IDF Quiet Quitting

After a year of war, the term "burnout" hardly captures what the fighters of the Nahal Brigade are experiencing. In September, they entered their 11th round of combat in Gaza. Each round lasts about five weeks, and afterward, they return home for a break. For 11 months, a fighting spirit filled their souls, round after round. But something changed in the last one. Out of a platoon of 30 soldiers, only six showed up. The rest had taken sick leave.

"I call it refusal and rebellion," says Inbal, the mother of one of the soldiers in the unit. "They go back to the same buildings they cleared, only to get ambushed again every time. They've been to the Zaitun neighborhood three times already. They understand it's pointless and lacks purpose." Even though they were only a fifth of the platoon's manpower, the commander insisted they enter Gaza. "Because they were a small team, they couldn't go on missions. They just stayed there and waited for time to pass. It was even more unnecessary."

Last spring, a meeting of Nahal veterans and fighters took place. "My son finished his role and had to decide what to do next," says Rona. She is interviewed under a pseudonym, like the other parents in the article, fearing the army might retaliate against their children. "He came home happy, went to the meeting, and returned deflated. He said there was a very honest conversation among the fighters, who simply told anyone who could avoid combat to stay away. They shared that they were carrying out operations without adequate forces (meaning with few fighters). Because there's no proper force structure, things are done halfway, and the mission isn't really accomplished well. They're not truly protected. When they say someone will come to replace you, it’s 50-50. The platoons are empty; everyone who isn't dead or injured is psychologically harmed. Very few have returned to fight, and even they are not completely okay. This was before all the targeted killings in Lebanon. Since then, he tells me: 'I don't know what army they think will enter Lebanon, but there is no army. I'm not going back to the battalion.'"

And it's not just in the Nahal Brigade—interviews with over 20 parents and soldiers indicate that this phenomenon is also occurring among the Paratroopers, Givati, and Commando Brigade. While it's a quiet and silenced issue, it's one that is steadily growing. Many soldiers refuse to continue fighting in Gaza and are voting with their feet. The sense of unity and mission that had filled them during months of war has dissipated. "They fought until their last ounce of strength until they reached a point where they can no longer continue," explains Idit, the mother of a fighter in one of the Commando units. "Each of them does this quietly; it’s not a movement. One goes to the mental health officer, another quietly tells his commander that he can't continue, and he's reassigned to a non-combat role or temporarily moved elsewhere. These things stay within the unit, and it happens all the time. There’s a constant, subtle attrition from combat. It’s not refusal; it’s dropping out due to burnout." Among mothers, the phenomenon is referred to as "quiet refusal" or "gray refusal."

The war isn’t going anywhere. Many parents report that the soldiers' moral breakdown began in April, as the IDF became mired in Gaza, leading to a loss of satisfaction and meaning. "When the return to places we had been, like Jabalia, Zaitun, and Shuja'iyya began, it broke the soldiers," explains Idit. "These are the same places where they lost their friends. The area was already cleared; it needed to be maintained. This frustrated them greatly. What’s killing them are the conditions and the length of the fighting without any end in sight. You never know when you’ll leave, and it’s been like this for a year now—not to mention the loss and the horrific sights they witness in Gaza."

"In one month, they had three serious incidents with casualties and fatalities," says Yael, the mother of a fighter in the Commando Brigade, in a conversation with "The Hottest Place." "Most of the soldiers are unable to refuse; they are very dedicated, altruistic, and are drilled with the mantra that they are here for the team. It’s very hard for them to go against the tide. They are naive and driven by social pressure. After the second incident, I spoke with my son, and he told me, 'We’re like ducks in a shooting range; we don’t understand what we’re doing here. This is the second or third time going back to the same places. The hostages aren’t coming back, and you see it’s never-ending, and in the meantime, soldiers are getting injured and dying. It feels pointless.'" This was in March—four soldiers from the unit were killed, and dozens more were injured in three different clashes around Khan Yunis.

"The next time, he didn’t go in. The time after that, he went in and then decided definitively that he wouldn’t continue." Her son’s team was already nearing discharge but was supposed to continue fighting for another four months, ostensibly under reserve duty. "He told his commander that he wanted to remain a reserve fighter, but that right now he couldn’t because of the parents, that he doesn’t trust the situation and doesn’t think it’s worth continuing. He was discharged but didn’t receive a call-up order. Two months before him, two soldiers from his team had refused, and that gave him the courage. Right now, most of them aren’t being sent to jail, and the phenomenon is being silenced."

After 12 consecutive months of a war that shows no signs of ending, the soldiers describe themselves as "black." In military slang, this means they are depressed, burnt out, and lacking motivation. "At first, he was really driven," says Ofer, the father of a sniper in one of the infantry units. "He said, 'Our mission is to bring back the hostages; our mission is to take revenge,' and he went there eagerly. But over time, the motivation dwindled. Today, the motivation is zero."


