With the holiday of Passover approaching, I find myself reflecting on the story of the Four Sons in the Haggadah, especially the one described as “The son who doesn’t know how to ask.” Unlike his siblings, he is not described as wise, defiant, or simple; he simply doesn’t yet have the language for the question he needs to ask. Our tradition doesn’t dismiss him for his silence. Instead, it invites us to meet him where he is, and to help bring him into the conversation.

That characteristic: a person who needs help but doesn’t know how to ask, has taken on new meaning for me this year. For me, it brings to mind the many reservists who have served our country time and again, but struggle in ways that are invisible to others, and sometimes even to themselves. When they return home, they carry burdens that aren’t always obvious: emotional strain, challenges with reintegration, and questions about their futures that they’re not even sure how to voice.

For all of the admiration we express for those who stand ready in uniform to defend home and country, unfortunately, there’s still a gap between gratitude and practical support. Too often, the systems meant to help require individuals to first identify their need, navigate complex bureaucracies, and ask for help – a tall order when someone is exhausted, overwhelmed, traumatized, or simply unsure that what they’re feeling qualifies as something worth bringing up.

This is not just a moral concern. The statistics are stark: Nearly 40% of Israel’s reservists report experiencing symptoms of post‑traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) or other mental health challenges after returning from reserve duty.

But only a small percentage of them seek the help they need. I know how hard it is to ask. I was one of them. It took me years and much heartbreak after first experiencing the trauma of battle to realize that I needed help.

The result is that many suffer, as I did, in silence.

We’ve invested deeply in our security on the battlefield. But the measure of a society isn’t only in how it equips its soldiers during war, but how it supports them afterward. In everyday life, in family dynamics, in workplaces, and in communities. Many reservists are silent. Not because they don’t feel anything, but because they don’t yet know how to name it, or that it even needs to be named before it can be processed. And if support structures wait for that question, it may never come.

I’ve had personal conversations with reservists who’ve returned home from duty, only to feel like they were alone with their struggles. One such soldier I spoke with told me, “I didn’t even know I needed help until I found it.” He explained how he felt isolated, unable to connect with his family and unable to articulate the emotional weight he was carrying. It wasn’t until a friend from his unit reached out, recognizing the signs of trauma he bore, that he began the long road to healing. This is a reality that too many face, and it’s not one we can ignore.

Our challenge, and our opportunity, is to shift that dynamic. We need to build systems that don’t wait for the hand to go up, but which create multiple access points for support: Proactive outreach programs, peer‑to‑peer networks, workplace reintegration resources, and community‑based spaces where asking for help isn’t a dishonor, but a natural next step. This means not just talking about support in abstract terms, but making it visible, easy to find, accessible, and culturally accepted.

Over the years, I’ve seen how the simple act of sitting together in a circle can begin the process of healing. In the healing retreats we at Path to Tomorrow (Bshvil Hamachar in Hebrew) operate, and in which I participated only a few years ago, reservists come together and share journeys. These spaces are designed not only to help participants support one another but to slowly build the trust and language needed to speak about the burdens they are carrying.

What we often discover in these circles is that the first step toward healing is not “therapy” in the formal sense, but the realization that someone else across the circle is feeling the same confusion, the same weight, the same inability to articulate what is wrong. In helping others speak, participants gradually learn to find their own voice as well. The person who once didn’t know how to ask slowly learns that asking is not a weakness, but rather, strength via connection.

The Israel of tomorrow will be shaped not only by how we fought together, but by how we care for one another in the quieter moments after the sirens fade, and the uniforms are back in the closet. It requires all of us — policymakers, employers, educators, and community leaders — to ask ourselves: Are we creating environments where people can show up with their full experiences? Or are we still expecting them to find the right path on their own?

If we genuinely value the service and sacrifice of our reservists, the next step is clear: let’s make support accessible before need becomes crisis. Those who wish to support or become involved in this effort can learn more here.

Let’s commit together, both those of us here in Israel as well as our partners in the Diaspora, to cultivating not only strength, but care that finds people and offers them help where they are, even those unable, yet, to ask for it.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)