"I feel more like a gardener than a paratrooper"

And ain’t that the truth.  A buddy of mine from South Africa made that observant claim as we worked all day along the base’s fence, picking weeds and turning the ground into a sort of mini-deforestation plot.  Not exactly the most exciting work.

To start off, this was my first week as a tzanchan, a paratrooper.  For the next eight months or so, instead of going north as I’ve done for the past three months, I will be traveling south to Beersheva.  There, many soldiers from Tzanchanim, Nahal and other units gather in the last major city before the Negev Desert to be transported by bus to their respective training bases.  The place was a zoo, with hundreds of soldiers finding their units, being shepherded to buses, and then waiting in a queue to leave.  After a short wait, we drove the half hour or so to בא''ח צנחנים  Bach Tzanchanim, the training base.  Don’t bother looking for it or asking me where it is; it’s, rightly so, nestled amongst a landscape of hills, away from the civilian world.  The view certainly has changed since Mikveh.

I’ll speak more about daily life and the base in my next post.  This was an interesting week, one that stands by itself.  It was the first week of training for the IDF’s March draft.  The purpose of this week was to host gibbushim for Special Forces.  Each unit (Tzanchanim, Nahal, Golani, Givati, Totchanim, Sheriyon, etc.) has sayerot, or elite units.  The gibbush is an intense, multi-day tryout to be accepted into the sayeret.  Tzanchanim’s sayerot are Palsar (Reconnaisance), Pulchan (Engineering and Demolitions), and you can get into two very elite and secretive units from Tzanchanim’s sayeret gibbush: Maglan or Duvdevan.  For more information on these units, click here.

I elected not to do the gibbush.  Why?  For a number of reasons.  First, I would not do sayeret anyway; it requires a three year commitment, which is no issue for Israelis who serve three years anyway, but my service expires in a year from June and, as I stand right now, I do not intend to sign on for more time.  With that, the sole purpose of going through the hellish (and I do mean hellish) three-day physical battle would be for the experience, to challenge myself and test my limits.  Of course, I’ve heard of and now seen soldiers getting injured, limping, not being able to move, whole body parts scraped and bruised because of the gibbush.  It is a completely voluntary tryout.  About 450 to 500 people went the first day and between 170 and 180 soldiers survived.  In all, do I wish I did it, even despite the certain physical and mental exhaustion and pain I was sure to experience, without any goal at the end of it?  Yes.  Of course I say that now, when the option of another gibbush is out of the question.  But, if you’re reading this and are facing a gibbush sayeret and are not sure whether or not to do it, I say go for it.  What do you have to lose?  The angel on one shoulder told me to listen to my own advice of saying “why not?” when faced with a decision.  The devil on my other shoulder reminded me that this gibbush, much more so than the one to get into Tzanchanim, would require incredible mental fortitude and as I would just do the gibbush for the purpose of finishing it, it is likely that I would, in the word’s of my father, “crap out” before the end.  What a sinister thing to do, to plant an idea like that in my head and psyche myself out for something I’ve planned on doing for a few weeks.  Alas, such is life—live and learn!

With a lot of soldiers with nothing to do, the base quickly set us to doing work.  The gibbush started on Tuesday morning.  Those who were not in it (either from not starting or not completing), spent the entirety of the next three days doing maintenance work around the compound.  I fixed distance signs on the firing ranges, sorted all manners trash, chopped weeds and other brush, dug a cable trench, swept sidewalks, collected empty ammo caches, and other intensive work that truly put my Latin Honors education to its most rigorous test yet. 