What Happens to Those Who Refuse


The physical conditions have also taken their toll. They have been using plastic bags for almost a year. They get one shower every 60 days and live on kabanos or tuna. The only music they hear is the sound of airstrikes, and the air is filled with the smell of death and decay. Soldiers in the Paratroopers Brigade report that they haven’t taken off their boots for 82 days and refer to themselves as "throats," named after the meager cut in the poultry industry. They feel the army doesn’t care for them, that they are merely tools in the path to "total victory." Like the Nahal Brigade, the Paratroopers also haven’t been allowed to go home for 82 days, even during ceasefires. They had no phone or communication with the outside world. The brigade commander, Lt. Col. Ami Biton, who previously served as the commander of the northern brigade of the Gaza Division, believed that contact with the world outside Gaza would break their spirit.

On December 21, they returned home for the first time since October 7. Just before that, parents received a text message with instructions not to ask deep questions or reopen wounds. "Avoid probing questions about the fighting," it read. "Processing is preferable after the fighting, not during."

"In the second round, they again sent them back for two months with just one phone allowed at home, and once more we received similar instructions," describes Deborah, the mother of Uri, a soldier in the Paratroopers. "We already understood what was happening, and I started to dig for more information. At first, he didn’t want to hear, and politics didn’t interest him; he was focused on his team, his brothers in arms, explaining that they were closer than his biological brothers. But we kept pushing."

Uri’s turning point came after three officers from his platoon were killed by an anti-tank missile while they were in a house in Khan Yunis. The trauma, Uri shares in a conversation with "The Hottest Place," still affects him today. "All the officers went up to the second floor of the building; they were together, huddled close, looking out the window," he recalls. "A missile came into the building through another window and hit them. The entire platoon had to evacuate them. Almost everyone had to witness it. We were exhausted; we all wanted to go home, but they decided to keep us inside and arranged for a mental health officer to talk to everyone. Both the mental health officer and the battalion commander spoke very dismissively, saying things like, 'It’s a shame, but let’s keep going.'"


"We Continued to Fight"


"We continued to fight. We returned to Shuja'iyya and Khan Yunis several times. We participated in operations to rescue live hostages and to retrieve bodies, and at those moments, I felt like I was doing something meaningful. At some point, we were all already burnt out and saw no reason for going back to places we had already been. They never gave us a full picture. Eventually, I stopped feeling. I stopped believing in the system. I no longer believed in what we were doing."

According to Uri, the pressure from home increased and ultimately became overwhelming. In July, just before another entry into Gaza, he decided to refuse. "My brother had a talk with me. He told me that our mom was crying and that everyone was scared. I said I was a medic and what would the team do without me? They’re my friends. He said the team would find another medic; the army would find another medic, but my family wouldn’t find another Uri."

The family conversation was the last straw. "It had been weighing on me for a long time," he explains. "Every time they talked about another entry, it wasn’t fear of dying. You know you’re going to suffer. I was mentally exhausted and had panic attacks to the point that after they told us we had finished maneuvering, and only my battalion was told we were going back in after a week, I thought I had a moment of relief. I started crying on some lawn and said I couldn’t do it anymore. I was completely worn out."

"I told my commander that I couldn’t continue in any sense, due to home issues and my mental state. No one accepted that. My commander offered me a mental health officer and said I should keep fighting. I was afraid to tell him that I simply didn’t want to go back into Gaza, and I wanted to maintain my status and my rights. I wanted to continue being a medic, but not a combat medic. But as a principle, they said I couldn’t keep my status. 'Either you’re a fighter, or you’re nothing.' They told me that if I left, I would lose my status and wouldn’t be discharged as a fighter. Since I hadn’t served 85% of my service as a fighter, I wasn’t eligible for a study grant, even though I had fought for eight months in Gaza and had been a fighter before. I was just a few percentage points short. They used this to negotiate with me. There are many soldiers who were afraid to go in at first and remained in combat status even though they weren’t really fighters. But they weren’t willing to let me keep my status on principle.

"The company commander, whom I respected so much, suddenly stopped acknowledging me. They saw it as a choice rather than a necessity; they didn’t see that I could no longer fight. In my last conversation with the company commander, he more or less said I was abandoning my country, and then he addressed the platoon. Even my friends saw it as betrayal.

"On the day I stepped down from combat, a soldier came up to me and asked how I did it. He wanted to refuse too, but he didn’t have the courage. The next day, he got off the bus on the way to a maneuver and decided that was it; he wouldn’t do it anymore. They spoke to him in a really ugly way, saying, 'You can take your combat certificate and shove it up your ass.' This was a soldier whose father had a heart attack while he was fighting, and he still went back to fight. In the end, he left for mental health reasons and was discharged from the IDF."


