The Return of Israel’s Silver Platter

The morning of October 7th shook the State of Israel. The massacres in the settlements in the Gaza Envelope caused deep shock and inconceivable pain, but no less than that, it revealed deep and forgotten layers in Israeli society’s identity. For a period of time Israeli society underwent a sharp and startling transformation. From a divided and fragmented “liberal-individualistic” it became a cohesive, unified collective with an extraordinary willingness to sacrifice (at least in the immediate aftermath of the devastation). People who just the day before had taken part in a bitter and divisive civil struggle, declaring that they would not report for reserve duty, risked their lives, streamed to the Gaza border, and reported to army bases, together with fellow Israelis who the day before they viewed as adversaries (or even “enemies”).

The stories of patriotic sacrifice on the part of civilians who went out to fight without being called, the last words of soldiers aware of the mortal danger they were prepared to face, and the dignity of bereaved parents and families have left us all awed and speechless. People pinched themselves and wondered, “Is this the same Israel and the same young generation that we have known for the past decades?” The transformation was sudden and sharp, and it seems to have resurfaced long-forgotten values from the depths of oblivion. It is connected to other phenomena that have been occurring in the country recently, and raises fundamental questions about the true nature of Israeli society.

The Last Letters: A Window into a Generation’s Soul

One of the most striking phenomena to emerge during the war was the “last letters” of soldiers who died in combat, wills and testaments that young soldiers sent to their families, with the intention that they would be opened only if they did not return home. Dozens of such letters were published during the war. Many of these have now been collected in a Hebrew volume, If You’re Reading These Words (Toby Press). Only about ten percent of the fallen are represented in this book, but the writers come from all walks of Israeli society, yet taken as a whole we see recurring motifs and worldviews that cut across sectors and bridge divides.

Shai Arvas, 20, from Holon, who was a combat medic in the Givati Brigade, wrote to his parents and girlfriend:

I miss you and I love you. The truth is that I’m happy to do what I do to save people and protect the country because it’s something I always wanted … and now I had the opportunity to do it and give of myself…. None of this was in vain and it was all worthwhile. May the entire people of Israel continue this tradition, to love the country, so that the people did not fall here for nothing.

Ben Zussman, 22, from Jerusalem, was a tactical engineer in the reserves when he was killed in December 2023. He wrote to his parents:

If you are reading this, something must have happened to me. As you know, there is probably no one happier than me right now…. I am happy and grateful for the privilege of defending our beautiful country and the people of Israel…. I won’t allow you to sink into sadness. I had the privilege of fulfilling my dream and calling…. I am full of pride and a sense of mission and I’ve always said that if I have to die, I wish it would be in defense of others and of the country.

A few weeks later, Yosef Gitretz, a 25-year-old hi-tech entrepreneur from Tel Aviv and a reserve armored fighter wrote to his parents before his death in battle:

Dear Mom and Dad: I love you very much…. I chose this myself. I lived a good and interesting life…. I would do the same if I could choose again…. I fell with honor for my people. I have no regrets.

Eden Provisor, a 21-year-old officer from Alfei Menashe, dictated his last will to his father over the phone, two days before he fell:

Dad, I ask that you listen to me, without getting angry…. We are in hell here and the situation is dire…. There is a chance that I will not return home…. Don’t live in sadness…. I am proud of what I do, and even if something happens to me, it will happen, and everything will be fine. I am on the mission of my life, protecting the Land of Israel…. I had a good, a full life.

Matan Vinogradov, 20, from Jerusalem, a soldier in the Nahal Unit, a member of a family of immigrants from the Former Soviet Union and the grandson of a Holocaust survivor, wrote to his family:

If you are reading this, I am probably either seriously injured or dead…. I ask you not to cry. If this happened, it was supposed to happen…. Everything is from heaven and for a good cause…. Our people have experienced many ups and downs. We survived Egypt, the Babylonian exile, 2000 years with countless persecutions, and finally the Holocaust….

