In this moving conversation recorded in January 2024, Tasha Cohen shares how she turned personal trauma and a narrow escape from a car explosion into the founding of Chayal's Angels, a volunteer network providing holistic therapies to Israeli reservists during wartime. Speaking with Quillette’s Pamela Paresky, Cohen reflects on service, survival, and why supporting soldiers’ emotional and physical wellbeing is essential not only for victory, but for life after war.

Transcript

Pamela Paresky: How long have you lived in Israel?

Tasha Cohen: Twelve years. I originally moved over in 2008. I was living in Jerusalem and I had a major accident when I was 20. I’d had surgery a few months before I moved here, and then I had problems walking again. I was supposed to return to England after one year to complete my ER.

Actually, it was my grandfather's stone setting [Jewish bereavement practice]. My grandfather—my mum's dad—had passed away the day I came out of hospital from my surgery. I went back for his stone setting and to complete my ER.

In the last few months I was having really bad problems walking, so I decided to make an appointment to see my surgeon whilst I was in England. He said to me, you need to come back. It's going to be a two- to three-year process. So I flew back for about 36 hours, packed up my stuff, and returned to England. I eventually had a very large surgery—seven weeks in hospital and about nine months at home at my mother's house, having help showering, dressing, physio, everything.

Two years after the surgery, I turned around to my surgeon and said, "Can I go home, please?" And he said, "Yep." I was here a few weeks later. April will be 12 years.

I don’t consider England home anymore. It's strange. I grew up with an Israeli parent. My father was born in Tel Aviv, and I have not had contact with him since I was 17. I was quite adamant prior to moving to Jerusalem that I was English—to the point that people in England would ask me, "Where are you from?" and I’d say, "England." Eventually, they’d say, "Where are your parents from?" I’d say, "My father's from Israel, but I'm English."

When I first moved to Jerusalem, I thought I’d be there maybe a couple of months, maximum. But about six weeks in, I had this sort of epiphany. One day I was sat on a bus looking around, and I suddenly thought, someone’s turned the lights on in my head. I just said out loud, "I'm meant to live here." I don't know where it came from. In my opinion, it was God telling me this is where I was meant to be. It took a while to accept. I wasn’t sure. I was like, "Really? I'm meant to live here?" But yeah, that was it. It never switched off.

I came out here at the end of 2011. I used to work in restaurants—building restaurants. I came out for a break. We’d just opened a new restaurant, I’d had pneumonia, I was exhausted. I came out for a few weeks and I’d convinced my brother during that couple of years to move out here. I came to stay with him. The night before I left, everyone came over to say goodbye and they said, "When are you coming back?" I said, "Oh, about six months. I've got a wedding coming up."

I got off the plane. My Israeli boyfriend picked me up from the airport, and two days later I said, "We need to hang out. Can we meet up?" He said, "Sure." I said to him, "I have to get home." He was like, "Sorry?" The next day I turned up at my mum's house and knocked on her door. She said, "Hey darling, how are you?" I said, "I'm all right, Mummy. I have to go home." She said, "But you just got here." I said, "I know, but I have to go home." She just instantly understood and said, "You're going back to Israel, aren't you?" I said, "Yeah." Ten weeks later, I was here.

I just walked away from everything in London. I said, this is not important—this career, the car, everything. Sell it, get rid of it. And I hopped on a plane. April 4th was 12 years ago.

Now I live in Pardes Hanna, which is close to Hadera, and I love it. It's known as the hippie town in Israel. It's the first place I’ve found community. It’s much greener, and it used to be a very sleepy area that nobody knew of. Now it’s a bit of a busy town. There are great big fields outside my house and I just love it.

I've been there three years and it suits me. It's the first place I’ve felt in Israel where I really feel I have a community supporting me. I was in a major car accident seven weeks ago. Whenever something happens, the whole community runs. My neighbours, my landlords—they live upstairs—if I introduce them as my landlords, they tell me, "We are family." And I love it.

