- January 19, 2026
- 11:41 am
- Ukraine
Source: Interview with Lieutenant-Rabbi Yakov Sinyakov for the Jerusalem Post.
Moral spirit in war is not a slogan or a poster. It is a subtle resource that depletes faster than ammunition: fatigue, losses, sleepless nights, news from home, guilt, anger, emptiness. A rare figure has appeared in the Ukrainian army, whose work is directly related to this resource: Lieutenant-Rabbi Yakov Sinyakov. He became the first rabbi-chaplain in the Armed Forces of Ukraine — a person who works with faith, fear, burnout, and meaning in a situation where a “normal” psyche does not exist.
Sinyakov speaks frankly: the lion’s share of his service is not rituals or religious lectures. By his estimate, about 80% is psychological help. His education and practical skills in psychology allow him to read people’s states faster than they are ready to name them themselves. Sometimes, when he visits soldiers in trenches or drone operators, they do not expect speeches from him. They expect him to simply be there and endure someone else’s silence.
He describes this without pathos: there are moments when a person does not need “support with words,” but to feel — they are seen, they have not dissolved in the war. “Sometimes you just need to be silent,” says Sinyakov. “Listen, look into the eyes, and say: ‘Yes, I see you.'”
When support looks like coffee and two hours of silent conversation
One of the episodes he recalls is related to a unit that suffered heavy losses. There was no request for a “scheduled” prayer and no strength to discuss high matters.
He spent two hours with them: coffee, conversations, pauses, fragments of thoughts. The key was not what he said, but that he endured their state and did not try to “fix” it with beautiful formulas. Later, when he returned, the soldiers ran to meet him to thank him. In war, they thank for the simple: for presence that does not lie.
He visits everyone: not only the “front line,” but also those whom the war erases unnoticed
Sinyakov emphasizes that he tries to be not only with those who are “at zero.” He also visits administrators, communicators, and logisticians.
In war, it is easy to build a hierarchy of “real” and “secondary.” But people who do not shoot also carry their burden: they sign papers about losses, collect requests, are responsible for supplies, live with the constant feeling that their work is “not heroic.” Sinyakov tells them a simple thing: their actions are part of the army’s survival. Without them, there would be no food, no fuel, no bullets. This is not consolation, but a reminder of the reality that holds the front line.
Sometimes he is on the road for several days. Sometimes he stays at a position until dark. And, as a household detail that says a lot about his style, he brings chocolates and sweets. It’s a small thing, but in the army, small things work as a bridge to home: someone divides a chocolate bar into three — and suddenly remembers that they are a person, not a function.
Training base, trenches, and a conversation about Hanukkah without a “lecture from above”
Recently, he was in a unit undergoing training at a forward base surrounded by trenches. They practiced first aid, movement through trenches, grenade throws. Nearby stood newcomers learning from veterans.
Sinyakov talked to the soldiers about Hanukkah — a holiday associated with resistance to occupiers trying to break culture and identity. For the military in Ukraine, this story is read not as a “textbook history,” but as an analogy of experience: when the struggle is not only for territory but also for the right to be oneself.
He does not turn such meetings into a sermon for “his own.” He seeks a common meaning that is understandable to people of different faiths because in a trench, they rarely ask how exactly you pray.
Psalms as a “talisman” and strange requests: from holy water to a nickname about tzitzit
After performances, he distributes books of psalms in Ukrainian. He emphasizes that these texts are important not only for Jews: they are read by Christians and people who cannot call themselves religious at all but cling to words that sound like support in war.
Many soldiers seek these books not as “literature,” but as an object that should bring luck, protection, a chance to return. War quickly turns rational people into superstitious ones — and Sinyakov does not laugh at this because he understands the mechanism: when control over life disappears, a person seeks at least symbolic control.
Sometimes requests look almost absurd. One soldier, for example, asked to be blessed with holy water. Others see tzitzit on him and jokingly call them “holy noodles.” Such details seem funny until you understand: this is an attempt to make the nearby death a little less scary through humor and play.
He says that many call themselves Christians but poorly know the basics of their faith. Yet they treat him as a “holy person” — not because they suddenly became religious, but because in their coordinate system, “holiness” is someone who is there in the worst and does not run away.
Sinyakov often starts a conversation from a common point so that no one feels alien: the idea of one God and the human soul. Then — a conversation about what hurts here and now.
How he became a chaplain if he did not want to “attach” to one unit
He did not intend to become a chaplain from the beginning. In the first months of the war, he was engaged in volunteering and helping refugees. As a rabbi of the Federation of Jewish Communities of Ukraine, he sought support for Jewish soldiers — and quickly noticed: non-Jews also came to him because they needed someone to endure their questions.
He tried to help as broadly as possible — using knowledge of religion, psychology, and even martial arts as part of discipline and self-control. Different units invited him to become “their” chaplain, but he resisted: he was afraid of narrowing his work to one unit and losing the opportunity to go where it is more acute now.
The turning point came after a request from a friend — a high-ranking officer. Sinyakov agreed to the official role. At the time of the described events, he has been serving as a chaplain for about five months, and the soldiers joke about the “kashrut” of their unit — as a way to relieve tension and emphasize that he has become “one of their own.”
The hardest conversation: when a person says “I do not believe in God” and still goes into battle
In war, a question always arises, common to all religions and atheists too: how is it that if there is a God, why do friends die, why is this happening.
One soldier told Sinyakov that he no longer believes in God after what he saw. The rabbi did not argue. He asked something else: why do you continue to fight? The answer was simple: the soldier believes in Ukraine and protects his family.
Sinyakov draws a conclusion from this that keeps people afloat: war is a space of choice. A person chooses what is worth living for and what they are ready to protect. And those who came to kill also made their choice. This logic is not a philosophical game. For many, it becomes a way to endure what they have to do and see.
In this view, Russian invaders turn not into “fate’s rock,” but into subjects who chose evil. This eases the moral picture of the world: not “I am in the mud for no reason,” but “I am defending against those who came to destroy.”
Sinyakov draws a parallel with the October 7 attack on Israel: when a blow occurs that destroys the usual life, society loses the illusion that it can “not respond.” But he adds an important point: even if actions now seem inevitable, after the war, it will be necessary to live through the consequences — psychological, moral, human.
After the front, another work will begin — and it will also be difficult
His role does not end with “raising the spirit.” He essentially records a future problem: Ukrainians will have to sort out within themselves for a long time what the war did — with their views, nervous system, relationships, faith, sense of humanity.
That is why his service is described as serving the person, not reports. Being there, listening, enduring, sometimes being silent — and not letting a person fall apart where they are required to hold on.
War is measured in kilometers, drones, reports, and losses. But it is also measured by how many people can return home and become alive again. In this sense, the work of a rabbi-chaplain is part of the defense no less than any logistics and any trench.
And that is why such figures become noticeable: they return to soldiers the feeling that they are not being used, but seen — and that even in hell, one can remain human. NAnews — News of Israel | Nikk.Agency
