Rifles, Rubble and the Riviera

I’m lowering myself into an IDF Merkava MK.4M tank and am caught off guard by the sight of splatters of blood around the hatch.
“Watch your head!” yells the soldier standing nearby. I drop into the cabin of the tank. It’s rougher inside than it looks from the outside. I’m surrounded by gauges, handles, knobs, levers, and a huge machine gun attached to what looks like an endless bullet belt. The barrel of the gun is projected out through a minuscule hole in the cabin; huge projectiles casually litter the floor of the tank. Everything in here looks like it could poke you, cut you, snap at you or shoot you.
This tiny space is supposed to hold four people: a commander, a driver, a loader and a gunner. I’ve never really suffered from claustrophobia, but there’s a first time for everything. I move to the hatch and pull myself up and out of the tank. Once on top, I notice that some of the blood has come off on my hands. I look up and quickly duck down so as not to make the same mistake as the person whose blood is now staining my skin. The soldier who’d been here just a few moments before me had bumped his head on the newly installed drone shield, a pergola-like netted metal cover over the hatch designed to prevent enemy drones from dropping improvised explosives into the cabin of the tank. If a tank is hit on the outside, it might sustain some damage and soldiers might be wounded, but it would be minimal compared to the horrors that would result from an explosion within the tiny cabin. The force of the blast, contained inside the vehicle’s armored walls, would be a death sentence for anyone caught in up in it.
It’s a sunny Tuesday morning on the border between Israel and the Gaza Strip, and I’m tagging along with Moti Fried for the day. Moti, a Belzer chasid, is a world-renowned askan and baal chesed. His organization Sa’ad U’marpeh operates medical clinics throughout Israel, maintains bikur cholim rooms at hospitals, provides medical referrals and arranges events for families with children who are ill or have special needs, among many other services.
To help with the massive operation, Moti and his team have a staff of over 600 volunteers throughout the country who are ready to assist in any capacity, at any hour of the day. After October 7, Moti began fielding calls from commanders and rabbis in the IDF who needed food, clothing, religious items and other supplies for their soldiers. Moti—with his signature black beard, curly peiyos, “shvartze zucken” and a vest atop his tzitzis and shirt complete with a gold pocket watch—found himself traveling daily to the front line with boxes of warm clothing, toiletries, yarmulkes and tzitzis, but, most importantly, he showed up with love. Moral support goes a long way, and so do the barbecues and parties that Moti has brought to those fighting on the front lines.
When Moti originally offered to take me into Gaza, I thought he was either joking or trying to brag, but as I am learning, when Moti says something, however outrageous it might sound, he is not kidding around.
“There are some bullet proof vests and helmets in my trunk,” he says. “Find one that fits you.” I’m not accustomed to wearing this type of gear, but with the assistance of a nearby soldier, I try on a few vests until I find one that fits me just right. Next comes the helmet, which requires some adjustment of the straps, but after a few moments of fumbling I’m protected as best as I can be for the journey we are about to take into one of the most dangerous places in the world. Our mission: to distribute mishloach manos and megillos to soldiers on the front lines in Gaza.
Moti and Sa’ad U’marpeh have prepared over 26,000 packages for distribution to people with illnesses, soldiers, and their families. Moti and another member of his team, both wearing bulletproof vests and helmets, take a few black garbage bags from Moti’s trunk and transfer them to the IDF vehicle that will soon take us inside the Gaza Strip.

Ceasefire
It’s almost exactly two months since a ceasefire has halted most of the fighting inside the strip, but we are gearing up for an active war zone. “Why all the insistence on protective gear?” I ask a young soldier standing near me. “Isn’t there a ceasefire now?”
“Technically, there isn’t,” he responds flatly. “It expired a few weeks ago, so there’s no agreement between Israel and Hamas right now. It’s just that, at the moment, the fighting hasn’t officially resumed yet.”
This tidbit of information gives me some context about the place we are about to enter. In my wildest dreams—and I’ve had my fair share of them, some of which have even come true—I never imagined I would one day enter the Gaza Strip, and certainly not in this way. Since my childhood, Gaza has symbolized death, destruction, strife, rockets, terrorism and war. Now I am about to see it for myself.
The road we are on leads directly to a tall metal fence. There is no wall between most of Israel and Gaza. There’s just this tall fence, which has openings of two large doors at various intervals and is actually more like a tall net with small holes made up of intertwined metal cables. Yes, there are Israeli forces continuously patrolling the fence, as well as cameras, drones and sensors along its perimeter, but it’s still just a fence, albeit a tall one. In order to ensure that no one climbs over, digs under or plows through the fence, Israel employs a nearly foolproof system—but nearly isn’t enough, as was tragically seen on October 7.
The systems have been upgraded and the country has been on high alert since that fateful day. The soldiers guarding this opening in the fence check not just what’s coming out of Gaza but also what’s going in. As our vehicle pulls, up two soldiers order us to roll down our windows. They take a quick look into the car before waving us through. I take a deep breath as we pass through. We are now in what looks like no man’s land. There is another similar fence perhaps a hundred meters ahead, and after we pass through the second fence, we’ll be in Gaza proper.
Truthfully, I’m quite nervous about this trip, and I have every reason to be. In less than a minute, we will be entering what is surely the most hostile place to Jews in the world. Moti leads us in saying Tefillas Haderech, in which he adds the words “mechablim ra’im” (evil terrorists) during the tefillah for our successful and safe return. We wave to the soldiers stationed at the second fence, and three, two, one… we’re in Gaza.