We know all our neighbours. I lived in one building in Tel Aviv for almost four years and never knew any of my neighbours' names. I hated that. I'm not an apartment-building kind of person. It felt so anonymous. It felt like when I was in Tel Aviv, there was no one there who could support me. In fact, you often find people fighting within apartment buildings here, and it just didn’t make any sense to me. So I'm really happy to say that I found a spot that works for me. My dream is to move to the north. Maybe next year I might be ready. Then the war kicked off.

I have a very eclectic career. I’m a specialist in babies aged zero to three. I’ve worked with many new mothers and families, teaching them what to look out for in the first year and how to get their babies to developmental milestones. I've also run kindergartens, nannied, run baby courses—all sorts of things.

The other half of my career was as an operations manager. I’ve worked in many fields, mostly in Israel within the startup scene. One of the most well-known companies I worked with is Citizen Café TLV, which is a great Hebrew learning programme. When I joined them, they were just six weeks old. Now they’re a beautiful company. I've worked in the wedding industry, as a baker, in the diamond industry—all sorts of different sectors. Honestly, I always felt like I never found what I wanted to do in life.

Every few years, I found myself going back to childcare. I just felt it was where my heart is. I really believe that the first five years of life are extremely important, and that we learn most things then. A lot of trauma gets stored from that time and carries through life. I felt very protective of that stage.

Then, about two years ago, I gave everything up to learn to be a carpenter. It was a little dream of mine. I don’t really know where it came from. I’ve always been handy, but never had anyone to teach me. I just thought, "If I don’t do it now, when will I?" So I started by taking a course and then working for them. Until this past summer, I was working in a carpentry workshop. It was extremely hard. I was the only woman they’d ever hired. Most of the others weren’t Israeli or Jewish—mostly Arab Palestinians or Ukrainian and Russian.

Sadly, I found it’s an extremely hard living to make in Israel. I decided I just couldn’t continue. I’m 38 years old, and as I was turning 38, I thought, I need to be able to provide for myself. So I left. I decided to take a couple of months doing odd jobs while I took time to reevaluate. Then the war started.

On October 7th, I was supposed to be at a party in the south. Not at Nova, but at an ecstatic dance party very close by. Three days before, I called them up. I was supposed to go as a helper and said, "I'm so sorry, but I don’t think I have the energy this week. I'm going to cancel." Which is rare. I don’t cancel on things. If I commit, people know they can rely on me. But something told me to stay home.

Normally I sleep in on Saturdays. My dog respects that. But that morning she woke me at 7:40, desperate to go out. In five years, maybe she’s done that five times. I thought, "What’s up? Okay, I'm coming, let's go." I got up in my pyjamas, didn’t take my phone, just took her out to pee. I bumped into a neighbour with her dogs, and she said, "Have you seen the news?" I said, "I don't watch the news. It's not good for the soul." I actively decided in my early twenties that the news doesn’t work for me.

She said, "You should look at the news." I said, "Let me guess, more rockets?" She said, "Check the news." I thought, "What on earth could have happened?" I went home and picked up my phone. From eight in the morning until about three the next morning, like everyone else, I was paralysed on my sofa, trying to work out what was happening, where my friends were, who was alive, where the party was, what was going on.

I live in a sweet spot of Israel that is the south of the north and the north itself. It hasn’t been hit by rockets for many years, but there was panic inside everyone. Early evening, I contacted one of my oldest friends who also lives out here. Her little brother had always dreamed of becoming an IDF soldier. I called her and said, "Where is Na’el?" She said, "The last I heard from him was at 7:00 a.m. this morning as he was entering Gaza. I told him to put extra safety gear on."

He was entering Gaza on October 7th. His unit was the first to enter. They were right by the border. They are Givati, which is very respected in Israel. From what I understand, the IDF didn’t necessarily know what was happening at that point, but they understood enough to send a few units in. In most units there’s a social worker, and I think she’d been shot or injured. He said, "I'm not leaving her side. I will protect her life." The entire unit was ambushed. Out of 30 young men, only seven came out.

He was like my little brother. I’ve known that family since I was a child. He was a 20-year-old kid. I called her and asked, "Where's Na’el?" She said, "I don't know." But she’s the most optimistic person I know. She said, "He’ll be fine, Tasha. He’ll be fine. No news is good news. I have faith."

