He steps off the Caesarea stage and, mere hours later, finds himself back in uniform, patrolling the mountains in Israel’s north. This is the life of Akiva Turgeman—known to most simply as Akiva—who spent over 130 days this year on active reserve duty (reserve duty), all while producing his latest album and drawing thousands of fans to his largest show yet.
The tension in Israel these days is palpable, but the contrast in Akiva’s life is especially stark. In one moment, he’s watching rockets streak across the sky near Har Dov; in the next, he’s standing under bright lights, guitar slung over his shoulder, as his sold-out audience sings every word back to him. He still can’t believe he left an army base at dawn, rehearsed in a half-empty venue, and performed for a sea of people by night—only to pack up and return to the front line the very next morning.
“It was surreal,” he admits. “I understood that things just have to happen side by side now. I go straight from Caesarea back to reserve duty. I’m in a place where the music and military realities are overlapping—and I’m trying to let them inform each other instead of keeping them separate.”
The grueling cycle has changed the way he performs. After the attacks of October 7, Akiva rushed north for a 133-day stretch of duty. Every supposed lull still meant armed guards and the constant threat of anti-tank missiles. “There wasn’t a single day without fighting,” he recalls. “Even on the quietest mornings, we’d see muzzle flashes or rockets overhead—reminding us how little separates us from chaos.”
Being stationed so far from home has weighed on him. He came back exhausted, juggling the intense weight of what he saw with the need to show up on stage and comfort fans. “We’re a country living in mania and depression,” he often says, describing the blend of terror and celebration he faces daily. “We get hit with so many tragedies; we also crave these moments of joy to feel alive. When I meet people in the crowd who lost their entire families, or see a soldier dancing with prosthetic limbs, I can’t help but be changed by that.”
The time away also took a toll on his mental health. “I came back from the war with a lot of emotional burdens added to other things I’d gone through,” he confesses. “I felt I needed space, time, and energy to work on my inner self. Some people have five kilos of junk weight and invest ten hours a week in the gym, so why not devote similar energy to mental and spiritual growth?
“Some days, I can’t fall asleep, and then I can’t wake up. When I want to be with my children, sometimes I have no patience; and when I’m not with them, I’m annoyed that I’m away. I’m not going to say I have post-trauma—thank God, I’m okay and functioning—but I did come back with vertigo. I constantly feel dizzy. Some say it’s a bubble in my ear, others say it’s from being exposed to loud noises and explosions; an anti-tank missile exploded 30 meters from me, but who knows? My therapist thinks it’s purely psychological. It subsided for a while, but in the run-up to Caesarea it returned. I’m more balanced now, I breathe more, I went back to yoga, and therapy helps me.” If he’s honest, he says, the heartbreak he’s witnessed—and his own fear—have shown up in his latest batch of songs, pieces that found their way onto his new album, “A Thousand Locks.” His hope, more than anything else, was to craft music that felt true rather than a rehash of older styles.
That fresh sincerity pours through in ballads inspired by his wife and five children. The track “Boi Ad Elai” (בואי עד אליי), for instance, came from thinking about how the family stands by him in these intense times. “My wife was there when I was working in a catering job, dreaming of bigger stages, and she’s still there now that I’m coming home with my face covered in dust from the mountains,” he says. “I’m trying to show in the music the strength it takes to hold onto love and faith when your life runs on two tracks: a father of five at home, a soldier at the border, and a performer for thousands.”
That fatherly pride—and the memory of growing up in a large family himself—shines through in conversations about his upbringing. Raised in Dimona with ten siblings, Akiva studied part of his teen years in traditional yeshivas before stepping away. His father is a rabbi; his mother, Canadian-born. “I was definitely the black sheep for a while,” he confesses, “but we made our way to understanding. Actually, I believe that tension helped me become who I am, pouring it all into my music.”
This past year, he felt an inner pull to create something bigger—an “experience” rather than simply a routine show—and set his sights on Caesarea. The reality of war made it more complicated, yet he pressed on. “We’re in a society that’s hungry for unity,” he says. “I see so many people carrying heavy burdens—loss, heartbreak—and I’m an artist who can give them a couple hours of release. I’ve never felt so honored.”
He remains firm in wanting his music to feel untainted by political fights. While many back home—friends, neighbors, fans—debate enlistment equality and the burden of service, Akiva will keep singing. “I’m a reserve soldier and I’m Orthodox. I can see the debates from both sides. But there’s too much cynicism out there. Music is a healing space, and I’d rather we not pollute it with all the bitterness. My job on stage is to lift people’s hearts, not fan the flames.”
Though he just accomplished one dream—headlining Caesarea—he hasn’t stopped. Since then, Akiva went on to sell out major concerts in Boca Raton, Englewood, Miami, and Los Angeles, discovering that his music resonates powerfully with Jewish communities abroad.
Now that he has performed in some of America’s bigger venues, Akiva remains open to stepping onto even larger stages—perhaps Madison Square Garden itself. “I’ll let myself dream,” he says with a laugh, “but for now, I still have reserve duty ahead of me. That’s life here; you learn to balance hope and reality.”
Between the dusty roads of Har Dov and the marble steps of Israel’s grandest amphitheater, Akiva Turgeman has woven together the two worlds he inhabits. The result is an artist who stands in the line of fire, yet still manages to sing about hope and devotion. Every performance becomes a salute to a nation trying to find brightness in the gloom—a living testament that even when wearing a bulletproof vest, a person can still lift a guitar and let music serve as a shield of its own.
Adapted and translated from the original Hebrew interview with permission.