Emotional Blackmail


In some units, there is a harsh approach to addressing the mental distress of soldiers. In addition to social ostracism, humiliation, and the stripping of economic rights, the threat of revoking their title as "fighter," which has become part of their identity and a source of pride that has sustained them, deeply unsettles them. The significant shortage of soldiers means that those who are mentally affected and in need of treatment are still sent into combat.

"My son approached his company commander last month and told him, 'I feel my alertness has dropped to the point where not only am I endangering myself, but I'm also endangering the people with me; I'm not as sharp as I used to be,'" describes Ofer, referring to his son, a sniper. "He told the commander, 'I want to work on myself; I want treatment.' The commander responded, 'What have you gone through here?'" According to the father, the mental health officer told him he could only listen, and only a commander could decide to release him for a certain period for treatment. "They treat them like a number," he concludes. "The only way to stop this downward spiral or to take a break is to say, 'I refuse,' and then you become the most humiliated person on earth. Just like that. It doesn't matter what you've given, what you've experienced, what you've done. Either they want you and give you some role or refreshment to process, but there’s no such thing. Sometimes when they go out, they take them to a pool and have a good time. The processing that exists today is very flawed. It has no effect. It’s with the entire platoon—psychological treatment with 40 other people. People will never express what’s on their minds with those who serve with them 24/7."

On the other hand, those who do receive mental health leave from the mental health officer face emotional blackmail. A brother of a fighter in one of the infantry brigades recounts that when his brother returned home from Gaza, he refused to sleep in his room, hardly ate, and was in severe mental distress. "After struggling with the sense of duty that only a 20-year-old can feel towards the country, he asked to see a mental health officer," the brother describes. This was in June, while the Knesset was busy promoting exemptions for ultra-Orthodox recruits and extending service for regular and reserve soldiers.


"The Mental Health Officer Decided He Was Entitled to Leave"


"The mental health officer ruled that he was entitled to mental health leave. But after that ruling, the company commander had a personal hour-long conversation with him, constantly pressuring him, trying every possible way to get him to go into another round of fighting to 'end things on good terms with the commander.' My brother agreed to forfeit his leave under the promise that he would only go in for a week and then would receive his mental health leave." The team that started the fighting consisted of 20 soldiers. "Right now, including the officer, there are five left. If my brother hadn’t gone in, the team wouldn’t have gone in either. In the end, my brother was stubborn enough to realize and demand to use his leave, but two more days passed before he was able to leave the base, during which he was called for three more long conversations with the commander, each time facing heavy pressure to give up his leave and go back in."


"Look for Psychologists in Civilian Life"


Despite the bad reputation associated with mental health leave, soldiers emphasize that they are not trying to shirk their duties; they simply can’t cope anymore. According to Naama Galber, a clinical psychologist, mother of a soldier, and activist with "Awake Moms," regular soldiers are at a greater risk. "They are more affected, at an age where it’s harder for them to admit their difficulties; it’s difficult for them to say, 'This is too much for me, I can’t do it,' and the support the army provides is also less effective (compared to that for reservists)."


The Discrepancy in Mental Health Awareness


The IDF prides itself on awareness of mental health and the need to provide psychological support to soldiers, but testimonies from soldiers tell a different story. In the entrance speech of the new commander of the Maglan unit, Lieutenant Colonel Z. stated to his subordinates: "I come from a Polish background; we don’t talk about feelings. That’s how I was raised, and that’s my way." In a conversation with a team whose member had recently been killed, he told the soldiers he "doesn't believe in psychologists or mental health officers," warning them not to approach with requests for processing. "You can look for that in civilian life," he said. These comments sparked an uproar within the unit, and recently, parents of soldiers sought clarification from Lieutenant Colonel Z. In a follow-up conversation, he retracted his statements, but the message had already been sent to the soldiers.

The soldiers' burnout is so extreme that hundreds of paratroopers recently decided to band together, just before entering Lebanon, to fight for their rights. In discussions among themselves, they express genuine anger, offense, and distress, particularly about the lack of understanding of how much they need a break and rest at home. They are even unable to visit and comfort their injured friends and bereaved families. Furthermore, they describe being threatened with fines for lost or destroyed combat gear from October 7 or during the fighting, and are being denied new equipment until they sign responsibility for the losses. When they go on breaks at the base, the sergeant major targets them for alleged violations like improper grooming or attire, delaying their departure home. When sending tactical gear for laundry, they receive comments like, "Why can’t they wash it at home? They just came out of Gaza." Instead of being sent home to regain their strength, they are made to spend Shabbat at the base doing nothing, as they put it. If the treatment does not change soon, "the little spirit left in our sails will also run out."