There is no gentle way to say the words that will shatter a home.
Hezy Laing
Among the many difficult responsibilities in the IDF, none carries a heavier emotional weight than that of the Katzin Nifga’im, the IDF Casualty Notification Officer.
These officers are tasked with delivering the most devastating message a family can receive.
They must arrive within minutes of confirmation, often in the middle of the night, and speak with absolute clarity.
There is no gentle way to say the words that will shatter a home.
These officers undergo intensive training that prepares them for the psychological, emotional, and procedural demands of the role.
They are taught how to approach a home, how to deliver the message clearly, and how to support a family in the first moments of shock.
By law, the Katzin Nifga’im must deliver the news directly and without euphemism, using a precise formula that leaves no room for misunderstanding.
They must state the soldier’s name, unit, and the fact of his death in clear, unambiguous language.
Once the message is delivered, the Katzin Nifga’im remains with the family for hours, sometimes until relatives arrive, offering support in the first moments of shock and grief.
Officers who have served in this role say they never forget a single detail: the hallway they walked down, the sound of the door opening, the expression on a mother’s face.
These moments stay with them long after they leave the military.
One officer recalled arriving at an apartment building at three in the morning.
As the elevator rose, he heard movement behind the door.
The mother opened it before he could knock.
She saw the uniform and whispered, “Please tell me it’s not my son.”
He stayed with the family until sunrise, helping them call relatives and sitting silently as the father held a photograph and murmured prayers.
Another officer described notifying a father who had served in the IDF himself.
When he heard the news, the man didn’t cry.
Instead, he embraced the officer with a strength born of shock and heartbreak.
“You’re the same age as my boy,” he whispered.
The officer later said he could barely breathe, held in the grip of a grief he could not ease.
A third officer remembered a home where the fallen soldier had a six‑year‑old sister.
While the parents collapsed in tears, the little girl tugged at the officer’s sleeve and asked, “But he promised he’d bring me chocolate. When is he coming home?”
He sat with her on the floor, drawing pictures, unable to answer.
These stories reveal the profound human cost behind every casualty announcement.
They remind us that the burden of loss is shared not only by families, but also by the Katzin Nifga’im, who must deliver the news with compassion, courage, and a heavy heart.
