'Back Home, Israeli Soldiers Realize What They've Done. That's When the Rupture Comes'

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Haaretz                                                                                                                                                                      October 31, 2025

'Back Home, Israeli Soldiers Realize What They've Done. That's When the Rupture Comes'


Credit: Rami Shllush

Clinical psychologist Prof. Yossi Levi-Belz works with soldiers who returned from the war in Gaza with a moral injury

Ayelett Shani

I'm a clinical psychologist, head of the Lior Tsfati Center for the Study of Suicide and Mental Pain, and a faculty member at the School of Therapy, Counseling and Human Development at the University of Haifa. I'm involved both in therapy and in research. For many years I've studied topics related to mental pain – suicide, moral injury, trauma and growth following crisis.

What has happened in your life since October 7?

A great deal. Beyond my clinical work and reserve duty, I helped found several civil initiatives, including a training program for professionals specializing in trauma and grief treatment. We've also continued our longitudinal, prospective study based on a representative sample of Israeli citizens.

You're referring to research you and your colleagues began before October 7, in the context of the judicial overhaul.

Yes. We launched the study in August 2023, building a representative sample of the Israeli population [the study was conducted together with Prof. Yuval Neria, Dr. Carmel Blank, and Dr. Yoav Groweiss]. We examined political attitudes, mental health indicators – symptoms of depression, anxiety, burnout – and feelings such as belonging and hope. After October 7, we realized we were the only ones in the world who could empirically track what had changed in Israeli society, because we had baseline data from before the massacre.

Destruction in Jabalya refugee camp, November 2023. "Overall, the Gaza war has led to high levels of moral injury – partly because we entered it driven by powerful feelings of revenge and anger. Credit: Bashar Taleb / AFP

We revisit the same people every four months. So far, we've already completed six rounds of data collection and published 15 articles in journals such as Nature and The Lancet. Our goal is to provide policymakers with a real-time snapshot of mental health in Israeli society – reliable data about what's happening in different population groups: women, Arabs, reservists and others.

Because, of course, they have no data. I'm sure they wait with bated breath and budgets at the ready.

It's more sad than funny. But yes, it's clear that decision-makers have a hard time relying on research. Our role as researchers is not to give up. We attended Knesset committee meetings, wrote position papers, provided information to the media. The decision-makers aren't looking for this information or acting on it, but that doesn't mean we should give up.

And what are you seeing?

We found that the mental health of Israelis deteriorated sharply in November 2023 and February 2024 compared to August 2023. Even in August, the rates of PTSD and anxiety were high, but in November there was of course a dramatic rise in mental pain and in symptoms of anxiety, depression and PTSD.

The rate of self-reported clinical depression reached 45 percent, and the proportion meeting criteria for PTSD was 29 percent. Israelis experienced those events very harshly.

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The events were harsh. Do you have a comparative sense of the situation? What were the numbers in August? And what are the global averages?

PTSD rates rose from 16 percent to 29 percent. Worldwide, rates of depression and anxiety typically range between 15 and 20 percent – and we reached 45 percent by November. Since then, our measurements show gradual improvement. There has been a decline in symptoms, and in our most recent data, we're almost back to pre-war levels. We can say that Israeli society seems to be getting back to normal.

But you say, "seems."

Right, because there are significant groups in the population whose symptoms are not improving: those directly exposed to the trauma, people who resided in the western Negev on October 7, people who lost loved ones, evacuees, reservists.

So those fortunate enough not to be in the first circle of the assault are recovering, while the direct victims and their families are left behind.

And now they're not only coping with psychological pain, but also with a deep sense of loneliness. It's not just "I'm struggling" – it's "no one sees me." That's also connected to the government. These groups have been left behind – both by the leadership and by citizens who already feel better. Israeli society is returning to normal, and for these people, that's a painful blow.

That recovery, such as it is, is also part of the Israeli ethos, isn't it? Not to get bogged down in trauma but to get up quickly and carry on. Everything's fine.

Yes, but this time the blow wasn't a regular one. It's crucial that the Israeli ethos doesn't look the same as usual. The experience of loneliness, as research shows, intensifies symptoms – it creates the feeling that I'm alone in the world, that my pain isn't recognized, that I'm being erased. Slogans like "Total victory" or "War of redemption" – those are phrases that erase pain.

Which is why they were chosen. When you talk about improvement – that society has almost returned to normal – is it really that clear? I don't feel that way, and I don't see it in my surroundings either.

The Israeli population feels better, but that's true mainly of severe disorders. We're seeing functional impairment in the past 18 months. More people say they're sleeping poorly, they're less patient with their children, struggling at work. These are delicate functional difficulties which don't add up to a significant disorder, and we tend to ignore them, but the war still affects our body and minds. We don't always connect the dots – between our emotional state and the fact that we caught the flu three times this winter.

Many people tell me they don't feel relief, even though the hostages have returned and the war is over. There's a feeling that if we relax, the "parents" – the leadership – will use that to radicalize and aggravate the erasure.