I called a couple of friends in the area and said, "Can I take your husband to reserve duty? Can I help in any way?" I'm not married; I don’t have children. I felt like there would be so much pressure on others and I could help. One of my very good friends who I also grew up with in England lives around the corner. She was 37 weeks pregnant, and her husband said, "They’re letting me stay home for now." I said, "If that changes, don’t hesitate."

He phoned me at 6:45 on Sunday morning and said, "I have to go in." I said, "No problem. I'm getting dressed. I'm coming." I went to the house. It was extremely hard to take away her husband—she was pregnant with three young children at home. As we got in the car, I got a phone call saying Na’el had died. I said to myself, "You don't cry. Not now. You drop these soldiers off. You don’t cry."

I started driving. I don’t even know how, but I found myself transporting four different soldiers that first day. Then I got a message saying the funeral would be the next day. Her parents were in France. They’re religious, so they had to be notified. They had to go to England, pick up their other daughter, who was also pregnant, and come in.

On the Monday, I dropped my dog off with a friend and said, "I don’t know what I need, but I need you to take care of her right now." He said, "Whatever you need." I collected some people and went to the funeral. They’re the strongest family I know. Their mother went to see the body, then fell straight into my arms with a big smile, saying how good it was to see me.

I think it was the hardest funeral I’ve ever attended—and maybe ever will. I said to myself that day, "I cannot do funerals right now. This is going to debilitate me." And in emergencies, I am someone who thrives. I would not allow myself to be debilitated. That night, I sent my number to a few places that I’d heard needed help with driving and said, "Use me." Within 24 hours, I was getting at least 15 phone calls a day: "Can you drive this to base? Can you take equipment? Can you pick up a soldier? Can you take them dinner?" Absolutely.

Suddenly I found myself on the road 12, 13, 14 hours every day. I opened up my Instagram and said, "Hey guys, I'm using three tanks of petrol a day. If you know me, you know I don’t like asking for money. I'm not someone who borrows. But I need help. Who wants to help me do this?" People replied, "How much is a tank of petrol? We’ll send you one."

That continued for the next two weeks: dropping off bulletproof vests, helmets, soldiers, food, generators—whatever they needed, whatever I could do in a day.

In the second week, the soldiers started asking me, "Would you come and have coffee with us?" Sometimes it was simply that there was too much bombing in those areas and I couldn’t get back on the road, so I’d hang out with them for a bit. Nobody knew what was going on in the north. Everyone just thought it was Gaza. But I was up north, sheltering from rockets.

At that time, it was just reservists in the north. They started to tell me that their bodies hurt, that they were in pain. I realised that the majority of these men had been in offices for over a decade. They’ve got families. They’ve moved on from their army duty. They’re not in shape.

I’ve had back problems since I was a child—since I was 15. At 20, I was involved in a relatively minor car accident. Someone had smashed into me, and I thought I was okay. But three days later, I woke up unable to move. I went through a year and a half of various treatments before a surgeon did a full scan and told me my spine was in a very delicate state. He said I could end up paralysed if I didn’t have surgery immediately.

He said, "Actually, I would’ve done it yesterday if I could." Five days later, I had surgery at age 22—10 days in hospital. I had a lot of complications. We found out I was definitely allergic to morphine and various other medications. It wasn’t easy. Two years later, I had to have a complete spinal fusion, plus some other procedures. I spent seven weeks in hospital having to learn to walk again.

The trauma had completely frozen my brain. I couldn’t put one foot in front of the other. I had lots of complications. I started in ICU, and they had to strap me down for seven days because my body was spasming so badly. It was very traumatic. I was 24.

I’ve undergone years of therapy, hours and hours of all sorts of treatments. I tried whatever the doctors asked. Until about three years ago, I was still getting four epidural injections a year to help me walk. I was spending about a third of every year in bed.

Now, I’m proud to say that through a combination of Western treatments, holistic practices, and trauma healing, I haven’t spent more than a day in bed at any point in the past three years.

