The battlefield does not end at the fence: Taking care of IDF soldiers' mental health

Repeated mobilizations, exposure to extreme scenes, the blurring of home and front, and strain on families create cumulative stress that does not disappear when the mission ends. This is no longer just a medical issue; it is an operational imperative. If we want a ready and sustainable military force, mental health must be treated as part of operational readiness, not as a referral issued after the fact.

Israel’s reality is unique. Our fighters are citizen-soldiers whose civilian lives are interrupted and resumed, sometimes within days. Distances are short; news and WhatsApp shrink the gap between unit and home. Commanders know parents and spouses; families carry a share of the load. That intimacy creates risk – but also a lever for prevention and recovery if we design the system properly.

Data show that the number of soldiers who have died by suicide is higher now because the number of those serving has increased. But while the ratio has remained stable, we should be deeply concerned about what happens the day after – when the war ends – because suicides often increase by 20% to 30% after combat operations end.

Each life lost to suicide is one too many; every effort must be made to prevent the next.

Here is the good news: The IDF already trains young officers to recognize acute stress and to act. When I headed the IDF’s Mental Health Department, we embedded psychological first aid as a basic skill. It is no different than the ability to apply a tourniquet. The message was simple: Mental hygiene is part of weapon safety. The task now is to keep this practice alive under prolonged stress, refresh drills, broaden reach, and make sure that short, structured decompressions happen where they are needed most, at the edge.

Prolonged exposure also forces us to redefine what matters. The DSM-5 [Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders] was not built for a society living months under sirens. Many with sub-threshold distress see family, work, and safety erode; others still have symptoms but regain daily function. We need a continuum that tracks functioning and resilience alongside symptoms such as sleep disorder, exposure, role strain, performance in life and service, and that designs care to restore capacity, not only to satisfy labels.

Transitions are another weak flank. The risk is highest in the space between, when the military is no longer in charge and the civilian world is not yet engaged. That is the moment of greatest vulnerability for reservists rotating in and out of duty. We must build predictable hand-offs from units to families, HMOs, and resilience centers; ensure that a positive screen in the field triggers a timely call on the civilian side; and create graded return options without bureaucratic punishment. No reservist should have to navigate the hardest days alone.

Words themselves are part of the medicine. Psycho-educational messaging is a public-health intervention: clear, research-grounded guidance about what is normal, when to worry, and how to respond. Silence becomes confusion, confusion becomes fear, and fear becomes pathology. Family members and leaders – rabbis or commanders – are trusted messengers. Equip them with consistent language and simple actions so people seek help earlier and stigma has less room to survive.

And we must speak about hope. On dark days, I find mine in surprising places. One is technology. Israel lacks sufficiently trained professionals to meet the scale of need, necessitating the deployment of tools that extend their reach. These include digital intake and triage systems that collect patient history and flag risks before human intervention, guided self-care modules to bridge waiting periods, and tech-assisted therapy. None of this replaces human judgment. It makes that judgment faster, more consistent, and available where the soldier actually is.