Prof. Yossi Levi-Belz

Your study also examines moral injury. How do you define it?

A moral injury occurs when I'm exposed to events that create a gap between my moral and ethical world and the actions I carry out. Such a gap can emerge, for example, if a reservist enters a Palestinian home and later asks himself, "What did I just do?" Even if it's something minor – maybe he yelled at a small child who started crying – he goes home, sees his own baby, and thinks, "Wait, what happened? Why did I make that little boy cry?"

That's an experience of profound dissonance.

The clash between conscience, morality, and behavior begins to create psychological distress. At first, feelings of shame, guilt, self-condemnation, a feeling of diminished value, and later, symptoms of PTSD or depression. Over the past decade, together with Prof. Gadi Zerach, we've conducted a series of studies with IDF soldiers and reservists.

In one, we followed soldiers from the Kfir Brigade from induction to discharge. We found that 30 to 40 percent reported experiences consistent with moral injury. Overall, the Gaza war has led to high levels of moral injury – partly because we entered it driven by powerful feelings of revenge and anger. When those are your motivations, you may make choices that later cause you to ask, "What have I done?"

How does moral injury differ from ordinary trauma? Is it because it undermines our identity?

The difference is in the nature of the event. In "regular" trauma, I experience a threat to my life or body. In moral injury, my body is intact, my life not endangered. But my moral self is damaged.

Would you say this war created especially fertile ground for moral injuries? Both because of the horrific events that led to it and the contact with the civilian population and the atrocities we committed there?

I've heard harrowing stories about soldiers who came into this war with clear values, but once inside – driven by rage and revenge, and coping with appalling sights – acted with great harshness toward Gazan civilians or West Bank residents. Only when they returned home did they truly grasp what they'd done – and they couldn't believe it.

Does moral injury always come afterward? Can't it occur in the moment itself?

Usually the realization comes later. You disconnect from the war environment, come home, and only then understand what you've done. The  video by Udi Kagan about his war experiences, which went viral, captures this precisely.

Can I experience moral injury even if I didn't take part directly? Even as a bystander?

We held a retreat for reservists in Dharamshala recently. One of them said, "I didn't do anything, but I saw buddies from my unit and my team doing horrible things. I close my eyes and see what they did; it stays with me all the time. I feel like a monster for not stopping them."

That sounds like what's known as a morally injurious betrayal.

Exactly. That kind of moral injury happens when I see my commander or leader behave in ways that violate my moral code. In our representative sample, about half said they felt their commanders or leaders had betrayed that code. Betrayal is one of the most destructive forms of moral injury. It's so painful because we expect parental figures to protect us.

When they do the opposite, the rupture is huge. After such events, people need someone who sees them, who says, "I see you're hurting," someone who holds them, who'll set things right.

Like Witkoff.

For example.

Netanyahu with Witkoff at the White House last month. "Witkoff said just three sentences and won everyone's hearts, because he showed he was hurting too." Credit: Official White House Photo by Joyce N. Boghosian

Over the past two years, I've attended many meetings between the hostages' families and politicians. I don't know Witkoff – I have no idea if he's a good or bad person – but after seeing him with the families, how he listens, how he remembers siblings' names, I realized how alienated and appalling their treatment had been until then.

Witkoff said just three sentences and won everyone's hearts, because he showed he was hurting too. He let them see that it's not only they who grieve, but also those "upstairs." That creates connection, it soothes. We constantly struggle with the feeling that the people at the top simply don't care. It's a psychological issue, not a political one. As a society, we long for our leaders to see us and acknowledge our pain.

That's also why the fight to set up a state commission of inquiry is so important. We need recognition – an official statement that says, "Yes, there was a failure here; citizens suffered unbearable pain," But the leadership is trying to erase that – and that hurts deeply.

Netanyahu is trying to erase these two years, at first by ignoring, denying and not taking responsibility, and now actively.

Yes, and that's very hard. Many people tell me they don't feel relief, even though the hostages have returned and the war is over.

The hostages are back but we are still living in an abusive home.

Exactly. We can't let up. There's a feeling that if we relax, the "parents" – the leadership – will use that to radicalize and aggravate the erasure. When Knesset Speaker Amir Ohana removed his yellow pin in support of the hostages, what was he saying? "You let go? Then it's over." We can't feel relief because any easing feels like it will be exploited to erase the past and avoid responsibility.

Processing can only begin when letting go is truly safe. That's why reservists go through processing sessions at the end of their service – only then can they let go and look back. Right now, people feel that if they let up, it will be exploited to make what happened disappear.

Knesset Speaker Amir Ohana removes his yellow pin in support of the hostages. "What was he saying? 'You let up? Then it's over.'" Credit: Olivier Fitoussi

It's also hard to feel relief because it was all so cynical. The war ended and the hostages were returned not out of genuine concern, supposedly; not because anyone cared, but because at that point in time President Trump had a vested interest in that happening.

In recent days, I've met many reservists and Nova festival survivors in my clinic who are deeply anxious because the war ended abruptly – "Wait, what just happened? Where are we in all this?" For months, they were told how essential the war was, and then suddenly – it's over.