So when they told me they were in pain, I thought, "There’s no one better to understand this than me." I live in chronic pain. I actually don’t remember what it’s like not to be in pain. I said, "Okay, we need to get you help. We need to get you through this."

This is going to be a long war. I had an immediate understanding, just from being around so many soldiers, of what was really happening out there. A lot of people were in denial. I kept saying, "Something big is coming. Bigger than we can imagine. I think this is the beginning of World War III." Everyone said, "You're being dramatic." I said, "I'm not. It's okay that you need protection right now, but my eyes are open."

I started calling around. I heard there were groups of massage therapists. I asked, "Who can I find to help us?" Anyone I managed to reach said straight up, "We are only going south. We’re treating the soldiers out of Gaza." I said, "What about the reservists?" They said, "They're not doing anything."

I said, "Normally they do nothing, yes—it's a running joke that when you go on reserve duty, you just sit around. But right now, you are all very wrong. These men need our help."

The next day, my car went into the mechanic. I’ve done almost 40,000 kilometres in the last four months, so you can imagine the maintenance. I said to the mechanic, "You can have my car if I can take over your office." He said, "Go for it."

For the next six hours, I sat in his office and used Instagram, WhatsApp, and Facebook to contact anyone I could think of. I asked, "Do you know therapists who might want to come help me? Are you a therapist who wants to join me? Let’s do something for these guys."

I really thought, at the beginning, that this would be a short, quick initiative—get a few people some help. Suddenly I found myself with five, six, seven therapists available. So I called the soldiers I’d met along the roads and said, "Can we come and help you? No one's covering the north. I want to help you."

Twelve weeks ago today, Chayal's Angels was born.

ChayalsAngels | HelpSoldiers

ChayalsAngels, non-profit organisation helping the soldiers of Israel with Injury care, physiotherapy and massages!

ChayalsAngels

The name came about one morning while I was standing at a petrol station. Someone said, "We need a name, we need a logo, we need a T-shirt." I thought, what’s catchy and honest? There are a few words that Jews outside of Israel use regularly that Israelis don’t even recognise in our accents. One of them is "chayal," which means soldier.

So I said, "We are the Chayal's Angels. We are going to be an army for the army. You’re an army—we are going to back you. Whatever you need, we’ve got you."

I put out a call on Instagram: "Does anyone want to help with a logo?" A friend of a friend said, "I can. I’m a graphic designer and I would love to help." Before you know it, Chayal's Angels came about. That was about a week in. Often the soldiers ask, "Who's Chayal?" I explain, it's a play on the word. "Chayal" is singular; "chayalim" is plural. So we are Chayal's Angels.

We started on 27 October, going to the first base up in Mount Hermon, which is at the very top of the country. I had met a guy who has now become a good friend. He had lived in Israel for some time and then returned to Los Angeles. After October 7th, he jumped on a plane and said to the army, "I need to come back in. Take me as a reservist. Let me help."

His unit was the first we visited. On our first day, we treated 100 soldiers.

PP: And you treated them with?

TC: On that very first day, we brought a chiropractor and two massage therapists. That was it—just the four of us in a car. Since then, we’ve been going out multiple days a week. We have grown massively. I now have over 100 therapists in our group. We have volunteers coming in from all over—the US, UK, Australia—people who just want to help the soldiers. Whether they come for a week or a month, they want to help.

I’ve figured out a way to bridge the gap between the people who want to help our soldiers and the soldiers who need help. I was an operations manager for about 12 years and made a conscious decision six years ago to change paths. Suddenly I found myself back in operations. I know how to make things happen. I’m a can-do person. If there’s a way around it, I’ll find it. Let’s get it going. There’s no problem we can’t solve.

A month in, we had treated about 1,500 soldiers. My little car—a red Mazda 2 named Tutti ("strawberry" in Hebrew)—was doing all the heavy lifting. One morning we were supposed to go to a base, but at the last minute it was cancelled. That happens in wartime. Sometimes soldiers get moved or it’s too unsafe for us to enter the area.

