W

hen the gag order was finally lifted, “NCO A” was revealed to be a young man named Ari (Aharon) Rosenfeld, a noncommissioned officer in IDF Military Intelligence, who, this week at least, is arguably the most talked-about prisoner in Israel. (Details such as Rosenfeld’s rank, the material he dealt with, his military past, and his area of expertise remain prohibited from publication.)

Rosenfeld, together with Eli Feldstein, are the central figures in a highly politically charged saga that Israeli media has dubbed “BibiLeaks.” Rosenfeld was charged last month with transferring classified information, an offense that is punishable by seven to fifteen years in prison, as well as theft by an authorized person and obstruction of justice. The indictment in the backstory to an alleged leak of a classified document to the German tabloid Bild in September, which ostensibly detailed Hamas’s priorities and tactics in hostage negotiations.

The document, which underscored many of the ideas the public knew to be true all along — that Hamas wasn’t interested in a ceasefire deal and only wanted to drag out talks to gain time to rebuild its military capabilities, exhaust Israel’s military, and spark internal dissent in Israel, and pin blame on Netanyahu for the failure to reach a deal — was allegedly unlawfully removed from the IDF’s military intelligence database by Rosenfeld, who passed it on to Eli Feldstein, a spokesman in the Prime Minister’s Office. But instead of Feldstein making sure it got to the prime minister, he instead transferred it to Bild.

The indictment alleges that Rosenfeld gave a top-secret document to Feldstein, believing it to be imperative for the prime minister to receive directly and realizing that it would likely get stonewalled if sent through the official chain of command.

Feldstein did not immediately pass on the document, though. At the beginning of September, he attempted to leak its contents to Israeli media, in order to counter mass protests that broke out after six bodies of executed hostages were retrieved from Gaza, to alleviate criticism against Netanyahu and to reduce the public pressure from the left to railroad a very bad deal for Israel following the murders.

But the military censor prohibited its publication, assumedly because it might have derailed a certain political agenda. Yet Netanyahu himself didn’t seem to have a problem with the leak — he even referred to the Bild story in a September 8 cabinet meeting, saying it revealed that Hamas planned “to tear us apart from within” but that “the great majority of Israel’s citizens are not falling into this Hamas trap.”

Feldstein, who was released from prison to house arrest at the beginning of December, was charged with “transferring classified information with the intent to harm the state,” a charge that can carry a sentence of life in prison.

While their charges and motivations were different, both Feldstein and Rosenfeld were denied access to legal counsel for ten days following their arrest.  

Although the Shin Bet claims it’s only interested in identifying and stopping the leaks, Netanyahu himself publicly defended both young men, arguing that the case is politically motivated and noting that there have been numerous damaging leaks from the war cabinet — highly classified intelligence that had reached the press, endangering both the hostages and Israeli soldiers — that have never been investigated.

Furthermore, leaks are an integral part of the media culture in Israel, sort of a superhighway of unofficial information that the foreign press, in particular, lives off of.

In a slew of public demonstrations for both Feldstein and the still-incarcerated Rosenfeld, supporters say that it’s absurd to consider the very idea that passing information to the prime minister is a threat to national security, and that the prime minister should have been given the information to begin with. While opponents of Netanyahu accused him of purposely leaking the document to torpedo a ceasefire deal so as to pursue his war aims and his political survival, critics of the indictment say that this entire chapter needs to be understood within the context of ongoing efforts by the IDF General Staff and the Shin Bet to whitewash their own culpability for events related to October 7, aided by allies in the justice system who are determined to oust Netanyahu from power at all costs.

The case opens even more questions, one of them being why the document was classified in the first place. And if it was indeed top-secret, then why wasn’t it put straightaway onto the prime minister’s desk? Is this another example of a two-tiered justice system that sanctions leaks as a matter of course, but cracks down on them if the agenda is the pursuit of Netanyahu?

“We’re talking about an outstanding noncommissioned officer, and this terrible injustice must end,” Diaspora Affairs Minister Amichai Chikli told a crowd of Rosenfeld’s supporters last Motzaei Shabbos outside Ayalon Prison, where Ari is currently incarcerated. “This man doesn’t deserve prison — he deserves a certificate of excellence. How is it that Ari is in prison and the four troublemakers who fired flares at the prime minister’s residence were released?”

That’s the same question Ari’s father, Rabbi Shmuel Rosenfeld, is asking.