Six months after Matan, Ori Ashkenazi Nechemia, a 19-year-old armored fighter from Ashkelon, wrote to his family and girlfriend:

Dear family, if you are reading this, it is likely that things did not go as planned…. I wanted there to be something that you could find and that I would leave for you. I lived a wonderful life, without regrets, with the most amazing family and partner…. I love you so much. I did what I did out of great love for our “strange” country and do not regret a thing.

The common thread that runs through these letters from beyond the grave is their sense of mission, the willingness to take risks, and the knowledge that they may not return. Words like “people” and “nation,” which in the recent past would have sounded pathetic and archaic, are repeated again and again. As Nadav Eyal put it (to the news outlet Ynet): “Words that in ordinary days can sound like empty slogans, they simply aren’t like that anymore.” In addition to the soldiers’ letters, we can add the many parents who stood strengthened and comforted by their children’s motivation to defend Israel, and risk their lives for the common good.

The letters, the words, and this form of discourse at this point it the history of the State are almost incomprehensible, especially in light of the transitions that Israeli society has undergone in recent decades. To try to understand how surprising this is, let’s begin with a brief overview of how we arrived at this moment.

A Brief History of Ultimate Sacrifice

During the first decades of the State, the needs of the many were seen to outweigh the needs of the few, or the one, and the death of an individual for the sake of the collective and survival of the nation was considered the ultimate sacrifice. Even before the establishment of the State, the Yishuv enthusiastically adopted Joseph Trumpeldor’s motto, “It is good to die for our country,” which was widely quoted by figures such as the secular-saint, author, and martyr Yosef Haim Brenner, David Ben-Gurion, and many others. In 1947, poet Natan Alterman’s “The Silver Platter” (“Magash ha-Kessef”) was enshrined among Israel’s cultural treasures. In response to the euphoria sweeping Palestine following passage of the U.N.’s Partition Plan, on November 29th of that year, Chaim Weizmann reminded the Jewish community that, “A State is not given to a people on a silver platter.” In Alterman’s poetic response, a lifeless young boy and girl face the nation. To the people’s question, “Who are you?,” the youngsters quietly reply, “We are the silver platter on which the Jewish State was given.” The willingness of the individual to sacrifice his life for the people has been the hallmark of heroism, courage, and altruism. For decades “The Silver Platter” was read at all Memorial Day events in schools, youth movements, army bases, and in State and military ceremonies.

There is widespread consensus among Israeli scholars that, beginning in the 1970s and 1980s, this ethos of sacrifice has faded. As Israelis were exposed to globalization and privatization processes and began to develop a liberal-individualistic consciousness, “The “Silver Platter” (and what it represented) quietly receded from public discourse, no longer recited at ceremonies or resonant with the public. The individual and his or her well-being became the focus of attention. Over the years, certainly in the period prior to October 7th, we witnessed a decrease in willingness to enlist in combat units. Instead we imagined an army of tech-gurus, developing remote weapons, operating drones, and engaging in combat while sitting at a terminal, ensuring the well-being of those who serve (and those at home), while simultaneously investing in future career and financial success in the tech-sector. The place of sacrifice for the common good was subverted by emphasis on individual happiness and achievement. This is how IDF soldiers became “Yeled shel Imma,” which doesn’t precisely translate as “Momma’s Boys,” but conveys the idea that each soldier’s mother viewed her job as protecting him from the army and the system rather than handing him over on any variety of platter to the State. Instead of reciting “The Silver Platter” on Memorial Day, they sang “In our Kindergarten” (“Etzlenu ba-Gan” recorded by Shaylee Atari, 2014). The song’s lyrics, spoken from the perspective of a nursery schooler, depicts the vulnerability of Israel’s children who even at a tender age understand the inevitable fate of some classmates—or themselves—once draft age arrives.

And then, suddenly, on October 7th, we witnessed the return of the repressed willingness to sacrifice. It seems that the “Silver Platter” consciousness, like other echoes from the 1948 era, reemerged from the abyss of oblivion.