I thought, "I’m going to visit my dog." I’d hit a bit of a wall. I’d been going non-stop for six weeks. I was emotionally drained. More news about October 7th was coming out. I needed some time for myself. So I went to see my dog. Then I said, "I have to go. I actually have an interview."

On my way home, I believe I was just burnt out. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I smashed into a van at quite a speed. One minute I was driving, thinking of all the things I had to do before my interview. The next minute I looked over and thought, "Is that my airbag? Has it exploded? Is my nose broken? Was I in an accident?"

Then I looked up. My entire car was on fire. Flames were all around me. I knew I had to get out quickly, but I couldn’t. I was trapped. The door wouldn’t open. I couldn’t move much. I was in a lot of pain. I didn’t know if anything was broken.

I didn’t realise at the time, but I had crashed into a Palestinian Israeli man. He realised I was stuck in my car. He ran over and opened the door just enough to give me his hand and pull me out. As I stood up, in a daze, I remember saying, "I need to grab my phone. It’s on the stand." He said, "No." The fire was already on the second half of the car. One more second, and he wouldn’t have been able to get the door open.

He said, "We have to move now." We took two steps. Within seconds, my entire car exploded. Like in an action film. There was fire and smoke everywhere. It was just before a storm, so it was very windy.

Next thing I knew, I was in a police car, people saying, "You’re alive!" They were all ducking down because of the smoke. Then I was in an ambulance. Since October 7th, all ambulances in Israel have the faces of hostages on their windows.

I found myself sitting in the back with two Palestinian Israeli paramedics and the Palestinian Israeli man I had crashed into. I could barely speak—certainly not in Hebrew. All three of them tried to find English words to say, "Breathe, you're alive."

I looked up and saw the faces of the hostages staring at me. These beautiful people were trying to keep me calm. Out loud I said, "What universe am I in?" That weekend, hostages were being released every night in groups of 10. It was dystopian. I had no idea where I was.

I got to the hospital and borrowed a phone. I called my mum in England. I said, "Mum, I’ve been in an accident. Can you please reach someone, a friend, anyone—I need someone at the hospital." She said, "What do you mean?" I said, "I don’t know if I’m okay. I can’t move, but I’m alive."

I spent about a week resting at home. I struggled to breathe at first from the bruising. But slowly I realised I had no internal damage, no broken bones, just a few scratches and some serious bruising to my upper body. It felt like a miracle. Truly nothing short of a miracle. One more second and I wouldn’t have made it out.

By the time I was in the ambulance, my car was already gone. Just minutes—everything was gone. I had massage tables in there. I’d basically been living out of my car for six weeks. Everything I owned was in it. All gone. But I was alive.

I had a deep understanding that God had saved me. For whatever reason, I had been truly and utterly saved. Like I had my own angel. It came to me then: I was saved because I can make things happen. I have to make Chayal's Angels big.

There’s a mission here. It’s not about me. It’s not even about the volunteers. Everyone is volunteering their time. I don’t just have therapists. I have people working on the website, growing social media, doing branding, business coaching—all sorts. It’s not just me. I just happen to be the face of it. I founded it 12 weeks ago. And never more than today do I feel that this mission is vital. People need to understand what we’re doing and why.

We provide all different kinds of holistic treatments: physiotherapy, chiropractors, acupuncturists, massage therapists, reflexologists for the feet, reflexologists for the face—I didn’t even know that was a thing until recently, but it’s magical—Reiki healers, energy healers, light healers, sound healers, yoga teachers. You name it, we try it. Breathwork, too.

At the beginning, it was just about helping them physically—relieving pain. But I quickly understood that what these people need is help with their nervous system, their soul, and their energy, just as importantly. Soldiers go into a mode where they don’t feel. They don’t recognise trauma. They just get on with it.

Not one soldier complains out there. No matter how cold, how wet, how heavy their gear, how exhausted they are, how long it’s been since they’ve seen their families—they just don’t complain. It’s like they become superhuman. But that also means there’s a lot of trauma building up.