IN

Rabbi Shmuel Rosenfeld’s home in Jerusalem’s Har Nof neighborhood, the family is preparing to light the menorah, an auspicious time for prayer. But this year, they’re praying for a different kind of miracle — that their son Ari, who has been languishing in prison for over a month, be released.

“How would you explain to someone unfamiliar with the case why your son is still in jail?” I ask.

Rabbi Rosenfeld, longtime sofer and owner of the Min Hastam Judaica store in Jerusalem, offers a pained smile. “That is precisely what we’re asking ourselves.”

Ari — whose parents made aliyah from Queens in 1980 and first settled in the then-new yishuv of Beit El before moving to Jerusalem — studied at Maarava yeshivah high school, and later at Beit Midrash Derech Chaim, a chareidi hesder-like yeshivah where students learn a regular yeshivah seder during the day and study for a degree in computers/cyber in the evenings, after which they work for the IDF in intelligence and technology. He also volunteered for organizations that assisted children with illness or special needs. After yeshivah, Ari served for three years in an elite IDF cyber unit. Following his military service, he was hired by a private security firm and earned a degree in psychology and criminology, while always making time for Torah study and responding diligently to calls for reserve duty. When the war broke out last year, he was back at his post, so far having served over 200 days in uniform.

“He wasn’t allowed to disclose anything to his wife or to us, but you could see the pain in his eyes,” says Reb Shmuel. “You could see the tears. He had access to much more information than the rest of us did, he saw both the horror and the miracles. I remember years ago, he said to me, ‘Abba, if you asked me, I would pasken that we should say Hallel every day.’

Ari cared deeply, feeling the pain of his friends and fellow soldiers who had to confront a ruthless enemy. And he understood that he was part of the fight in an existential war for the country’s survival. Perhaps that’s why it’s so difficult to understand the way he’s being treated now.

Unlike most Western countries where the military is generally a strong conservative force, the highest-ranking officials of the IDF have historically leaned toward centrist or leftist, pacifist positions, preferring to believe in illusive peace partners and the innate goodness of those who don’t hesitate to advocate for Israel’s annihilation. In contrast to much of the rank and file, it’s an open secret that the IDF’s upper echelons are still dominated by figures who harbor a deep disdain for Netanyahu, and wouldn’t mind seeing him toppled once and for all.

In late July 2024, while serving in an elite cybersecurity unit, Ari came across highly sensitive information that he considered “extremely significant.”

“It’s something he couldn’t discuss, but he felt it was something that could be immensely detrimental to the ongoing efforts concerning the hostages,” Reb Shmuel says. “And he thought, ‘This must get directly to the prime minister.’ Now, under normal circumstances, if you find something important, you report it to your commander, and eventually, you hope it will reach the prime minister’s desk. But when he did try to move it up, he saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere, and so he sought out another route — through Eli Feldstein, who had access to Netanyahu.

“Ari knew the ramifications of bypassing protocol and sharing information this way. But he was convinced it was justified. And part of that had to do with the recent disclosures regarding how the surveillance reports from the mainly female lookout units on the border with Gaza were ignored prior to October 7.”

But the larger looming question Reb Shmuel asks — the same question Netanyahu himself asked when he spoke in defense of the young men — is why there had to be this subterfuge in the first place. Why wasn’t this document — which essentially stated what most of the country had understood on its own, about how Hamas wants to pit factions within Israel against each other in order to weaken the government’s position and stall the negotiations — on Bibi’s desk?

In fact, there is even new Knesset legislation being drafted in light of this case that would permit any information to reach the prime minister without going through the hoops of military hierarchy.

While the court granted Eli Feldstein house arrest, noting his lack of a criminal record and his not being a dangerous threat, Ari Rosenfeld, despite meeting the same criteria, was not afforded the same leniency. For Supreme Court Justice Alex Stein, who cast the dissenting vote, Ari was “too dangerous and possessed too much information” to be allowed home.

“For ten years, he has served faithfully in the army, held in the highest regard by everyone,” says Rabbi Rosenfeld. “Granted, he did something wrong, so let him pay the fair price. Let him do community service. Send him home and hook him up to electronic monitoring systems if they suspect any red flags.”

Over 60 Knesset members, rabbis, and 26 high-ranking military officials have called for his release. In an open letter, officers in Military Intelligence wrote that “The treatment of our friend increases the internal mistrust within the unit and affects the morale of the entire unit.  We appeal to you, please, take our friend out of the political game… and transfer the affair to an internal disciplinary procedure of the IDF…. The affair has been blown out of proportion in a disgusting way. There are many examples, when raw information is published in the Israeli media and no investigation was launched, while in this case all rules are broken.”

