Wednesday morning in Khan Yunis, I was awakened at 5 a.m. Not by the explosions or the gunfire going off around our building, but by my friend Reuveni tapping me on the shoulder. “Yalla Avi, time to get ready.”
We had received intel the day before that a strip of buildings northwest of us was being used to hide Hamas tunnels and weapons caches. My platoon had been tasked with taking over the strip, uncovering whatever was there, and eliminating any enemy that was present. We were given a platoon of tanks to support us, and the black exhaust smoke from their maneuvers adjacent to us had already filled my lungs as I got up and put on my gear. I was ready to go.
I had one day left in Gaza before leaving for the birth of my firstborn son and I wanted to accomplish as much as possible.
But first, coffee. My good friend Jacob had just finished a guard shift and we hadn’t had the chance to sit together for a few days. I pulled out the instant coffee packs I had brought with me, made two large cups of coffee, and handed him one as we sat down for a few moments of calm before the storm and to admire the Gazan morning view of war – a war we had been gladly playing our role in for almost a couple weeks now.
We talked about our wives, of life back home, of October 7, and of how it had changed us forever; of his son, born a few days before the war, and of my son, whose birth was a few days away. Rain started to fall, and we acknowledged that the mission would probably be pushed off by a couple hours. More time for us. Suddenly a voice crackled over the radio.
"Bro, I think it's go-time."
“Yaniv, put your gear on and come meet Kod-Kod for a briefing. And bring Avi Kahn.” Yaniv was our platoon commander, Kod-Kod was radio-code for the company commander. Asking for me specifically was very unusual, and at first, I didn’t pick up on what it meant.
Jacob looked at me, smiled, and said, “Bro, I think it’s go-time.”
“Nah, we’re not heading out in this rain,” I responded.
Jacob raised an eyebrow and said, “No, I think it’s go-time for you.”
My face went from confused to shocked as I realized what he was referring to – and that he was most probably right. I grabbed our platoon commander and we trekked out into the mud. We met Yuval, the company commander, halfway. He took one look at my face and immediately addressed my desperate need for information.
“Your wife’s water broke 30 minutes ago, she’s on the way to the hospital. We’re working on a way to get you out of here.”
I almost fainted right there in the mud.
I ran back to pack my bag and get all my gear together. The next 30 minutes passed without an update. Then 45. I was getting anxious. I grabbed the radio and asked for the logistics officer. No answer. It looked like I would have to go out onto the battlefield to find him.
“Jacob!” I called out while chambering a round into my M16. “I’m going out to find Lepon!” Jacob put on a helmet and picked up his rifle.
“Let’s go, I’m with you,” he said.
We found Lepon in a nearby platoon’s house.
“Avi I’m sorry, you know there are no movements in and out during the day, emergencies only. We can get you out tonight at 9 or 10 p.m.,” said Lepon.
“That’s unacceptable,” I told him.
“I’m sorry achi, you have to understand...”
“No, you have to understand. If you don’t get me something in the next hour or two, I’m walking over to the northern guard post and hopping on the first vehicle I find that’s heading toward the border. I’ll get there myself.”
“Bro, you know you can’t do that, leaving Gaza has to be official, everything on the books.”
“He’s doing it,” said Jacob.
Lepon went into a back room to make a phone call. A few minutes later he came out, gave me a positive clap on the back, and handed me the phone. It was Stern, the logistics head of the entire battalion.
“Avi, I’ve spoken with the Peten, they’re getting ready and they’ll be by you within the hour. They will extract you to the border. At the border, we’ll have a car waiting for you to take you straight to the hospital. Mazal tov brother.”
Peten is a vehicle unit that specializes in extracting injured soldiers from battle in Humvee convoys. Yes!
Reading Psalms with gunfire as a backdrop
LEPON WAS happy for me. I didn’t tell him, but I also used the phone to call my wife while he was preoccupied. She was already 5 cm. dilated, and in a lot of pain.
