Haviv Bitton ’17

“It wasn’t until I spoke to someone that I realized how many people I knew who had fallen.”

Holding the Line: Battalion 77
On October 7th, Battalion 77 was the only one holding the tank line along the border with Gaza. Every story related to the tanks that day – from the tank everyone saw go up in flames to the lone tank that saved lives at the party in Re’im – involves people I know personally. All my friends from the battalion, everyone I know, were caught in intense battles, and either survived with incredible tales of heroism or were taken captive or killed. On October 7th alone, the battalion lost more than twenty men and women — twenty people I knew personally, including very close friends. Among the hostages are Omer Neutra, Nimrod Cohen, and Matan Angrest, who are still being held captive. [Since writing these words, Omer Neutra has been declared dead by the IDF, his body still in Gaza.]

The events of that day are still hard to process. No one expected something like this to happen. While losing soldiers in Gaza was tragic, we knew we were at war and risking our lives. But that day, we also experienced losses we never thought possible. Naama Boni, the battalion’s Mashakit Tash (in charge of the soldiers’ welfare), was killed during the attack on the Yiftach outpost. She wasn’t a combat soldier, she just happened to be on guard duty. It’s something you can’t process. For anyone from Battalion 77, that date weighs heavily on the heart.

Part of the difficulty, for me, is that I had just left the battalion and was far away. I wanted to be with them, fighting alongside my unit to defend the country. Battalion 77, shortly after 10/7, was the first to enter Gaza and was one of the leading forces. After four years of training and becoming an officer, that’s where I wanted to be. At first, I tried to return to the battalion, but I quickly realized I had a responsibility to stay back and train the recruits.

Training Recruits for War
Soon after the war began, we realized it wouldn’t end in 40 days like Operation Protective Edge, and that these recruits would eventually be fighting in this war. We didn’t know if it would be in Gaza or Lebanon, but we knew they would be going to fight. The training was short, intense and highly focused. We were very clear with the recruits – we didn’t sugarcoat anything. We explained the risks and their responsibilities. I told them: “If there’s something you can’t do now, you won’t have time to learn it later. Prepare yourselves – mentally, physically, professionally – because in six months, you’ll be going to war.” Some recruits couldn’t handle the pressure and didn’t stay. Not every combat recruit enlists with the understanding that tomorrow they’ll be putting their lives on the line. 

Later, when I joined the fighting and met the recruits I had trained in the field, it was deeply moving. Not being with Battalion 77, which felt like home, was hard, but seeing the recruits I had prepared now fighting in real time gave me a sense of closure. It felt like I had made a meaningful contribution to the war, that I was where I needed to be.

Bringing the Hostages Home
About six months into the war, after completing two cycles of basic training, I joined the 7th Brigade in Gaza for four months of combat. It was extremely challenging, and there were times when I wasn’t sure what we were doing there. But some of the most significant moments for me were the hostage rescue operations. One mission that stands out was the recovery of three hostages’ bodies from a tunnel in Jabalia. It was incredibly difficult — by this point in the war, we were over six months in, and the hostages’ bodies were in a very poor state. Our goal was to recover them while trying to maintain their dignity. We always hold a small ceremony near the tunnel site where they were found, and say Kaddish, and it’s a deeply moving moment. 

There was a fear that we might never know what happened to some of the hostages. So, while it was a painful event, there was also some relief, knowing the families would at least have closure. 

The toll of war is immense and operations like these are what give you the strength to keep going. Even if you were just a small part of the operation, it made you feel deeply significant. I think everyone felt this was our mission — to bring the hostages home.

Evacuating the Wounded
One of my primary responsibilities during this time was casualty evacuation, and I was involved in many. These evacuations became some of the most powerful and lasting experiences I had during the fighting. They were difficult, but they gave me a profound sense of purpose.

In combat, especially after months in the field, you often don’t see the enemy directly. Much of our time was spent clearing areas and searching for tunnels, which sometimes made it easy to lose sight of the larger objective. But evacuating the wounded kept me grounded. I understood its critical importance and the need to act swiftly and accurately to save lives. Regardless of the war’s objectives, this was something unequivocally important and meaningful. It kept me going, every day.

However, casualty evacuation is a brutal task. The wounded must often be stripped completely to assess their injuries, leaving them exposed, dirty, and in pain. It’s harrowing, to say the least, and the sight of severe injuries is something you can’t easily forget. The process is mechanical: you move quickly, sometimes having to prioritize those who can still be saved while moving those who are beyond help aside. There’s no room for emotion in these moments; you focus on the task at hand. Looking back, it’s hard to grasp how robotic we became. But after four months, the emotional toll became too much. The weight of those experiences stayed with me, and it is the reason I haven’t gone back yet.

Too Much for Anyone
I enlisted with the belief that serving as an officer was both the right thing to do and an important responsibility. It was crucial for me to be part of the war and not leave until I had actively taken part. Looking back, I realize that evacuating casualties was an incredibly harsh role. At the time, I thought it was the most meaningful thing I could do — more important even than being on the front lines. But in hindsight, it was a grueling job — one of the hardest I’ve ever done. I don’t know if I’d do it again. It took me a long time to process how harrowing that experience was and to understand the profound toll it took on me, both as a 24-year-old and as a human being. It also took time to admit I needed to talk to a professional about it.

I was only in the war for four months, which is nothing compared to the scale of the conflict. I wasn’t on the front lines, and I didn’t have bullets whistling past me every day, but my life was saved in Gaza multiple times, and I have to acknowledge that. I now realize it was too much for anyone my age.

It’s difficult for me to admit, especially as an officer, but right now I can’t bring myself to wear the uniform again. It’s even hard to look at a tank. I need this break before I can return to duty. At first, I told myself I’d go back when the fighting started in Lebanon, but when it came, I still couldn’t do it. I’ve come to terms with it, but it’s taken time to put myself before the army — before what I felt I should do.

When I talk about this, I don’t want pity. I’m not sharing this for people to say, “Look at what he went through.” I’m okay. But I do wish everyone who was there would talk about it. Even one conversation can make a difference. Just saying it out loud can help.

Facing Grief
It wasn’t until I spoke to someone that I realized how many people I knew who had fallen. It took me over a year to face the grief, visit cemeteries, and attend memorial services. One of my soldiers fell in Nahal Oz on October 7th. He wasn’t just a soldier; I had been his commander for almost a year, and we had a strong bond — he had been to my house, and I to his. I’d talk regularly with his mother, but it took me a year before I called her. I cried on the phone, apologizing for not reaching out sooner. I had been suppressing it until then. She told me, “I wondered where you were, but I understand. Everyone copes in their own time.”

Only through counseling did I realize that I couldn’t keep suppressing the grief. This is the struggle I’m facing now: visiting cemeteries, going to memorials, and reaching out to families — even when it’s hard. It still feels strange to say, “I knew him; he was close to me.”