Even as I bent down to swing my military shovel into the soft, damp earth, uprooting the two hundred and forty-eighth weed, I tried to envision myself as one of the early Jewish, Zionist settlers, building this country literally from the ground up; turning a sparsely populated and barren land into a fruitful place flowing with milk and honey.  I was a father, toiling amidst the difficult terrain of Gush Etzion, battling earthen mounds filled with rocks and boulders, intense winters and Arab bandits, willing and working for a future for my family.  I was a son, learning the principles of Judaism and the meaning of this land for my people, going outside to play during a break and wanting to get my hands dirty, to feel the ground, hold a fistful in my hand and let it sprinkle through my fingertips, creating a waterfall of holy soil, beginning to understand my people’s connection with this country.  I was a brother, defending this land that my family had worked for generations, feeling it incumbent upon myself to beat my sword into a plowshare, setting aside the arms of iron and steel for the arms of wood and human muscle and sinew, working by the sweat of my brow and not by the blood of my enemy.  I was….simply an untrained paratrooper killing time.

So the introduction to Tzanchanim was a little less than glorious.  Well, actually the first day was exciting.  In the afternoon, all of the newly drafted soldiers met in the base’s basketball court and we heard from a number of the bigwigs on base.  The Hebrew was fast, inarticulate aaaaaaand put me to sleep.  But then we watched an awesome four-minute video about all the cool things Tzanchanim does during its training, so that made it all worthwhile, haha!

The next day we were again ushered into the basketball court, but this time to be “processed.”  We met with a Mishakit Tash, all of the lone soldiers received informational pamphlets about our rights and benefits (of course mine was in Hebrew, gonna have to get an English one this week), received vouchers for running shoes, met briefly with the base’s doctor, and received military tzit-tzit if we wanted.  What’s tzit-tzit?  It’s a four cornered garment or shirt with strings hanging off each corner.  It is a commandment to wear and if you see a Jew with two or four random strings hanging out of his suit jacket, then you know he’s wearing it to fulfill a commandment.  I am yet to wear one for personal reasons which I do not care to get into right now, but I will say that I was pleasantly surprised (and certainly a bit shocked) by how many kippahs I see on base.  At Mikveh, I’d say about 5% of the soldiers wore kippahs and about twice that many prayed.  At this Tzanchanim base, probably 25% wear kippahs and 30%-35% pray.  My numbers might be off a bit, but it certainly seems like a lot of people, including commanders, don a kippah and daven (Yiddish for ‘pray’).

Back home, even though I lived in a town and surrounding area that was heavily populated by Jews, it was certainly an identity crisis (although that might be too strong of a word) to be a Jew in a non-Jewish world.  Then when I started to become more observant, I felt like “that” Jew amongst my Jewish friends at school.  Then at Mikveh, I was the “religious one” in a Jewish army; an odd-thing I thought, to still feel self-conscious about wanting to wear a kippah and pray even in a Jewish army for the State of Israel.  Now, I certainly feel more at ease, finding myself among other kippah-wearing, schul-going (synagogue) Yids (again Yiddish, for Jew).  Can you tell by now that I’m Ashkenazi?

One thing I’ve noticed a lot about myself in the military is that I dream every night.  Well, after doing some research, I learned that everyone dreams every night.  But I also always seem to remember my dreams in the morning.  At no other point in my life have I experienced this.  I’m actually excited at times to go to sleep to see what I will dream about.  I know dreams are your mind’s way of helping sort through issues in your life.  But why do I suddenly always remember them—vividly?  I just spent the last ten minutes poring through endless pages on the best scholarly source I ever used during my four years at college: Google.  Want to know my expert conclusion?  If you read it enough times, the word ‘dream’ starts to look really weird.

But back to other, more serious, matters.  Tomorrow I go to check out a kibbutz with the intent to move in next weekend.  I’ll certainly miss Tel Aviv and David, Amy and the kids.  But I’ve wanted to have my own space for a while now.  I’ll talk more about the kibbutz once I’ve been there and made a decision.

