A Muslim Soldier in Israel’s Army

The Unlikely Journey of a Muslim Soldier in the IDF

On a platform like X (Twitter), where every faction shouts its truth into the digital void, we invited you to ask him direct questions - no filters, no polished press releases, just raw curiosity. In a region known for conflict and division, Yahya Mahamid’s story doesn’t just break the mold - it shatters it. Yahya grew up in a religious family which was part of the Islamic Movement. Yahya’s family wanted him to become a missionary and work for the Movement to spread Islam in India. That sentence alone might stop you in your tracks. How does a young man, raised in a society where hatred of Israel was the default, come to wear the uniform of the Jewish state?

For much of his youth, Yahya believed what he was taught: that Jews and Muslims were destined to be enemies and that coexistence was impossible. But life has a way of disrupting even the most deeply ingrained narratives. Yahya stepped into IDF service out of the binary thinking that defines so much of the Middle East. What he found wasn’t betrayal; it was belonging, purpose, and a vision of coexistence few dare to imagine.

So we turned to X (formerly Twitter), where outrage usually drowns nuance, and asked our audience to challenge him directly. There were no filters, no rehearsed talking points, just raw questions and answers.

Not Your Typical Soldier

The first wave of questions hit straight at the core: Are you Muslim first, or Israeli? Yahya didn’t flinch. “I’m an Israeli who happens to be Muslim,” he replied - simple, firm, and unapologetic. In a region obsessed with dividing people into “us” and “them,” someone refused to pick a side. He lives in both worlds and is not sorry if that scrambles your expectations.

Then came the religious tests. “Do you even know the Quran?” As if putting on a uniform somehow erased his faith. Yahya grew up so devout that he once considered becoming a missionary. Of course, he knows the Quran. But time, experience, and reality shape belief. Asked about verses that warn against befriending non-believers, he doesn’t dodge. He answers with perspective: It’s 2024, not the 7th century (the interview took place in 2024). Faith, like people, evolves. Scholars debate. Context matters.

Culture Clash and Moral Compass

Then came another curveball: "Do you scream 'Allahu Akbar' before engaging the enemy?" Yahya shrugs, joking about saying it in the shower instead of on the battlefield. It's a sly jab at the stereotypes surrounding him, a quiet rebellion against the expectation that he must conform to some ritualized version of warfare. In this volatile region, chanting battle cries isn’t the definition of courage; it’s just noise.

The next question was darker: "Do you kill children?" A question that circulates in corners of the internet, a slur leveled at Israeli soldiers. Yahya doesn’t hesitate: “Israel doesn’t target children.” Collateral damage, though deeply tragic, is never a tactic or a goal. He sleeps well at night knowing his mission is to protect the innocent, not harm them.

The Faith Factor in the IDF

When asked, "How did your service affect your faith?" Yahya answers honestly: it made life more complicated, not less. Being a Muslim who supports Israel isn’t always easy. Some imams are skeptical, and certain mosques are less than welcoming. But Yahya has witnessed something else - religious leaders who’ve opened their doors, and devout Muslim women who’ve chosen to serve in the IDF to defend the nation. It’s proof that change is possible, even in one of the world’s most entrenched conflict zones.

I asked whether the IDF accommodates Muslim prayer times and fasting, and Yahya affirms it. The army, he says, is designed to honor a range of faiths and backgrounds. And when the question arises about the "72 virgins" myth, Yahya laughs it off. For him, faith and service are about purpose, not the stereotypes that try to define him.

Palestinian: Second-Class Citizen?

What’s in a label? Yahya says that his grandmother was the biggest zionist he ever met, but that she also wore her Palestinian identity with pride. For Yahya, however, identity is fluid, shaped by personal experience and the evolving world around him. Yahya argues that his grandmother was a Palestinian but that he is not.. Some may view him as a second-class citizen in a state that defines itself as both Jewish and democratic. But Yahya rejects those assumptions. Each morning, he stands tall under the Israeli flag, saluting not just a symbol, but a nation that recognizes him as part of its fabric. In his view, any Arab seeking integration within Israeli society can find endless opportunities. It’s not about exclusion, it’s about seizing a place at the table.

Temple Mount, Opportunities, and Apartheid Claims

The Temple Mount symbolizes deep religious and political conflict and presents another explosive question. Should al-Aqsa be demolished to build the Third Temple? Yahya's answer is clear: absolutely not. Faith, in his eyes, isn’t a zero-sum game. People of different beliefs must coexist peacefully, finding ways to pray side by side without one’s sacred space coming at the expense of another’s.

So, what has Israel done for him? It’s offered Yahya safety, stability, and a platform to succeed. The “Apartheid state” label? He dismisses it as an oversimplified narrative. To Yahya, Israel is far from apartheid. Instead, he argues, the conflict has always been about undermining Jewish sovereignty, and if that goal were achieved, groups like Hamas would find another excuse to hate.

When asked if he’s a traitor for serving in the IDF, Yahya turns the question around: his service prevents smuggling, violence, and the drug trade that plague Arab communities within Israel. If stopping this chaos makes him a “traitor,” what does that say about those who hurl the accusation?

Family Ties and a Future Vision

The IDF, sensitive to the complexities of personal and familial connections, avoids stationing soldiers in areas where they have close relatives. It’s an unspoken acknowledgment of the moral weight of such relationships. But when it comes to controversial questions like whether Israelis should build homes in the West Bank, Yahya cuts through the noise with a sharp observation: if living on disputed lands is deemed wrong, why are the 2 million Arabs living in undisputed Israel not held to the same standard? The question reveals a larger truth: every decision in this region affects everyone, regardless of side.

As for a Palestinian state, Yahya doesn’t outright reject the idea, but his conditions are clear: peace must come first. The guns need to fall silent before any real future can take root. And as for Hamas leadership, Yahya’s message is direct: release the hostages, choose love for your people over hatred for Jews, and perhaps there’s a chance for authentic leadership—one that values life more than death.

A Tapestry of Contradictions and Hope

Yahya’s story doesn’t offer tidy resolutions or a neat ending. It doesn’t conclude with a grand gesture of peace or an easy moral lesson. And that’s the point. The reality of the Middle East is far from straightforward: it’s complex, layered, and often contradictory. But within Yahya’s journey, we see something powerful. The possibility of shared service, respect for pluralism, and personal faith to coexist within one person. And perhaps that’s a clue to something larger, a potential roadmap for understanding.

In an age where social media’s outrage often drowns out nuance, Yahya’s voice rises above the noise. He stands as a reminder that Israel’s human mosaic—Jews, Muslims, Christians, and Druze, all serving together—defies easy narratives. Maybe, just maybe, the quiet strength of such stories can inch the region a little closer to understanding. Or at the very least, show that not all paths are predetermined.

Yahya didn’t betray anyone. He refused to follow a script that was written for him. If we’re looking for hope, that might be a place to start.

Adam Starzynski

Journalist | Foreign Policy Analyst

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