The blade’s edge: How 4 Israeli teens fenced through politics and tradition to conquer Rio

The story of the tournament began with a number that didn’t inspire much confidence: 18. That was Israel’s starting rank as they entered the competition. In a sport dominated by centuries-old traditions from Hungary, Italy, and France, starting at 18 usually means a respectable showing followed by a quiet exit. To the uninitiated, a ranking of 18 suggests a team that is “filling the numbers,” a participant rather than a protagonist. But rankings in fencing are often lagging indicators of raw talent and sudden chemical synergy.

However, the team’s journey to Rio nearly collapsed before it even began. Amid the Israel–Iran war, with Israeli airspace severely restricted and only a handful of flights departing the country, uncertainty loomed until the final hours. Until the day before departure, it was still unclear who would make up the team competing in Rio. The athletes faced a grueling three-day journey through various airports, a logistical nightmare that would have broken less determined competitors.

FROM STARTING as underdogs ranked 18th to climbing the world podium in Rio, Israel’s junior men’s epee team shattered expectations with a silver-medal performance. (credit: Team Bizzi/Courtesy)

“The support from the Olympic Committee of Israel and the Ministry of Culture and Sport was vital,” says Irina Tal, CEO of the Israel Fencing Association. “They worked tirelessly to secure flight tickets and, crucially, to obtain exit permits for the soldiers on the team. There is currently a sweeping ban on soldiers leaving the country during wartime, and without their intervention, the boys wouldn’t have made it to the strip.”

The tactical brilliance behind this success rests with a specialized coaching staff. Alexander (Sasha) Ivanov serves as the national coach, supported by team coaches Doron Levit and Ohad Balva. Both Ivanov and Balva are Olympic-level coaches who have successfully guided athletes to the Olympic Games, bringing a depth of elite international experience to the junior squad.

Victory against Mexico and Egypt

The decisive victory against Mexico (45-17) in the early stages was the first sign that the rankings were lies. The Israelis moved with a predatory efficiency, closing distances and finding targets with a clinical precision that left the Mexican side reeling. But the real test, the one that would define the team’s character, was waiting.

Sportsmanship is the bedrock of fencing. At the end of every bout, athletes are expected to salute their opponent, the referee, and, crucially, shake hands. It is a ritual of mutual respect that predates modern Olympic history, rooted in the chivalric codes of the Renaissance.

When the Israeli quartet faced Egypt, the world’s number two ranked team, in the round of 16, the atmosphere was already thick with tension. The Egyptians were the heavy favorites, boasting a roster of internationally acclaimed fencers. But what happened after the final point was scored went beyond the tactical. The Egyptian athletes, despite their prowess on the strip, refused to shake the hands of their Israeli counterparts.

“We knew they were ranked second. We knew they were favorites,” says Alon Sarid, the 20-year-old veteran of the group. “But when a team refuses to shake your hand, they are trying to fight a war that isn’t on the strip. Our response was simple: we let the epee do the talking.”

The Israelis didn’t just beat Egypt; they dismantled them 45-40, in match that was more lopsided than the final score reflected.

“In a team bout, the order is everything,” Sarid explains. “We kept the lead, and as the gap grew, you could see them breaking mentally. Every time they lunged and missed, you could feel their frustration boiling over. We stayed cold. In fencing, the colder you are, the sharper you are.”

For the Israeli team, the refusal of a handshake wasn’t a distraction; it was fuel. It was a moment where the resilience of a generation raised in the shadow of regional complexity met the discipline of an elite athlete. The snub by the Egyptians was not merely an insult to the players; it was a rejection of the very spirit of the sport. Yet, the Israelis stood tall, offering their hands despite the silence from the other side.

The silver medal

To understand the gravity of this silver medal, one must look back beyond the modern State of Israel, into the deep and often overlooked history of Jews and the blade. For centuries, fencing was the “sport of kings” and the “art of gentlemen,” a world often closed to Jews in Europe. Yet, as the 19th century dawned and emancipation began to take root, Jews turned to fencing as a means of asserting their honor and physical equality.

In the late 1800s, Jewish students in German and Austrian universities found themselves the targets of anti-Semitic provocations. The solution? The duel. Jewish fraternities, such as the “Kadimah” in Vienna, embraced the sword. They refused to be victims, learning the art of the saber and the foil to defend their dignity. This was “Muscular Judaism” in its most literal form, a concept championed by Max Nordau, who argued that Jews must reclaim their physical strength to survive the modern world.

The early 20th century saw a golden age of Jewish fencing. Legends like Helene Mayer, an Olympic gold medalist, and the Hungarian masters Jenő Fuchs and Endre Kabos dominated the world stage. For these athletes, the blade was a tool of assimilation and excellence. Kabos, tragically, perished in the Holocaust, but his legacy remained. When the State of Israel was founded, the tradition of fencing was carried over by immigrants from Europe, who saw the sport as a vital link to a heritage of discipline and courage.

“We aren’t just four kids in white suits,” notes Mordechai Lachman. “We are part of a very long line of people who used this sport to prove they belong. When you hold the epee, you feel that history. You aren’t just fighting for a medal; you’re maintaining a tradition of Jewish resilience.”

If Egypt was a battle of wills, the quarterfinal against Hungary was a battle of legacy. Hungary is to fencing what Brazil is to football, the birthplace of the modern game, a factory of gold medals. Their fencing academies are legendary, producing athletes who seem to move with an instinctive, almost hereditary grace.