“I’m coming baby, I promise. I’m getting out of here and coming straight to you.” She could barely speak, but I could tell she was crying.
“Hurry, I need you,” she managed to get out.
We started running back to our platoon, almost knee-deep in mud when suddenly, I heard the crack of enemy Kalashnikov fire.
We were being engaged by nearby terrorists, and the surrounding platoons were running to respond. Tanks fired, machine guns clattered in the rain, the radio sparked with commands and reports. I’d like to say that I immediately took cover, given that there were terrorists in the area firing at our unit, but running toward me at that moment was my friend Ari, a fellow oleh from Australia, and he had the biggest smile on his face.
“Avi!” he yelled exuberantly.
He had heard the report on the radio and ran over to see me off. I stopped walking so he could catch up and he pounced on me with a massive hug. We both almost took a face-first plunge into the mud. We ran into cover with the rest of our platoon, where the tanks had already taken defensive positions, and I sat down near the front guard post.
A friend handed me a Sefer Tehillim (Book of Psalms) and I sat there for a while reciting from it, explosions and gunfire in the background. I was really trying to hold it together, knowing what my wife was going through without me. On the side, I heard the guys from my unit making a bracha (blessing) on the separation of a small piece from the dough that would be used to bake challah, and they made a beautiful speech about it being in the merit that the birth should go smoothly. I wiped away a small tear and kept reading. Eventually, after what seemed like hours, a convoy of three Humvees pulled up outside.
“Are you Avi Kahn?” the driver yelled at me.
I gave him the thumbs up as I threw my backpack on.
“Mazal tov ach sheli! (my brother) Now let’s get the @&#* out of here!”
I sprinted through the mud to the Humvee, the cacophony of war still booming around me. I threw my bag in the back and climbed onto it.
“Cover our 6, yeah?” yelled the driver.
I gave him another thumbs up and pointed my rifle out over the back tires. The machine gunner on the Humvee laid down some cover fire, and my unit waved goodbye as we sped away.
By then the news had spread, and almost every unit we passed on the way out of Gaza was waving at the convoy yelling “Mazal tov!” I felt as if I was in a movie.
After a short drive we were back on Israeli soil, and I was transferred to the second vehicle. I gave the Peten guys hugs before driving away; they wished me luck.
Two hours later I was at Shaare Zedek hospital, and I ran through the main entrance, gear and all (I had left the grenades in the car). I argued with the guard at the front, who made me go around to a back security entrance, as I had no ID on me and was heavily armed. The thing that held them up in the end was a knife that I kept on my belt, which was ironic because I was visibly carrying a rifle, a pistol, and many magazines of ammunition.
After a few minutes of back and forth, they agreed to let me through, and I ran up to the delivery room.
Upon seeing my wife lying there in that bed, emotion completely overcame me. I had prayed so hard to be there, fought so hard to be there, dreamed every night of being there, and dreaded the thought of not being there.
I halted in the doorway, covered my eyes with my right hand and said Shema Yisrael, restating my faith in God and the overwhelming gratitude I felt toward Him for allowing me to be there at that moment.
I walked over to my wife, and we both cried.
Two hours later, I watched my son being born, and my world changed forever.
Two months ago, on October 7, I was in Kfar Aza, a witness to the massacre of Jewish babies at the hands of monsters. Now I was standing in Jerusalem, the holy capital of Israel, having fought and killed those very monsters, and staring into the eyes of a beautiful Jewish baby that my wife and I helped bring into this world.
I feel unbelievably blessed to have played the small but meaningful role that I have in the Jewish people’s fight against the evil intent on destroying us.
I hope and pray that the future we are creating now is one where my son can live peacefully and safely; proud of his Jewish identity, proud of his parents’ contributions to his world, and proud of his own contributions that he, God-willing, will one day make to the Jewish people.
The writer is an IDF paratrooper. He has been on reserve duty since the morning of October 7 when he fought with his unit in Kfar Aza. He lives in Ramat Beit Shemesh.