Days before our trip to Israel, I had read several recommendations in the WhatsApp group for the parents of “Lone Soldiers.” If the Hashmonaim Brigade was scheduled to arrive at five in the morning, the advice was to be at Jaffa Gate, one of the main entrances to Jerusalem’s Old City, by 4:45 at the latest. Many families and friends were expected to gather there to welcome the soldiers after a long, exhausting, and demanding journey.
The night before, I set the alarm for 3:30 a.m. At that hour, however, Jerusalem was still asleep.
Lisa and I quietly left the hotel and made our way toward Jaffa Gate. We walked for about fifteen minutes, passing through the Mamilla shopping center, which was practically deserted at that hour. The city was enveloped in that bluish darkness that precedes dawn, when the night has not yet ended, but the day is already beginning to announce itself.
We arrived and, to our surprise, we were the first. Jaffa Gate was practically deserted.
Shortly afterward, Nicola arrived, a mother who had traveled from the United Kingdom for the same purpose as us. We had connected with her a few days earlier through WhatsApp, and now, finally, we were meeting there, sharing the same wait and the same uncertainty.
Little by little, more people began to arrive. First a few. Then entire groups: families with young children, parents, grandparents, and friends. Each seemed to bring with them a story, a concern, and above all, the hope of seeing a son, a grandson, or a friend who had become a soldier in the Israel Defense Forces emerge from behind those ancient walls.
As dawn began to break, the area in front of Jaffa Gate gradually filled with people. There was something almost surreal about the scene: Jerusalem was beginning to awaken while we waited for our soldiers. Some spoke quietly; others kept looking toward the entrance, as though they could make the soldiers appear through the sheer force of their gaze.
We had come to witness a moment that went far beyond a simple arrival. Around nine o’clock on the evening of August 5, the Hashmonaim Brigade soldiers had begun their Masa Kumta — מסע כומתה, literally “beret march” — toward Jerusalem. In the Israeli military, these marches are a rite of passage for combat units: for approximately ten hours, the soldiers had advanced through the hills of Jerusalem carrying their full combat gear, covering a route that the IDF itself describes as approximately 45 kilometers. In the case of Hashmonaim, the march culminates in Jerusalem, where the new combat soldiers receive the blue beret characteristic of the brigade.
For Max and his comrades in arms, it was not simply a walk. It was the culmination of months of training, discipline, effort, and sacrifice. It meant moving forward for hours carrying the weight of all their combat equipment on their shoulders, but also the symbolic weight of everything they had experienced to reach that moment.
And we would be there to welcome them.
Around 4:30 in the morning, as anticipation began to grow among the crowd, I received a message from Max — Moshe. He told us that, due to the complexity of the march, they would arrive at least an hour late.
The wait had just been extended. Yet after everything we had waited through to reach that moment, one hour was nothing.
When dawn finally arrived, Jaffa Gate was already packed with people. The entrance that for centuries had welcomed pilgrims, travelers, merchants, and armies was once again becoming the setting for an arrival. Located on the western side of the Old City walls, Jaffa Gate leads toward the Christian and Armenian Quarters, from where the path continues through the narrow streets of the Old City toward the Jewish Quarter and, finally, the Kotel, the Western Wall.
In the distance, the first soldiers began to appear. The waiting turned into emotion. We watched them cross Tsahal Square, preceded by the beating of drums and the sound of the shofar: tired, drenched in sweat, some with their eyes fixed straight ahead, others barely able to conceal the exhaustion accumulated after so many hours of marching.
But they kept moving forward.
And then I understood that there was something deeply symbolic about the scene we were witnessing. They were entering Jerusalem’s Old City through Jaffa Gate, passing through a place where pilgrims and armies from different eras had traveled for centuries. But they were not arriving as conquerors or invaders. They were arriving as young Israeli soldiers who had chosen to serve and, after a long night of marching, were making their way toward one of the holiest places of the Jewish people.
Their final destination was the Kotel. There, the ceremony marking the culmination of their training would take place, along with the presentation of the berets symbolizing their incorporation into the combat unit.
The hardships and exhaustion of the night were now behind them. The march was over. But for them, something much greater was beginning.
Not long after Yom Kippur, Max decided to make aliyah, to avail himself of the Law of Return and, consequently, to enlist in the Israel Defense Forces as a Lone Soldier.
When he told us about that decision, I initially received it with great doubts, with fear, with a heart full of anguish and profound unease. Not only because of the war and the seemingly endless conflicts of the Middle East, but also because he would be thousands of miles away from his family.
However, once that initial period of fear had passed, I began to look at Max with a mixture of admiration, deep love, and immense pride. Deciding to leave behind the comforts of home in order to serve and protect the people of Israel reveals a level of maturity and selflessness that deserves absolute respect. It takes exceptional courage to take that step, leave behind everything familiar, and begin an entirely new life in defense of a nation and its people.
And then I remembered an important event that took place not so many years ago at Bellaire High School in Houston. When Max joined the track team during his senior year, he was, without a doubt, one of the slowest runners on the track.
But he never allowed that to stop him. Through sheer tenacity, hard work, and unwavering determination, he improved week after week until, by the end of the season, he had become one of the fastest runners on the team.
His coach expressed it better than anyone in the speech he gave while presenting the medals:
—When Max came to tryouts and I saw him run on the first day of training, I thought he would never make the Bellaire running team. How wrong I was. Now I look at him and feel proud of the work ethic and courage of this young man, who not only made the team but became one of its fastest and most determined runners.
He had proved everyone wrong. Not because he had been born with extraordinary talent, but because he was willing to work harder than everyone else, endure frustration, and, above all, never give up.
And perhaps that is why, that early morning, as I waited to see him appear through Jaffa Gate, I could not stop thinking about that boy who started at the back of the pack and ended up becoming one of the fastest runners on the team. The same boy who had now traveled dozens of kilometers through the night, carrying all his combat gear, on his way to Jerusalem.
The runner who refuses to give up.
Moshe:
I know that you are now entering a world of intense challenges, demanding training, and great responsibilities.
There will be days when the physical strain feels exhausting. Days when the weather is unforgiving, when the distance from home feels like an enormous burden, and when you wonder how much more you can possibly give.
In those moments, draw strength from within yourself. Lean on your fellow soldiers. Remember the runner inside you. Remember the boy who never accepted that his starting point would determine how far he could go. And always remember that you possess the heart, the endurance, and the spirit needed to face whatever comes your way.
That morning in Jerusalem, I understood something I may have already known for many years: you are not the runner who runs fastest because you never gets tired. You are the runner who, when he is tired, keeps running.
And that, Moshe, is exactly who you are.
I don’t need stories of glory. I don’t need medals or praise. I only need you to come home.
Dad