Fifty rockets were fired from Gaza over the past week.  That’s more than a quarter that was fired all of last year.  In addition, a bomb exploded near the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem, wounding many and killing one British tourist.  If you read about these events in the news, you will undoubtedly see Beersheva be mentioned, as that is a favorite location for the militant jack@$$es that run the Gaza Strip like to fire their rockets: straight at the largest population center within range.  But please don’t worry about me, I’m safe on base.  Instead, worry (and/or pray) for the residents of Beeersheva, Ashdod, Ashkelon and Jerusalem.  They are the ones who had school canceled on Thursday and Friday for fear of continued rocket attacks.  They’re the ones who have thirty seconds to run to a bomb shelter.  They are the civilians whose lives are trivialized by the international community when the UN continues to lambaste Israel when it decides to defend its right to live in peace and security.  Did anyone even notice that Syrian leader Assad killed fifty-five of his own people over the past two days when they held peaceful anti-government demonstrations?  Such is the place we live and the times we live in.

Despite the terrorist attacks and the fear, Israel held the first Jerusalem marathon yesterday, with over 10,000 runners competing.  Go Israel.

(Check out my new Jerusalem Post blogs here or on the left below my information)

Purim within, Purim without

This has been, without a doubt, the most interesting week of my life.  I truly experienced the highest of highs and the lowest of lows.  Yes, even higher than receiving the Tanach at the Western Wall a few weeks ago.  That event was the culmination of something: the conclusion of Mikveh Alon.  Big whoop, right?  True, it was an incredible honor--as a soldier and as a Jew--to stand at that special and holy location and receive Judaism's Written Law.  However, this week brought me even higher because of its potential.  So what the heck am I talking about?  I'm talking about Tzanchanim!  I know, I'm starting to sound redundant starting to sound redundant sorry sorry; "hasn't he already mentioned the Paratroopers like a dozen times in each of his last posts?"  Yes, I think I have, haha.  But this time is so much different.

Before I explain, however, I want to mention a few new things about this blog.  First, I recognize that I use foreign military terms and whether this is your first time reading my blog or you are a faithful follower, it is unlikely you are familiar with all of the lingo.  As per my dad's suggestion, I created a link on the right that translates the terms into English.  In addition, on the left hand side I added ways to make it easier to keep updated on my blog.  The "Search this Blog" is also a way to find specific information in my writing.

Let me start from the beginning, from the hellish depths of the first few days of this week, to the top of the world and beyond (almost literally) at the end.

On Sunday, those of us from Mikveh reported to the Tel Hashomer base for our draft into the regular IDF units.  There are three draft dates in the IDF: March, August and November.  This week, all new soldiers would be sorted and sent to their units; needless to say, the place assumes a zoo-like atmosphere.  As dysfunctional (I say that with all my love) as the IDF is, this week brings it to an entirely new level.  In fact, at one point, my friend Michael commented that the base reminds him of a refugee camp.  You'll soon understand why.

To begin with, as we all sit on benches, waiting to see the ktsin miyun (officer who drafts us), my MemMem pulls me aside and, once again, brings up the issue of my 72 health profile!  He said he doesn't know for sure if I am in Tzanchanim and should prepare myself to join another unit.  What a great way to start the week!  Maybe I'm becoming one of those guys who really wants something once it's no longer available (girls, freedom, Tzanchanim...), because I felt my heart drop.  Suddenly I felt like an outsider looking in.  But when I went to see the officer, our conversation went like this (in Hebrew): "You want Tzanchanim?" "Yes."  "Best of luck."  "Thank you."  Bada bing bada boom.  Done.

But not for long.  That night we slept in tents, the same ones we slept in for the gibbush.  Or rather, I didn't sleep; no sleeping bag, frigid night, terrible.  In the morning, every soldier received a number, which indicated where he would serve.  While all the Tzanchanim guys received 601, I got 660.  They were all called off and I was left standing at the end with a dozen random guys.  No one from Mikveh.  Apparently, we all had profile issues and needed to be checked by a doctor before being sorted.  Not this issue again!  Back to feeling nervous.