Echoes of 1948

The current Iron Swords War has been compared many times to the Yom Kippur War, due to the similar intelligence blunders preceding each. But, inadvertently and surprisingly, a variety of writers have also begun to draw parallels between Iron Swords and the War of Independence. It seems that the sights of the massacre, Gazans celebrating on the ruins, the conquered Kibbutzim, the female fighters who fought bravely and rescued some of the settlements, the existential threat, and the speeches of the bereaved parents, recalled from distant memory the period of the establishment of the State. Along with the reawakening of this collective memory, the metaphor of the “Silver Platter” reemerged among dozens of writers and commentators in the Israeli public.

Another surprising phenomenon, in which the echoes of 1948 resonate with our current moment, is the letters of the fallen. Only in 1948, as in Iron Swords, were such a large number of letters penned by young people looking directly into the face of death published and made available. For example, Jacob Weiss, one of the three Irgun members who went to the gallows during the British Mandate for orchestrating the Acre Prison break, wrote to his sister, on the eve of his sentencing: “We fought for the Jewish people…. I am not sorry…. I am almost certain that we will receive death sentences. We knew what we were fighting for, and we are ready for anything.” Eliezer Seltzer, a Holocaust survivor who fell in 1948, wrote to his father: “My life is no life at all if I do not do now what I must do … and why I should sacrifice myself for my country and my people. Our generation must admit that we were privileged to fight for independence, something that previous generations did not merit to do for two thousand years.” Mira Ben-Ari, a radio operator and young mother who decided to stay with the defenders of Kibbutz Nitzanim in 1948 despite the evacuation of the women and children, tucked a letter into the coat of her son who was whisked off for safekeeping: “I will just write a few words and you will surely understand…. In our time, everything must be overcome. Perhaps because of our people’s ability to suffer and not give up, because of our stubbornness to endure … we will achieve everything that we deserve after two thousand years.” Yitzhak Zamir, who was shot down in his plane over the Negev on December 28, 1948, wrote to his parents: “Do not worry, do not be discouraged, do not be dispirited, we and our fathers and forefathers, have striven all our days towards the State of Israel—and now these days are approaching.” Esther Cailingold‏, a 23-year-old religious woman, who was killed in the Jewish Quarter of Jerusalem, wrote to her parents in England: “Whatever happens to me … I have no regrets for myself…. The effort was worth it, because I am convinced that in the end there will be a Jewish state, I will be just one of many who fell victim to bring it about…. Remember that we were soldiers and that we fought for a great and noble cause…. If I do not survive please do not be sad. I lived a full life, even if it was ‘short and sweet’—very sweet indeed in our own land.”

From these letters and many other emerges Oz Almog’s diagnosis that “soldiers from the generation that founded the State showed composure and were not afraid of death, they even encouraged those who cherished their memory not to mourn their deaths, for death in defense of the State was, in their eyes, a civic duty and a great merit.” And now, surprisingly and inconceivably, after many years of transition to a liberal and hedonistic society, the spirit of the 1948 fighters has been revived in Israeli society. An anecdotal example of this was revealed when Lt. Ivri Dickstein, a Golani platoon commander whose grandmother fought in Gush Etzion in 1948, fell in battle a year into the war. Ivri’s WhatsApp status contained the words of Moshe Silberschmidt, commander of the Gush in the War of Independence: “What are we? What is our life? The main thing is the enterprise for which we live. Our answer is resolute: The eternity of Jerusalem!”

When comparing the letters of those heroes of 1948 with those who fell since October 7th, we see both describing sacrifice on behalf of the State and its citizens as a “great merit,” as an act of wholehearted giving and mission. In both periods, the fighters link their struggle to Jewish history and the chain of generations. And, yet, with all the similarities, there is a difference. Unlike the victims of 1948, the Iron Swords martyrs repeatedly emphasize the good life and the experiences of happiness they experienced during their time on earth; they repeatedly beg their families to continue to enjoy and experience life to the fullest. Shai Arvas noted “the life and experiences we had together”; Yosef Gitretz emphasized he “had an interesting, rich, happy life”; Ori Ashkenazi Nechemia wrote, “I lived a wonderful life … and seeing you happy and content will give me eternal satisfaction”; and Eden Provisor told his father by phone: “I ask you to continue enjoying life, going on trips, flying abroad, and all the things we loved to do.” Shahar Friedman wrote to his parents and friends: “I ask in every manner of request—Live your lives! Don’t merely ‘survive’…. Travel all over the world, and do crazy things, go out dancing like I loved, listen to music—just live life to the fullest.”

