A pita. A prayer. A final act of solidarity on the Gaza border.
The final dispatch from our "Hearts United, Boots on the Ground" mission—a food truck near the Gaza envelope, a unit of soldiers just out of Gaza, and the pita one of them said he'd remember for the rest of his life.
In this issue: The final dispatch from our "Hearts United, Boots on the Ground" mission—a food truck near the Gaza envelope, a unit of soldiers just out of Gaza, and the pita one of them said he'd remember for the rest of his life.
Our "Hearts United, Boots on the Ground" mission is coming to a close, and we wanted to send you one last field update—fresh from today's journey to the Gaza border.
What follows is raw and real: a snapshot of how your generosity shows up in the most unexpected, most meaningful ways. You sent us out with full hearts and full suitcases, and we poured it out across the country. Thank you for being part of this with us.
— Cheryl Dorchinsky, Executive Director
Wednesday, July 23 — a food truck near the Gaza envelope
We started the morning like every other on this mission—a prayer for strength, a glance at the news, a car full of gear, and coffee. One rented SUV, packed tight. We weren't headed to the front; we planned to go south, to Shlomi's food truck operation, a modest setup near the Gaza envelope that feeds soldiers from dawn to dusk.
Israel doesn't run on fixed itineraries. When we reached Shlomi's, the air was thick with the smell of a deep fryer working overtime—schnitzel sizzling, chopping, stuffing, sealing. Schnitzel into wax-paper pitas with sliced vegetables and tahini, handed out beside bottled water.
Then we were off again, part of a caravan of volunteers heading deeper south—past fields still scarred by fire, past signs warning of danger, until we were parallel with Rafah. At the edge of Israel, the Egyptian border close enough to sense.
There, on ground so sun-bleached it was nearly grayscale, we met a unit of chayalim—soldiers who had stepped out of Gaza maybe two minutes before. Faces streaked with dirt, eyes alert but tired. They hadn't eaten since yesterday and had started praying aloud for food. Shlomi's operation was an oasis, exactly what they needed.
They didn't ask questions. They opened their hands, said thank you, and let the relief wash over them. Some clutched the pitas like something sacred; others cracked the seals on the water and drank before they could speak.
We handed over the last of our donated gear: sunscreen, tactical first-aid kits, balaclavas, electrolytes, and some joy in the form of Kosher Ducks and a few toys for their kids. We didn't have enough Kosher Ducks—they kept asking for more—so we're restocking.
It didn't feel like we'd done anything big. It felt like we'd done something right—like we'd been placed there, exactly then, to answer their need. No, we weren't wearing boots. Just sandals and sneakers, tourists among warriors. The soldiers didn't mind. They thanked us as if we'd been in the field with them. We deflected the thanks and offered our own—and yours. Thanks to your support, you were there with us.
We took a few photos, carefully and with permission. Most cannot be shared. These soldiers have to live in the world when they're off duty, and every image is a risk—every tag, every GPS pin, every face. So we scrub the metadata. We protect them, because they protect us.
One soldier looked us in the eye and said, "I'll remember this pita for the rest of my life." We'll remember them for the rest of ours. Toda raba for your generosity.
The mission is nearly complete. The work continues. If you're moved by what you read and want to help us replenish what we gave away, you still can: donate to keep the supplies flowing.
MITZVAHS THAT FLOAT
Stars, stripes, and ducks at the beach
Stars, stripes, and a kosher duck at the beach in Jamaica — pride and joy, out in the sun. From the shore to city parks, the ducks keep floating.