Long story short (or rather, I can't exactly divulge all the details of what occurred that day), I went to see a few doctors about my profile and got it raised to an 82!  I can do infantry!  Tzanchanim here I come!  I went to see the ktsin miyun and (I think) he said I was in Tzanchanim, but the next day I needed to come back to see a Mishakit tash.

I returned to base the next day, not quite certain the purpose of needing to see the social worker.  A slightly irrational fear grew inside me that maybe I really wasn't going to Tzanchanim, that they needed someone who would tell me and figured a Mishakit tash could let me down easy.  But let me be clear: the sole purpose for me being on base that day was to see the Mishakit tash.  I sat around for hours in the morning and hours in the afternoon, just to have the Mishakit tash tell me in a ten minute meeting that my request to move to a kibbutz was on hold until I went to a new base.  Thank you very much for wasting my time!

Monday and Tuesday evenings I played the role of poor lone soldier, no one told him he would be on base for more than one night, he has issues to take care of at home, yada yada yada, bs bs bs....and I was able to go to Tel Aviv and sleep in a nice warm bed both nights!  I definitely worked some magic!

Also on Tuesday, the new Chief of Staff Benny Gantz (a Tzanchan) made a visit to Tel Hashomer.  Of all the days!  The few dozen of us still left from the previous day because we had one issue or another were in lockdown and stayed put in one corner of the base for three hours!  It just added to the tension, nerves and uncertainty I was experiencing, not truly knowing if I was going to be a tzanchan, not trusting what anyone said until I signed a contract.  But after the meeting with the Mishakit tash, I sprinted back to see the ktsin miyun, who said that I was for sure going to Tzanchanim!  I started to breathe easy.

Again I went home that night and returned the following morning.  This time, I was 601!  Finally!  But my excitement, once again, was dulled as the two dozen of us going to either Tzanchanim or Nahal were put to doing clean up around the base all morning.  All the other Tzanchanim guys (from Mikveh) had gone to the base on Monday.  We were still left, uncertain of our future, and the last thing we needed were stupid officers not telling us what was going on and making us run in circles around the base doing a lot of nothing.  We know we needed to get our uniforms and gear (I just needed a new uniform top) and wanted to get it as soon as possible so it would be official.  After lunch, I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I stole away from my group and met up with a friend who knew how to get a uniform.

All the soldiers who were waiting for something were penned up in this one area of the base.  There were benches with a tv, but really a lot of people just milled about, waiting, not knowing, frustrated.  There was one window where jobniks handled our cases, and the line took forever.  I went to this window, explained what was going on, and that I needed a uniform, who sent me (mostly lies), etc.  I then waited an hour for my name to be called.  A soldier from Kfir (an infantry unit in the West Bank that specializes in urban combat) told me to sit down, that I had a problem.  Not again!  I'm not sitting down.  Listen buddy, a ktsin miyun had told me three times that I was going to Tzanchanim.  He told me to wait, checked out my profile or whatever, then returned and told me to follow him.

As we walked, I angrily asked him where I was going.  "Golani."  "No.  Hell no, I am not going to Golani."  "Yes you are.  What's wrong with Golani?"  "Nothing's wrong with it, but I want Tzanchanim.  What does that paper say."  "Nothing, it's not for you to see."  "You better show me that paper."  "No, but you're going to Golani."  "You better not be fucking with me.  I swear, you better load some bullets into your gun because if you tell me I'm going to Golani, I'm coming after you."  "Haha, it's all good.  You're going to Givati."  "Still no.  It's Tzanchanim or nothing."

 He looked at me and laughed.  We reached a building where I saw a bunch of soldiers from my group that day huddled outside.  We walked in and the Kfir soldier handed the paper to one of the jobniks there: "this guy's going to Tzanchanim."  YES!!!  I shared a quick laugh with the Kfir soldier who I think appreciated the anxiety I felt.  He first said I was in shock--Israeli military slang for someone who, just as in English, is in shock by being in the army and his new life.  I told him I wasn't in shock, I was just angry, frustrated and fed up with being in limbo for the last three days.