“When you walk onto the strip against a Hungarian, you are fighting their history as much as their blade,” says Fedor Khaperskiy. Fedor’s own story is a testament to the sport’s power to provide sanctuary; he immigrated to Israel from Moscow in 2022 following the outbreak of the Russia-Ukraine war. Arriving alone at the Wingate Academy, Fedor found in fencing a language that transcended his lack of Hebrew. The rhythm of the bout provided a sense of order in a world that had suddenly become chaotic.

Against the Hungarians, the score was a razor-thin 45:41. Mordechai Lachman, only 16, found himself in the pressure cooker of the middle rounds. Lachman, despite being the youngest, possesses a maturity that belies his age. “You don’t think about the name on the back of their suit,” Lachman says. “I had to remind myself that my blade is just as fast as theirs.”

By the time they reached the final against the USA, the “underdogs from Israel” were the talk of Rio. They fell short of the gold, losing 45-39 in a dramatic back-and-forth final, but the silver medal felt like something much more precious than second place. The American team, with its massive resources and depth, was a formidable wall, but Israel pushed them to the very limit.

“It’s an incredible sense of pride,” says Sarid. “We beat Hungary, we beat Ukraine, we beat Egypt. We made history. Standing on that podium, seeing the Israeli flag rise between the American and the Hungarian flags... that’s a moment that stays with you forever. It’s a validation of every 5:00 a.m. wake-up call and every bruise we’ve earned over the years.”

Shifting landscape of the sport in Israel

To understand why this achievement is so significant, one must look at the shifting landscape of the sport in Israel. Traditionally, fencing was a niche pursuit, often confined to the periphery – cities like Ma’alot, Acre, and Beersheba – populated by waves of immigrants from the former Soviet Union who brought their coaching expertise with them. These coaches were the pioneers, keeping the flame alive in bomb shelters and converted school gyms.

But these four boys represent a new “anthropology,” as Irina Tal, the CEO of the Israel Fencing Association, puts it. “Alon and Mordechai are Tel Avivians. Eitan is from Rishon Lezion. This isn’t ‘Russian fencing’ anymore. This is ‘Israeli fencing.’”

“It’s about the coaches,” Ivanov explains. “When Doron Levit returned from the US and opened a club in Tel Aviv, or when coaches returned to Kfar Saba, the centers of gravity shifted. We are seeing a democratization of the sport. We are attracting kids from all over the country. We’ve professionalized the scouting process and the transition from junior to senior ranks. The success in Rio isn’t an accident; it’s a harvest.”

Tal, who has seen the association’s budget double to 6 million NIS since she took over in 2020, believes the success in Rio is the result of a “well-oiled machine.”

“We focused on creating a high-performance environment. We brought in specialists for mental toughness and nutrition. We treated these boys like the elite professionals they are.”

Perhaps the most “Israeli” aspect of this story is what happened forty-eight hours after the podium ceremony.

While the American and Hungarian athletes likely returned to dedicated training centers or university scholarships, the Israelis returned to a different reality. Eitan Charmatski, the 16-year-old who just stared down the best fencers in the world, had to rush home for a math matriculation exam (matkonet).

“It’s a bit surreal,” Charmatski admits. “One day you’re in Rio fighting for a world title, and the next you’re worrying about calculus. I don’t think my classmates quite grasp what happened in Brazil. In the hallway at school, I’m just another kid trying to pass math. But on the strip, I’m a world silver medalist. It’s a double life, but it keeps you grounded.”

Meanwhile, Alon Sarid and Fedor Khaperskiy are navigating the delicate balance of being elite athletes while serving in the IDF. “We are part of the ‘Bronze Squad’ (Segal Arad), and we’ve been working for three years for this moment,” Sarid says. “Serving the country while representing the country—it’s the ultimate Israeli experience. When I put on my uniform, whether it’s the IDF olive or the white fencing suit, I feel the same responsibility.”

“The support from the army and Wingate is what makes this possible,” Sarid adds. “We’ve built a culture of excellence where we push each other every single day. There are no shortcuts in this sport, and especially not when you are representing Israel in such complex times.”

The success of the junior team doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It follows in the footsteps of Yuval Freilich, Israel’s top senior epeeist, who recently won gold at the Doha Grand Prix and represented Israel in the Paris Olympics. Freilich’s success has acted as a lighthouse for the younger generation.

“The seniors gave us the belief that it’s possible,” says national coach Alexander Ivanov. “When you see Yuval on the podium, you realize that an Israeli fencer isn’t just an attendee; they are a threat. We are no longer coming to these tournaments to gain experience. We are coming to take the medals.”

But the path to the Olympics is brutal. Only eight teams in the world qualify for the Games. “The competition is incredibly hard,” Tal notes. “You have to be the top of the world’s top. But with this generation, I am optimistic. They have the hunger, they have the technique, and most importantly, they have the heart.”

As the interview concludes, the boys are already looking toward their next session. There is no time for a victory lap. The epees need to be rewired, the masks checked, and the lungs pushed to their limit in the 5:00 p.m. practice. The sweat from Rio has dried, but the desire for gold is stronger than ever.

“If we meet again in four years,” I ask them, “where do you want to be?”

The answer is unanimous, though delivered with a characteristic fencer’s poise. They don’t say “the Olympics.” They say “on the podium.”

In Rio, they proved they belong there. They proved that even when an opponent refuses to shake your hand, you can still reach out and grab the future. The Jewish blade, once used for defense in the streets of Vienna, is now being used to carve out a new era of Israeli glory on the world stage. The story of Alon, Fedor, Mordechai, and Eitan is just beginning, and if their performance in Brazil is any indication, the world better be ready for the next parry.