian, or anti- or pro-Israeli. I, too, have sometimes succumbed to this propaganda. When I was in the West Bank, I was more inclined to believe that Israel is evil, I wondered why everyone was complaining about Netanyahu, when this government finally reflects what the public wants. But I went to a few protests and I saw that there are also people in Israel who care about this country; people who want change. The Palestinians are not saints either. Israelis still fear attacks, they find it hard to trust the Palestinians. I would be naive or stupid to say that the Palestinians are much more peaceful than some Israelis.
"As a rule, we listen to one side or the other in the conflict. And they rarely talk about compromise, when that's the only solution. If we don't decide to compromise, this war will drag on forever. The trauma will only deepen." And yet there are other places in the world that - although traumatized by conflict - somehow- have recovered, have healed the trauma, of course - not completely, but have made an effort. Israel and Palestine can get through this too. They are not in any way unique”.

The report was made possible thanks to the support of Fonds Pascal Decroos. I changed Hamid's name for the safety of the protagonist. I am not revealing Avremel's surname or the name of his hometown for the safety of his family