Side note: randomly, I thought a lot this week about the Greek myths of Prometheus and Sisyphus.  Prometheus is chained to a mountain and every day an eagle eats his liver, which regrows each night.  Sisyphus is made to roll an immense boulder up a hill, just to have it roll back down, for eternity.  The point here is that they are both in limbo (or maybe their form of a Hell) and destined to do nothing for an unforeseen amount of time.  And now I return to my friend's comment that life was like a refugee camp: uncertainty, frustration, anxiety.  It made me want to pull at my own skin.  What made it worse is that the place has a carnival atmosphere, like Purim, but not in the good way.  There is so much miscommunication.  You go to one place and they send you to another and the next place doesn't know who you are or why you're there.  There is overlapping and underlapping.  Incompetence and incredible incompetence.  I spoke a lot of Hebrew, but also went to English when it became too frustrating.  And that was often the case.

In order to receive anything in the army, you have to return something.  In this case, Paratroopers have a special uniform top, so the guy needed my two Aleph uniforms.  I gave him the one I had on and wove some story about not having a second because I never needed one, knowing the whole time that it sits neatly folded, still in its packaging, in Tel Aviv!  A Paratrooper's uniform is different than the rest of the army's.  The material is slightly thicker and somewhat glossy.  It has four pockets: the breast pockets and one more below each.  In addition, and this makes it awesome, the uniform is fitted, which makes me look extremely sexy and bad@$$ if I may say so myself.  Finally, out of tradition, Tzanchans don't tuck their uniforms into their pants.  Instead, you leave it hanging out and tie the belt around the outside.  The "skirt" is something to be proud of.

And proud I am.  Damn proud!!!  Even more so than on December 15th, I feel like an Israeli soldier.  Although I haven't done anything yet, I feel such a sense of accomplishment.  Just wearing the uniform is intoxicating.  I am so happy to be in Tzanchanim now.  It is the highest I think I have ever felt in my life.  It is because of the potential of what wearing the uniform means that makes it even more fulfilling than receiving the Tanach.  The uncertainty of the past few days made me realize how badly I wanted Tzanchanim.  I would not have been satisfied with any other unit.  I am a Tzanchan!

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To make this week even better, I recently gained additional employment: I am now a blogger for the Jerusalem Post (click)!!!  This occurred only in the last week and is a true testament to how this country functions; people knowing people who are more than willing to help others.  My blog on JPost will focus more on being a lone soldier and less on my daily activities.  I will try to contribute a post about as often as I do here.  But realize that as I am beginning basic training, my postings will become less frequent as I will not be home every weekend.  I have a link on the left for my JPost blog.  Thanks for reading and the comments, emails and Facebook messages I receive.  I'm glad my experiences and writings are helping others find information, comfort, excitement, or simply ways to kill time, haha!

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This weekend is the holiday of Purim, a remembrance when the Jewish people were miraculously saved from liquidation at the hands of the Persian Empire.  It was perhaps even a darker time in Jewish history than the Holocaust; the entirety of the Jewish people were at risk of being massacred by King Ahaseurus's chief advisor, Haman, only to be saved by Queen Esther, a Jew, at the urging of her cousin, Mordechai (for more specifics, see Wikipedia, click here, or type "Purim" into Google).  It is a carnival atmosphere (cruelly akin to Tel Hashomer), and walking around Tel Aviv yesterday reminded me of my college campus on Halloween.  It is the day Israelis dress in costumes and get drunk.  Yes, even religious Jews are actually supposed to drink in excess.

But this holiday, tragically, comes in the wake of two very distressful events in the past week.  First, a Jewish family in the town of Itamar were brutally killed by terrorists (click).  The two parents were slain, as were three of their children, one a three month old girl.  The Fogel family's slaying again brings to the fore for me the tenuous situation that exists between those who wish to live in peace and those who want to prevent it.  (Although I am generally not a fan and can't bring myself to link it here, I do suggest you find Glenn Beck's comments about the Itamar Massacre on YouTube.  His words echo Israeli sentiment.)