According to Rabbi Rosenfeld, Ari is being held in the same prison as terrorists. “For his neshamah, this is very, very hard, very, very bad. And he keeps asking, ‘Why am I here so long? Why am I still in jail?’ ”

While there was originally a gag order on Ari Rosenfeld’s identity because of his high security clearance, he himself petitioned that his name be released to the public. He said he couldn’t fight for his reputation if his name remained blacked out.

“My name is being tarnished,” Ari said in an appeal last week in court. He told the court, “Throughout my adult life, in reserves and even in my daily work, I have acted for the state. I have always contributed. I have always given of myself. I don’t understand how I ended up still being detained. I made a mistake in how I acted. I will never do anything like this again, especially after this ordeal. I never thought of repeating my actions.”

Ari had been detained from Sunday morning, October 27, but his family only found out the following Motzaei Shabbos.

“They didn’t want to worry us,” says Reb Shmuel. “They had no inkling as to the direction this was really going. They thought it would be a few days maximum and then everything would be straightened out. We generally speak every Friday, and when I couldn’t reach Ari, I messaged my daughter-in-law Avital: We’re trying to call Ari. Where is he? We haven’t heard from him. She messaged back, Motzaei Shabbos we’ll be in touch.  She also got a call from Ari’s work. She tells them, ‘Well, he’s in the army,’ but they say, ‘Yeah, but even when he’s in the army, he always comes in at some point or at least contacts us.’

“They’re keeping him in prison because they claim he’s holding lots of top-secret information and if they let him out to house arrest, they claim he could cause a security breach,” Reb Shmuel continues. “What is that information? I have no idea, but the state attorney claims there’s more information, and who knows, maybe he’ll spill that, too, so he has to stay behind bars until the end of the trial, even though we all know that his danger level is nil. So they say, well, it’s not just what you did, it was your intent. But if we’re talking about intent, there was no intent to go to the enemy — it was all for Israel’s protection.”

A

ri, says his father, is really just carrying the family torch — the Rosenfeld family has always been unwavering in its dedication to Torah and love for Am Yisrael.

“In the early 1900s, my father’s family didn’t have the financial means to send him to yeshivah, and instead, he had to go to work at a very young age,” Reb Shmuel relates. “His mother, my bubbe, gave him a few coins to take a trolley to go from the Lower East Side to midtown Manhattan to look for a job. Instead of taking the trolley, he took that money, put it in his pocket, and he walked every day, up and back, up and back, rain or snow. Why? Because at night, there was a shiur being given by Rav Yaakov Moshe Shurkin (later of Yeshivas Chaim Berlin), who had just come from Europe and was a gevaldige masmid, and my father wanted to learn from him, but wanted to pay him as he was a destitute immigrant. So my father would give him the trolley money and instead, he’d walk an hour and a half.”

When Reb Shmuel was a child — he’s now a young 71 — his parents decided to move from Chicago to New York, so that their children would be exposed to a more diversified Torah education and to the gedolei Yisrael who came over from Europe. Reb Shmuel studied at Toras Emes in Brooklyn, continued at Kamenitz and then Ner Yisroel in Baltimore, and received semichah from Rav Tuvia Goldstein of Yeshiva Emek Halacha.

Reb Shmuel’s father worked in the offices of Mesivta Tiferes Yerushalayim, so when Reb Shmuel visited him on the Lower East Side, he occasionally had the chance to exchange a few words with Rav Moshe Feinstein. When Reb Moshe’s name comes up in our conversation, Rabbi Rosenfeld gets up to retrieve something. He returns with an old edition of Igros Moshe.

“You probably haven’t seen this edition, have you?” he says. And then he shows me the flyleaf, with Reb Moshe’s handwritten dedication. “This isn’t in my merit, though. It’s in my wife’s.”

The Gelbtuch family lived in the same building as the Feinsteins, and young Hindie, who would become Shmuel Rosenfeld’s wife, would wake up early for years in order to be downstairs at the building’s entrance at 7 a.m. sharp to open the door for Rav Moshe and wish him good morning.

Rabbi Rosenfeld says that Ari’s affinity for bearing the communal burden is an offshoot of his own upbringing in the US.

