Major Eyal Avnion kept journals. Hundreds of pages documenting an unrelenting campaign for self-improvement. Daily entries examining where he failed and how he could improve. Letters to family members explaining what they meant to him. Life plans mapped to the year 2050. Questions asked and re-asked: Where did I make mistakes today? How can I become better tomorrow?
When he fell in Gaza on July 1, 2024, at age 25, those journals revealed something essential about Eyal Avnion—not just what he did, but who he was striving to become.
The Warrior-Writer Tradition
Eyal belonged to a lineage in Israeli military culture—the warrior who writes.
Yoni Netanyahu, commander of Sayeret Matkal, was killed leading the Entebbe raid in 1976. His letters home—philosophical, self-critical, obsessed with duty—became texts studied in Israeli schools. Meir Har-Zion, one of the most decorated soldiers in IDF history, revealed in his combat diary the psychological cost of constant raids and reprisals. He wrote not to glorify violence but to process it, to maintain some interior space separate from what his hands were doing. Further back: King David, warrior-king, wrote psalms between battles with Philistines.
These weren't literary exercises. They were survival mechanisms. Ways to process trauma, maintain moral clarity, and preserve humanity when surrounded by inhuman choices.
Eyal wrote constantly. While other soldiers scrolled phones during downtime, he filled pages. Before one operation, he gave journals to his soldiers and told them to write, to examine their feelings, to "lachzor la-ani shelachem"—to return to their "I," to themselves. The Hebrew phrase carries weight: in the chaos of combat, soldiers lose their interior voice. They become functions—gunner, navigator, squad leader. The journal was meant to restore the person behind the role.
What the Diaries Document
Eyal maintained a detailed life plan with precise timestamps. He planned to discharge in December 2022, return to Israel from travels in August 2023, and begin studying Business and Psychology in Reichman University in October 2023. From there, the plan extended decades into the future: begin working while studying in August 2025, pursue graduate studies in management in the US, become CEO of a major company and finally by January 2050 turn to education and invest all his years in it. He reached Point 5, finishing the preparatory course for Business Administration at Reichman University.
The plan revealed systematic thinking about usefulness and service to others. The CEO position wasn't about wealth, it was the prerequisite for the education mission. Make money to gain freedom to teach. The entire architecture pointed toward service.
His writing also documented his role models. In a letter to the parents of Major Lior Shay, killed in a 2016 helicopter crash, Eyal explained how learning that Lior would help his father Moti on Fridays despite a packed weekend inspired him to do the same with his own father. "Lior's character made me a better person, because I always wanted to be a little more like him."
This is what warriors write about. Not tactics. Not glory. The gap between who they are and who they need to be.
The Letter to His Mother
For his mother's 50th birthday, Eyal wrote:
"Mom, there are so many things I want to wish for you, but more than anything, I wish for you what you wish for yourself: health and that the family stays together, always... Even though it doesn't always feel like I share enough or love enough, know that even if I wrote a book about you, I couldn't express the magnitude of my appreciation, admiration, and love for you.
"In the army, more than anywhere else, in difficult moments (the marches, the operations) I always think about you and it strengthens me greatly and gives me strength to continue forward and to know what I'm doing it for. Your voice is always calming and breaks me at the same time, because with you I feel comfortable unloading and breaking down."
Most 21-year-old combat soldiers don't write with such emotional precision.
The Path to Combat and Command
Eyal's path required overcoming his own body first. He earned acceptance to Shayetet 13, Israel's elite naval commando unit. During training, he lost hearing in one ear. Between treatments and hyperbaric chambers, he pushed forward until he left with a medical profile of 64—far below combat standards. He refused to accept it. Through persistence, he elevated his profile to 97 and reached Unit 504, securing a particularly challenging position.
Yet his mind wasn't at ease. He set himself a new goal—to become an officer and command soldiers. Despite being told it wasn't possible, he reached the Nahal Brigade commander, was attached to the brigade, and completed the squad commanders' course and then officers' course.
After discharge, he traveled to South America and realized a dream of working on an Alaskan fishing vessel. Then October 7th happened, and he returned.
The Final Letter
Hours before entering Gaza for what would be his final operation, Eyal composed a letter:
"I didn't plan or want to write this—it's bad luck. Obviously it's bad luck. But Dad dropped me off here at 4:00 AM and I've been sitting for 27 minutes with nothing to do."
He examined himself: "I feel like I'm living a life full of meaning. I also have regrets about quite a few things, but I closed all my accounts with myself over the past year."
About his family: "You are my entire world. That's how it was and that's how it will be. I have no reason to live if not for all the good people who surround me in life."
On the decision: "The decision to enter Gaza and take a more active combat role is my personal decision. I stand behind it. No one asked or demanded this from me. Last Friday they broadcast a report about children in the Gaza border communities. The reality of a small child not sleeping peacefully at night without fear is an unbearable reality that must change immediately."
To three friends already killed: "Ben Moshe, Hadar, and Zilber—I'm going in to fight for you too. Not out of vengeance, but from a sense of mission and commitment to represent the values you represented."
Then: "I'm not writing and won't write in past tense because just as I'm going in—that's how I'm also coming out. Love you all and see you soon."
The Circle
Weeks before his death, Eyal had returned to "Yachad," the pre-military academy he attended as a teenager. The academy ran an annual memorial race honoring graduates killed in service, including Lior Shay. As a student, Eyal had been one of the race leaders. Now he came back as an officer to teach current students why these soldiers mattered.
A photograph exists from that visit. Eyal stands in the military cemetery between two graves—Lior Shay and Ron Afrimi. He's surrounded by teenagers, alive, animated, explaining. The ground beneath his feet would become the ground beneath which he would lie.
Weeks later, he was buried in the plot directly adjacent to Lior Shay's grave—at the exact spot where he had stood teaching.
Eyal's letter and dairy keep him present—still teaching, still examining, still asking the question every warrior who writes must answer: Am I worthy of what I'm being asked to do?
This article was written in a cooperation with Reichman University