That creates emotional chaos, especially for those who'd held on so tightly – survivors, evacuees, reservists. They're expected to resume life as though nothing happened. It feels abusive: you're in immense pain, and people say, "But what's wrong? Why are you still crying?" Like Minister Idit Silman's Twitter poll asking: "What will they demonstrate about now?" The war's over. That's it, goodbye.

Troops came to me and said, "I gave the order to destroy hundreds of homes." At the time, they believed it was necessary. But when the dust settled, they realized: "I was responsible for the deaths of thousands." That's when the rupture comes.

Prof. Yossi Levi-Belz

I think we're morally injured as a society. In this war, there were basically two options: to experience moral injury, or to choose total victory – everything's fine, champagne in the Channel 14 studio.

I agree. The moral injury that followed this war isn't individual, it's collective. It cuts into the most fundamental layers of trust, mutual responsibility, and collective identity in Israeli society. Listen, Israeli citizens evacuated from Gush Katif during the disengagement suffered a moral injury, because they experienced their leaders taking actions that fundamentally contradicted their moral code.

Moral injury isn't a right- or left-wing issue. Israeli leftists failed to understand that they too were hurting – that they needed recognition and not be told, "Come on, move on." Their deepening moral injury turned into a drive to tear everything down. That's something we must recognize – as a society and as leaders. In Israel, moral injuries keep recurring – around actions, decisions, policies – and it hurts.

Maybe that relates to what we discussed earlier – the Israeli ethos. We're a society born and shaped by trauma; trauma here has become almost routine.

Our society is wounded on multiple levels, by many painful events. Our survival instinct pushes us to endure trauma, shake it off and keep going – because there's no other choice. We appear strong, but it's not true resilience. Real resilience depends on processing what happened to us, and we simply haven't done that for years.

The memorial site for the victims of the Nova music festival. "You're in immense pain, and people say, 'But what's wrong? Why are you still crying?'" Credit: Ilan Assayag

Fortunately, I'm seeing change. More people are seeking help. Reservists now insist on having debriefing sessions before going home. That's a formative shift – a move toward real processing, not just "moving on." Israelis today are far more open about emotional pain, trauma and loss. They no longer just say, "We're strong, we'll win, we'll move forward."

Back in 2006, after the Second Lebanon War, when a mental health officer came to a unit, everyone scattered. Today, when he arrives, everyone waits for him. That's a real change.

Are some people more prone to moral injury? Doesn't the very fact that I experience moral injury indicate that I'm a moral person?

There are degrees of moral sensitivity – and yes, the higher it is, the more vulnerable you are. In a study we conducted among reservists in the West Bank, who constantly interact with civilians, we found that the less you hate the other side, the more vulnerable you are.

One of my students, who wrote her thesis on this, didn't want to publish the results. Because what does that really mean? That hating the other pays off. Of course, it's more complicated. But ultimately, moral injury affects those who can see the world in a nuanced way – not those who simply hate everyone who isn't like them or doesn't think like them.

I don't know Elor Azaria personally, but public reports suggest he didn't experience moral injury after shooting a bound terrorist. Ari Folman, on the other hand, who in Waltz with Bashir describes firing flares during the Sabra and Shatila massacre, did – and he made the film as a way to heal.

Is moral injury also connected to the larger narrative? If I live in a society that consciously numbs the possibility of moral injury – that legitimizes it – with messages like "there are no innocents in Gaza" or "this is a war of no choice"? Or the way the U.S. government whitewashed the Vietnam War. When you believe the war is just, that there are no innocents, that you're saving lives – how does that affect moral injury?

It may help for a while, it may hold up temporarily. But if you're someone who sees the world in a nuanced way, that same narrative might even push you to act in ways you'll later regret. Then, when the guns fall silent, you grab your head and say, "What have I done?"

During reserve duty, I met people whose job was to mark which houses to bomb. In those first weeks, amid the shock and the "Never again" feeling, they worked without thinking too much. Later, some came to me and said, "I gave the order to destroy hundreds of homes. Thousands were hurt because of what I did." At the time, they believed it was necessary. But when the dust settled, they suddenly realized: I was responsible for the deaths of thousands. That's when the rupture comes – and it's a deep one.

Can we end with a little hope? Is there any?

My friend Yoav taught me the difference between optimism and hope. Optimism is passive – waiting for things to get better. Hope is active – doing things to make them better.

So yes, I hope and believe that if we continue to act as conscious, ethical citizens, things can improve. My father came to Israel on foot at 15 and settled in Kibbutz Be'eri. He was one of the pioneers of the Negev. It's in my DNA – not to leave, not to give up. We must not give up on our role in changing Israeli society, no matter how painful or frustrating it may be.

I see many people who haven't given up – who are doing everything they can to make this society more compassionate and humane. Do I think it'll happen tomorrow? No. But I have enough hope to get up every morning and do my part to make life here, even slightly, better – for all of us, citizens of this beloved, maddening country.