We were getting ready to leave the base when Naftali suggested I meet Or and Ben.

The two set together on a cot in a corner of the huge tent, their military vests and guns dropped to the side. They looked at least ten years younger than the other reservists we had spoken to. They also looked heartbroken.

“They finished mandatory service just a month before the war began,” Naftali explained. “They were assigned to our team for reserve duty, and met us for the first time on October 7th.”

The team are part of the Carmeli Brigade, which is made up of reservists from the Golani Brigade. After doing mandatory service, soldiers get assigned a reserve unit, usually with some friends from their original squad. From then on, they meet up with the same group once or twice a year, or whenever there is a war. Over time, reserve squads of 20 develop a close bond and care for each other like brothers.

On October 7th, the Carmeli Brigade was sent to guard the northern border, then after six months they were moved to Central Gaza.

Ben and Or invited us to sit down on the cot parallel to theirs. I felt out of place, in my civilian clothing, coming from my everyday life, sitting in between piles of dark army green gear, on a stiff bed amidst the rows that lined the tent. But the two looked like they could be my younger brothers; Ben with his curly hair and tidy beard, cooling down in his military tzitzit, and Or with his Mizrachi skin tone and jet black hair—flip flops on his feet in place of the heavy boots he wore all day. Both with piercing eyes that gave away experience far beyond their age.

Ben started, “We served at the Nachal Oz outpost for two years. Our job was to guard the border. It was the army, but we had good times.”

At night they’d sit around and sing, make lighthearted jokes at each other, and share good food they got from family—or fire up a can of tuna if they had none. They were proud to wear their uniform, and proud to be in Golani.

“When the new recruits came in,” he continued, “we showed them around, and took them under our wings like we do in Golani.”

Naftali jumped in to explain. “In Golani it’s the job of older soldiers to pass down the Golani lore to the next generation. We always say—we might not be the brightest bunch, but we’re the ones you call when you need to get the job done. We don’t give up for anything. The younger soldiers need to know that’s who we are.

“I’ll give you an example from just two days ago: My team sniper got his finger blown off. He went with another guy to the hospital to get it stitched back together, and asked the doctor to hurry, because he had to get back to us in Gaza. The doctor looked at him like he was crazy, and then said, ‘oh, you must be a Golani.’ Everyone knows it about us.

“That’s why October 7th was so hard for Ben and Or. It was their friends, but also the kids they trained to be Golani. And they felt like they abandoned them.”

Or looked down, his eyes seemed to be seeing something far away. “The first thing we heard that morning was that one of our friends was killed. But the messages were coming in slowly, and very unclear. We wanted to rush down and help them, we felt like we were supposed to be there with them—we would have been if it was only a month earlier!”

“We debated it,” Ben continued. “We knew we were supposed to join our new reserve group on the northern border, and that’s where we would be given our gear. But our friends were fighting for their lives down at Nachal Oz. We almost went empty handed. We figured we’d either find a gun somewhere, or we’d fight with our fists. At least we would have been there with them. Maybe we could have saved one of them.”

Or pulled out a large sticker with a photo of a smiling young soldier. “Dolev Amouyal was our machine gunner. He was 21-years-old, a big guy, not just physically, but in personality too. He was a leader, everyone always looked up to him to know what to do.

“He was on patrol that morning with one other guy, and quickly rushed up to help, firing at terrorists while speeding to the base. A rocket landed directly on his Jeep, splitting it in half. The other guy lost his arm, and Dolev was instantly killed.”

Ben and Or made stickers in memory of Dolev, and developed the habit of sticking them wherever they fight—on the Lebanon border and in Gaza. They feel it keeps him alive, and also avenges his death.

“Sometimes I don’t know what to do,” Ben spoke slowly. “You know, things get tough out there, and I could use good advice. It feels natural to call Dolev—it’s what I’d always have done. Then I reach into my bag and all I have is these stickers.”

I didn’t know if I should let them see the tears welling up in my eyes, or hold them back because they had enough of their own.

“We lost eighteen friends that day,” Or said. “I didn’t think Daniel could ever die. We called him by his last name, Danino. Danino could make a rock laugh. He was hilarious, and no one was immune. But he wasn’t just funny; he was a genuinely happy person. From the day he was born.”

“He could sniff sadness too,” Ben took over. “If someone was having a hard time, he’d go over, and show that he really cared. He looked out for everyone, like he had a radar or something. But he was a real Golani until the end.”

On the morning of October 7th, Danino found himself on the frontlines at the Erez Crossing, fighting against a swarm of Hamas’s elite Nukhba terrorists. He directed a group of unarmed female soldiers into a building, and together with four other soldiers, guarded them until his last breaths.

“He saved them,” Ben said simply. “He was always like that, thinking about everyone else first.”

There was a long pause. I didn’t want to push it.

“But we were in the north, far away from all of them,” Or trailed off.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” I asked. “You also saved people by guarding the northern border. You also risked your life every day. We all know that.”

Ben shook his head, like I didn’t know what I was talking about. “We didn’t get to go to any of their funerals. We didn’t say goodbye.”

“We had to act like nothing happened,” Or filled in. “There was no closure, nothing to make reality hit. Just sitting in trenches in the far away mountains. Wondering if we made the right choice that day.

“After five months, we had three weeks off,” Or sat up. “We visited all of our friend’s families. We did what we should have done the week after they died. We sat with their parents, Dolev’s, Danino’s, Yaron’s, all of them, and told them all about their hero sons.”

“That must have been exhausting,” I commented. “But so brave.”

Again, Ben shook his head. “Their parents were so happy to hear all the stories of the good times. We laughed together and cried together, and hugged. It was like they were our family and we were theirs. We’re the only people who understand each other, the only ones who know what the world is missing.”

The two visited eighteen families in three weeks. Not to fill the screaming hole in their hearts, but to share it with the people who had the same hollow well.

Or handed me a sticker of Dolev, and stood up, “put it somewhere that matters,” I hadn’t noticed what was going on around us. The other soldiers in the tent were putting on their shoes and vests. They were being called for another mission in Gaza.

I held the sticker in my hands, and Ben nodded towards it. “We’ll always be Golani. But now we do it for them.”