On August 2, 2011, I turned 18. Like all Israeli men, it was time for me to join the IDF. I grew up on Kibbutz Saar in the Galilee, where I still live and work today. I was accepted into Palchan Tzanchanim, the Special Forces of the Paratroopers. After a year and a half of intense, demanding training, I found myself on the front lines of Operation Protective Edge.

Our mission was to locate and destroy underground tunnels used to launch attacks on Israeli civilians. It was slow, brutal, and relentless.

My unit was hit in one of the deadliest attacks of the war.. We lost four soldiers from our team, including our commander. Eighteen others were wounded—some with life-altering injuries.

When the operation ended, my body left Gaza, but my mind never did. That’s when the real war began—the silent, ongoing battle with PTSD.

Back on the kibbutz, I found refuge in the woodworking shop. As a farm boy, I always loved working with my hands, especially with oak and olive wood—symbols of our connection to the land. The smell of sawdust slowly replaced the smell of gunpowder.

One day, I was drawn to create something unexpected: a mezuzah. It was an unusual path for a self-described “super-secular” kibbutznik who rarely set foot in a synagogue. But as I carved, I thought of my friends. One mezuzah became two, then ten. It became a passion—and perhaps even an obsession.

Each mezuzah I make is more than just art—it’s memory. It’s therapy. It’s transformation. Dead wood becomes something sacred. Pain becomes something meaningful. Each mezuzah is a tribute to the friends I lost and a protective symbol for those still living.

Today, making mezuzahs is my full-time work. Every piece is handcrafted and unique, infused with memory, healing, and hope. And somehow, through this work, I find peace—one mezuzah at a time.