An Open Letter to My Friend in the Reserves

Moments of unity can arise in the most unexpected places, even on a subway platform in New York City. For context, I first met Nuri at the Times Square-42nd Street subway station in New York. She approached me to ask for directions, noticing my kippah and feeling comfortable enough to walk over. The Q train was delayed, and I explained to her that she was on the right platform. As we started chatting, another Israeli guy joined the conversation, a proudly gay psychiatrist living in New York, expressing his frustration with the delay.

While we were talking, a group of pro-Hamas protesters wearing keffiyehs passed by on the platform, coming from a rally. They shouted, “Free Palestine!” at us. I shouted back, “Go to Gaza and see how they treat you there!” As they walked further away, I added, “Chickens for KFC!” Nearby, two girls and a guy, who had been standing silently, turned to us and said, “That was disgusting.” They quickly joined our conversation, and as it turned out, they were Jewish too—secular but proudly connected to their identity.

When the train finally arrived, we all got on together, continuing to laugh and talk like old friends. In that moment, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful it is to be part of the Jewish family. Just moments earlier, we were strangers. But because of our shared ancestry and the deep bond of having once stood together at Mount Sinai, we instantly felt connected. I exchanged numbers with Nuri and one of the others we met that evening.

Later, Nuri shared with me that one of the pro-Hamas protesters had actually spit on her. If I’d known that in the moment, I’m not sure how I would have reacted. That day happened to be October 7th. I was on my way to a Hachnasat Sefer Torah (the inauguration of a new Torah scroll) at KJ on East 85th Street for the Chabad Young Professionals minyan in the Upper East Side. The familial bond we experienced on the train, and the new Torah, generously donated by the Klyman and Knepper families, stood in stark contrast to the antisemitism we’d just encountered. It felt particularly poignant given the day marked the anniversary of the horrific Simchat Torah massacre and war crimes committed by Hamas in Israel the year before.

Since that meeting, Nuri and I stayed in touch and became friends. She later shared that her university in Israel had been hit by a rocket, temporarily halting classes. She was excited at first because it meant she could extend her stay in the U.S. But shortly after, she was called up to the reserves, rejoining her unit.

When Nuri returned to Israel, she opened up about her frustrations. She spoke about the challenges of being in her early twenties and feeling unable to enjoy the freedoms and leisure that others her age often take for granted. She understood the importance of what she was doing, but the sacrifices still weighed heavily on her and her friends.

So, I wrote this letter for her, and I decided to publish it in the hopes that it might bring strength and encouragement to others who find themselves in similar circumstances.

Dear Nuri,

I wanted to take a moment to share my thoughts with you—not just as a friend, but as someone who deeply admires the path you’ve chosen and the sacrifices you are making.

I want to tell you what I think about what you said earlier—that you are young and want to have fun. When I was young, I wasted a lot of time chasing "fun." I had what I thought was a lot of fun, but over time, I learned something important: chasing fun doesn’t last. No matter how much fun you have, it’s fleeting. We keep chasing and chasing, but eventually, we become depressed because we lack meaning in our lives.

In Western culture, there’s this fantasy that when you’re young, you should just have fun, and then somehow, you’ll "settle down" when you’re older. But it’s fake. It’s a lie. If you keep chasing fun, even if you try every exciting thing in the world, there will come a point when you have nothing left to chase, and you’ll go home feeling upset and empty. This is the lie that America and Western countries sell. It has its roots in ancient Greece. Hedonism, the idea of chasing pleasure, doesn’t address the most fundamental need of the human being: purpose.

We need purpose in our lives to feel fulfilled. We need to be part of something, build something, care for someone, and work toward something greater. There needs to be a real reason to wake up in the morning. After you’ve experienced all of life’s pleasures, you’ll see that it’s not fulfilling. What gives life meaning is the acts of kindness you do for others, the relationships you build, and the acts of service and contribution that bring light to the world. That is what truly fills your soul.

I understand the sacrifice you are making, and I know you are giving up time in your life—these precious years in your early twenties. But I want to tell you this: the work you are doing will give you strength in ways you cannot yet imagine. The work you are doing will have an everlasting effect—not just on your life, but on the entire nation of Israel.

You will always know, deep in your heart, that you gave up everything to defend your people. And for that, you are a hero. But even more than that, you will carry with you a powerful and grounded sense of purpose, knowing that you contributed to the vitality of your people, the resilience of your nation, and the perpetuation of your national identity. You are serving in a unique and extraordinary way, and that will stay with you forever.

What you are doing is not just a sacrifice—it’s a legacy. You are building something meaningful and eternal, and I hope you feel immense pride in that.

I am so grateful for what you are doing, and I hope that by sharing my own life experiences, I can offer you some comfort and reassurance, helping you see the incredible meaning and lasting impact of the sacrifice you are making.

With love, admiration, and deep respect,

Joseph Rothvogel