And although the north hasn’t been spoken about as much as other areas in Israel, it’s extremely active. I can tell you firsthand: I’ve run, many times, into buildings for protection because there were suicide drones around us, literally trying to attack us.

There was one instance where a rocket fell a few hundred metres from where we were standing. There are times when they evacuate us from areas, saying it’s too dangerous right now. And there are times when they tell us to stay put because it’s more dangerous to be on the road. Some days we move to bomb shelters and continue our work there. Sometimes we set up in bomb shelters.

Sometimes we leave and heavy attacks come right after. It’s extremely loud. And although we don’t run, cry, or shake from sirens, when a rocket explodes that close to you, or one is shot from Israel’s side towards Lebanon, you can’t help but jump. It vibrates through your system.

There have been times when we’re at bases and they ask, “Would you like earplugs?” And I say, “If you’re good, I’m good. Treat us no differently.” But the soldiers protect us—they would literally lay on top of us to save us, if they had to.

So what we’re doing is working as much as we can on their nervous systems and their trauma to prevent severe PTSD in future. I truly believe this is how we save their lives.

I have complex PTSD myself from childhood. I’ve also been suicidal my whole life. A few years ago in Israel, I had a nervous breakdown and went to what’s called a balance house—it’s a live-in holistic therapy programme. I lived there for six weeks. It truly changed me forever.

It was the best gift I’ve ever received. I never expected that, in my mid-thirties, I’d be given six weeks of quiet. Six weeks with someone else taking my phone away, telling me where to go, and giving me space where it was totally okay to be honest and vulnerable. To realise how many people want to help you.

I want to bring that to our soldiers. It’s the most meaningful thing I’ve ever been a part of. I also feel like everything in my life led up to this. After the car accident, I thought, “Okay, now I know what I’m meant to do.” This is what I was searching for. I can help these people.

And if we don’t address their trauma now, the chances of them experiencing severe PTSD—like what you see in war dramas and films, nightmares, breakdowns—goes way up. These are the things that tear families apart. These are the things that lead to suicide.

So by tackling the trauma now, we have a head start. We have big plans. I hope that next year, we’ll be able to open a holistic clinic where we can provide extremely low-cost—or hopefully free—treatment for reservists. My dream is to have a psychologist and a social worker on staff to help guide them through the bureaucratic system and develop personalised programmes.

We’d also offer acupuncturists, physiotherapists, and other practitioners, as well as trauma-healing workshops and support from mental health professionals. The medical system is completely overrun, and it already takes a long time to access care.

If you’re in physical pain, you’re also building up trauma without knowing how to handle it. Most people experience trauma, but they don’t necessarily know about somatic healing, or that acupuncture is incredibly effective for PTSD, or that breathwork is a vital part of moving trauma through your body.

You can talk and talk, but trauma sits on a cellular level. If you don’t address that, it can stay in the body for decades. I want to make sure we offer a well-rounded approach for them. An introduction, so to speak.

PP: You have the number 104 written on your shirt. Today is the 104th day, and you've been working on this for what—maybe 94 days? How are you feeling?

TC: It depends on the minute of the day you ask me. On one hand, I'm totally fine. In regular life, going to a busy supermarket can cause me to have a panic attack. I’ve suffered with anxiety since I was pretty young. But in an emergency, I thrive. I can do this. If anyone can do this, I can.

I won’t take no for an answer. I’m known to wake up sergeants and captains—“I know you’re resting, but I need to get you some help for your body.” People say, “You can’t wake them up,” and I say, “Watch me. I will.”

On the other hand, I’m utterly broken in every way. I’m experiencing terrible nightmares multiple times a week. My friends in America often get middle-of-the-night phone calls from me when I just break.

I'm doing my best not to focus on the hostages because I feel like we all have to choose our line. It’s the only way to get through this. But every single soldier casualty hits me like a fresh stab wound. Every single one. You stare at their face. You acknowledge them. And in some crazy way, you pray it’s not someone you know.

I’m disgusted by the world. I’m also, sadly, not shocked by the world.

I'll never be the same.

I’m not okay. None of us are okay. We just do our best to hold it together, because I truly believe that you don’t fight evil with evil. You fight evil with light.