“The ceiling in MTJ was about five meters high, and I remember one night seeing Rav Moshe Feinstein standing on a ladder. I said to him, ‘Rebbi, what are you doing up there?’ And he replied that he was organizing the books so that in the morning the bochurim would find them in place and there wouldn’t be any bittul Torah. And this was because most of the bochurim were in college at night. Rav Goldstein, too, would encourage us to learn a profession so that we’d be able to provide for our future families. Maybe it was a different generation then, but this is how my family was raised.

“Ari followed in our footsteps and spearheaded a yeshivah called Derech Chaim, headed by Rabbi Carmi Gross, which enabled boys to learn Torah in-depth during the day and, at night, in conjunction with the IDF, be taught and trained to serve an elite military unit.”

The Rosenfelds married in 1977 and settled in Queens. For many Jews, making aliyah is a dream, but it wasn’t necessarily in the immediate plans of the young couple. Until one day, “I came home and noticed that our mezuzah had been removed. Shortly after that, someone painted a swastika on our car. So I told my wife, ‘That’s it,’ and we began the process of making aliyah.”

They were among the pioneering families that settled in the nascent Moshav Mattityahu, although the communal living arrangement at the time wasn’t quite what the Rosenfelds were seeking.

“We loved the land and wanted to build something, so we moved to Beit El,” says Reb Shmuel. It wasn’t exactly a typical choice for a couple from New York. “We built a beautiful house, 250 square meters, with plenty of open land, among Israelis. I said, ‘Did we come to Israel just to keep speaking English?’”

In the early ’80s, when a random inspection of his tefillin revealed a flaw that rendered the batim unfit for use, Reb Shmuel developed an interest in the production of tefillin, and as one of only a few English speakers living in Beit El at the time, he soon found a niche in the local tefillin factory, giving tours to groups of visitors and becoming a certified sofer himself. Soon afterward, he opened his Judaica store in Jerusalem, and over the years has become a recognized expert in the world of Sta”m. He was also one of the yishuv’s volunteer ambulance drivers.

At the end of 1987, the Intifada broke out and the road to Beit El became a veritable war zone. Neighbors were being attacked with stones or Molotov cocktails on the route, their cars smashed or going up in flames. Reb Shmuel, too, had his car stoned and escaped harm by a hair’s breadth.

One day, a neighbor went to buy eggs in the neighboring Arab village, which was common. “The terrorists told the vendor to alert them when the Jew arrived, or they would kill his wife,” Reb Shmuel relates. “When our neighbor arrived, the vendor made the call. Our neighbor was murdered, his body dismembered, stuffed into a car trunk, and set on fire. They had to call forensic experts to identify him.”

At that point, the Rosenfelds relocated to Jerusalem, where he continued to be a role model of community service.

Reb Shmuel is a proud father, his eyes lighting up as he shows me photos of Ari — in one, as a volunteer at a camp for children with special needs, in another, participating in a marathon to raise funds for special-needs children. Ari volunteered for years on Fridays for the Lev Chaim organization, distributing food in Shaare Zedek Medical Center as he provided a warm smile and  words of comfort to the ill.

“The word ‘I’ doesn’t exist in Ari’s vocabulary,” Reb Shmuel says. “Only ‘them,’ ‘you,’ or ‘yours.’ ” Throughout the struggle to secure his son’s release, Reb Shmuel has learned about countless selfless acts Aharon carried out quietly, without telling anyone. The prison arranged that Ari could have weekly exams in order to maintain his Torah study schedule. He’s already on his third masechta in prison, and on his second Daf Yomi cycle of Shas. He recites the entire Sefer Tehillim daily as well.

Over the past month, people have asked Rabbi Rosenfeld, “Is this what you made aliyah for?” His response is firm: “No,” he says, “We didn’t make aliyah for this. We didn’t make aliyah out of allegiance to a government. We made aliyah because of our love for Eretz Yisrael.”

A few days ago, Avital wrote the following lines on social media: “Ari and I met while volunteering together at an organization for cancer patients. My Ari, an Israeli hero and outstanding fighter, has given his heart and soul to this country and contributed to Israel’s security in many ways over the years. My son Eviatar and I have barely seen him since October 7. And now, my hero Ari is in detention until the end of the proceedings, in difficult conditions, because he believed he was doing the right thing for our beloved country by passing on critical intelligence to the political echelon. My Ari does not deserve this treatment. It’s time to let him go home.”

This past Motzaei Shabbos, over a thousand people from across the country gathered outside Ayalon Prison to show their support for Ari, crying together out loud: “Bring home Ari now!”

—Rachel Ginsberg contributed to this report.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1943)