The emphasis on personal experience and pleasure, nearly absent from the 1948 letters (an exception in this regard is Esther Cailingold), indicates the internalization of the process that Israeli society has undergone in the last number of decades. It traces the arc of a society in which the individual effaces himself in the presence of the collective to a society that places high value on the good life experiences of the individual. If this is the case, the question becomes even more powerful: How and why did the ethos of 1948, with its willingness to sacrifice, suddenly infiltrate this current generation?

In order to understand this phenomenon in depth, it is necessary to look at the collective mechanism that activates it. The French sociologist Émile Durkheim and his student Maurice Halbwachs explained that every human group with a shared history has a “collective consciousness” passed down from generation to generation. This is shaped by the institutions, customs, historical memory, and experiences that the group has undergone. Often, the behavior of the group and its individuals are shaped by this collective memory, even though they are not aware of it. Social psychologist Jonathan Haidt suggests how through processes of evolution, two systems of consciousness developed and co-exist within human civilization: personal consciousness, in which the individual takes care of himself and his needs, and group consciousness that ensures the survival of the species. At certain times, the feelings of the collective consciousness surface and intensify (prayer, rites of passage, times of danger), and bring the individuals to act as a team and think about the whole.

Herein lays the solution. In the State of Israel, two patterns of life arose simultaneously, stemming from parallel consciousnesses. The overt consciousness that emerges in public discourse is a Western, liberal-individualistic, universal one. Alongside this, a deep Jewish consciousness lives and breathes, and connects to the things that the Jewish people have undergone and experienced throughout the generations (the Diaspora, the Holocaust, the War of Independence, alongside halakhic customs that have been observed over time). The dramatic transition initiated after October 7th was not an external process imposed on society, but an outbreak of the Jewish depth consciousness, which had atrophied but was there all along, ready to arise in times of danger. It animated the 1948 consciousness, and was at the ready to energize a broader Jewish “deep consciousness” when drafted to the task following Simhat Torah 2023.

Of course, it can be argued that this is not a deep consciousness at all but a natural response, unity in the face of an existential threat, like antelope herding together at the sight of a predator. But this explanation is inadequate. In other liberal societies that experience an existential threat, people simply left the country if they could (Ukraine, for example), while here people struggled to return to Israel in order to defend it. The war also triggered many other deep phenomena affecting Jewish society in Israel and throughout the Diaspora. For example, one of the areas greatly affected by the events of October 7th is a flourishing of a sense of “Jewishness”—Jewish identity and engagement—in Israel and around the world. According to a study by the Jewish People Policy Institute, the offensive “had a great impact on Jewish identity, especially in the Diaspora,” and a UnitED study showed that there is an increasing demand for Jewish schools in the Diaspora. Sheryl Sandberg, the former senior executive at Facebook, said that

in the past, people would ask me: Are you a Jewish-American or an American-Jew? Which part of your identity comes first? Since October 7th, I sit here as a different person. Today, being Jewish is as central to my identity as anything else. I sit here as a proud Zionist and a proud Jew, in a way I couldn’t have imagined a year and a half ago.

As in the Diaspora, countless Israelis from across the political spectrum have testified to the deepening of their sense of Jewishness. The writer Yossi Sucary admitted that “I have never felt so Jewish”; the writer and poet Maya Tevet Dayan said in a TV interview:

I’m once again talking about us as a “people,” it gives me a lump in the throat… Before October 7th I didn’t feel [a sense of “family” with my countrymen]…. I felt that somehow by chance I was born here, and now, let’s see what we do with it…. I raised my daughters as international “citizens of the world,” and we lived in many places and spoke many languages. Now, it’s as if I’ve been tossed and landed at the other end of the field—suddenly, willingly or unwillingly, I am part of the people of Israel. Am Yisrael Hai, this people of Israel are religious, they are secular, I am the people of Israel—something I would never have told you before October 7th, I am Am Yisrael. It was not a matter of choice.