Having been raised Jewish, with every level of religious and secular life around me, I truly believe the only reason Jewish people exist is to be a light unto the nations. And if we have any chance of changing the world, we have to keep bringing in light.

I’ve longed to be a mother my whole life. Since I was 14. For 24 years, it’s all I’ve prayed for. And at the same time, I can’t bear the thought of bringing a child into this world. I don’t want anyone to grow up in this kind of evil. It’s so messed up.

PP: Today is Kfir Bibas’s first birthday.

TC: Indeed, it is. No one deserves to be in captivity—let alone a baby. He’s become somewhat of Israel’s baby, the Jewish people’s baby. I woke up this morning and realised what day it was. I cried for hours. I was trying to get ready for meetings, and I just couldn’t stop crying.

So I contacted a dear friend who has a company called Caked and Baked. I said, “Do you have a spare birthday cake?” She said, “I do.” I said, “Please bring it to me. I can’t let today go by without Kfir having some form of celebration.”

No one-year-old baby deserves to enter toddlerhood this way. No parent deserves to reach the milestone of keeping their baby alive for a year under these conditions. I wanted to bring a cake today. I want us to take a bite of it. And when he comes home, he can have every cake in the world, as far as I’m concerned. But for now, I hope you’ll join me in wishing him a little happy birthday.

We love you, Kfir. We will never abandon you. You are in all of our hearts, every minute of every day. May you live to be 120.

It may seem silly, but how can you not acknowledge a one-year-old's birthday? All I kept thinking was, what if this was my child? What if this was my baby? Having worked with babies for years, I’ve seen so many get their first cake, their first taste of sugar. My favourite part of being an aunt is making all my nieces’ and nephews’ birthday cakes.

Growing up, my aunt made all my cakes. When my brother’s boys were born, I said to my sister-in-law, “Please give me the one privilege of making their cakes.” Both of their first birthday cakes were a labour of love. Kfir deserves that too.

PP: Thank you. Thank you for telling me these stories, and thank you for what you're doing. It's truly extraordinary. We can all help somehow. What do you need from others in order to support what you're doing?

TC: We need a lot of help in many ways. I’m one person. Sometimes I feel like I’m blind doing all this. I’m still looking for certain business people to help. But the main thing we need, sadly, is funds.

I'm trying to raise three million shekels, which would cover everything: some salaries, all the equipment we need, transportation, fuel—everything to keep going for the next 12 months. That includes payment for the volunteers who’ve been working with me. None of them know I’m trying to do this. The therapists know I’m trying to reach a point where I can pay them something. But the people working on the website, branding, business coaching—they don’t even know I’ve included them.

But to me, they are the most important people. That three million would support everything.

PP: Do you have a structure set up for donations?

TC: We have a website—chayalsangels.org. Please God, within the next four to eight weeks we’ll officially be a nonprofit. We’re in the early stages of a fundraising campaign. Up until now, it’s really just been me on social media. It’s not small—we’ve had about 60,000 shekels come in over the past few months. That’s what’s kept us going.

But we have big dreams. Please God, within a month we’ll have some merchandise for sale, as well as a Kickstarter-style fundraiser—so if you donate a certain amount, you’ll get something in return. We’re trying to offer things people will actually use: stickers for notebooks, tote bags for shopping. People want to help, and we know that. People feel helpless.

But Chayal's Angels—this is something I dream will last for years to come. As I said, it will include a clinic, maybe even a balance house one day. There’s a lot of work to be done. The main thing we need is funding.

Later this year, I plan to take a short fundraising trip. Unfortunately, Israel is not the place to get the money. And we know this is going to go on for a long time. But I want to make sure we can serve our soldiers during the war—and also for at least a few years afterwards.

PP: Terrible. Thank you. Thank you for everything you're doing, thank you for the interview—and thank you for bringing cake.

TC: It’s gluten-free. And I say we should all say "l’chaim," which in Hebrew means "to life."

I’m going to take it out on the streets and offer people a bite—to celebrate his birthday.