Screenwriter and author Omer Barak added:

If I should search my soul, and the things I used to think and today I think differently, one thing comes to mind that I used to refuse to say: Ani Yehudi, I am Jewish. Wow. How I hated those words…. I wanted to believe that I was a man of the big wide world … that my Judaism was not part of my identity. [Now,] I am proud of my Judaism. I’m ashamed that I denied it.

The depth consciousness not only aroused Jewish identity, it also activated halakhic customs that had been dormant in the Jewish people for generations. This explains how hostages in the tunnels who had never observed tradition began to keep Jewish customs in captivity—we’ve all heard the incredible stories of how they fasted on Tisha B’Av and Yom Kippur (Liry Elbag); kept Shabbat and kashrut to the best of their abilities (Agam Berger); began to recite berakhot over their meagre rations (Keith Siegal); or said Shema Yisrael every morning (Eli Sharabi). It seems this collective Jewish consciousness explains what Keith Siegal told Yediot Ahronot:

I started saying the blessing before eating, “Blessed are you, the Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth,” and after every meal I also said a blessing. I didn’t remember the [correct] blessings, but I saw someone on TV say, “Creator of all kinds of food” [bore minei mezonot] so I started using it…. I said Shema Yisrael twice every day, and added, “Blessed is the name of the glory of His kingdom forever and ever.”

Shir, Keith’s daughter, said that when she asked her father upon his return what to prepare for Friday night dinner, he replied: “What I really wanted most when was in Gaza was a Kiddush cup and a kippah to put on my head.” Remember, this is a man who by all external criteria would have “coded” as secular. The deep Jewish consciousness also explains why army officers shouted Shema Israel on October 7th with their soldiers before going into battle, why Itay Shavi, a member of Kibbutz Be’eri, held fast to the handle of the safe-room and repeated Shema Israel over and over while the terrorists tried to force their way in, as did Ohad Ben-Ami, whose final WhatsApp message as he was taken into captivity said: Shema Yisrael.

Jewish deep consciousness also explains the absolute Israeli consensus that enormous efforts must be made to return the hostages (far beyond what any other country in the world would do). The Jewish guarantee and the commandment to redeem captives, which have been ingrained throughout the generations, still flow in the depths of Israeli society.

The Hamas terror attack opened a window into this Jewish-Israeli deep consciousness, a consciousness that public discourse and scholarly research tends to ignore. It turns out that beneath the political debates, strife, and clashes over values, a deep shared Jewish consciousness lives on—one that connects generations, past and future, and binds individuals with the collective. It includes layers of ancient Jewish identity alongside modern Israeli identity, creating a unique blend that characterizes Israeli society in times of crisis and in everyday life.

This consciousness can explain other phenomena in Israeli society, such as the supreme value attributed to family life, high birth rates compared to the Western world, Israel’s ranking in the World Happiness Index, and many other things. But recognizing and understanding the depth consciousness also has implications for the practical and political spheres. For example, the protest organizations that sought to cancel the public Yom Kippur prayer service in Tel Aviv (just days before October 7th) seemed unaware that they were ambushing the depth consciousness that lives among almost the entire Jewish population. On the other hand, people who unwittingly spoke disrespectfully about the release of the hostages and the urgency of the issue also did damage to the hidden consciousness, and incurred the wrath of the majority of the public.

Carl Jung believed that as the contents of our collective unconscious are revealed to a person, it enriches his life. It seems this is true for the public as well. If we better understand the deep mechanisms that operate within us all the time, we can become wiser and know how to behave better with one another, and we can use these insights for the benefit of a healthier Jewish society. “And the rest,” as Alterman concludes his poem, “will be told In the chronicles of Israel.”

Dr. Moshe Weinstock, a Fellow at the Shalom Hartman Institute, served as chairman of the Pedagogic Secretariat in Israel’s Ministry of Education.