The second event was the stopping of the cargo ship the "Victoria" (click).  The IDF peacefully boarded this ship the other day and in the crates protected by a lock unusually strong for the supposedly benign contents of lentils and cotton, found about 50 tons of munitions, including a new missile system that can destroy ships.  It is said that this new weapon, known in Iran as the Nasr-1 and in China as the C-704, has the potential to have the same effect as Surface-to-Air Missiles (SAMs) had when they were first launched forty years ago: they can alter the strategic balance in any conflict.

And then just this morning, Hamas fired forty-nine mortars into Israel.  If Mexico or Canada did that to the US, it would be considered an act of war.  But here, Israel lives with it every day.  Reality bites.

!!!צנחנים

I'm in Tzanchanim!!! Paratroopers, here I come! (victory cigars) Starting tomorrow, Sunday, I report back to Tel Hashomer, that black hole of a base near Tel Aviv where time seems to stand still as getting anything done, from my Tzav Rishon to sitting around for hours on my first day of enlistment on December 15th, eludes everyone there. Once again I go to the Bakkum, the supply base at Tel Hashomer, will be issued (or reissued) military gear and apparel. It will, hopefully, be an opportunity for me to scavenge more things. I hear a major rule of thumb among soldiers in the IDF is that if you have the opportunity to gather extra gear, do it!

This was a short, final week at Mikveh. After our tekkes last Wednesday, we all left on Thursday, but the kravi (combat) soldiers had to report back on Sunday. Why? For forty-eight hours of shmirah, guard duty. Probably one of the stupidest uses of our time. Because Mikveh legally owned us for the entire week, they decided to stick us on guard duty, to protect the extremely secretive and strategically important goings-on at Mikveh Alon.

For me, my week started off with a visit to a moshav in the north. A moshav is like a more privatized kibbutz. If you want a full history on the socio-political workings of a kibbutz or a moshav, just go to Wikipedia. As I mentioned in my last post, I've been wanting to get out of Tel Aviv to live on my own for some time now, but the process can take a long time. The first thing to do is broach the idea of moving to your Mishakit Tash. What's that? The Mishakit Tash is essentially the social worker of the military. She's generally a young, very cute girl, assigned to a machlekah, whose job it is to make sure each soldier's needs are met...I'm talking about living arrangements, financial issues, personal things, etc. So I told my Mishakit Tash that I want to move to a kibbutz, and I mentioned a few specific places to her where some of my friends are staying. She got back to me at the end of the week and told me that the following Sunday, instead of returning to base, I would meet another Mishakit Tash at Afula bus station. That morning, we met in the bus station and waited for a man named Tsvika to pick us up and take us to the moshav. If you're a lone soldier coming to Israel, get to know Tsvika. He is unofficially the official "father" of lone soldiers. This man has so many connections throughout the country that it is often faster to get things done through him rather than the military (but no big surprise there, right?).

We went to a moshav, looked around, and met some of the people who make that place happen. I would be given my own apartment, with one bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. The moshav is located in a quiet low-lying area of the Galilee with a beautiful view of the surrounding hills and mountains. At the end of the visit, however, I decided the place wasn't for me. It was far removed from traffic hubs, which make it difficult to travel to Tel Aviv (where I still have lots of friends) or elsewhere. I went back to the Mishakit Tash that night and told her my thoughts. An hour before we left Mikveh for good on Tuesday, she came to me and said that I have the next available spot at one of two kibbutzim. Now I'm just waiting.

On the way back to base, the Mishakit Tash and I were waiting by the bus stop at Summit Golani when a car pulled up alongside us. The passenger window rolled down and who was the driver? The head of the entire freakin' base! He asked us if we wanted a lift back to Mikveh! We're always told before we leave for the weekends that we are not allowed to hitchhike (called tramping, in Israel). But I figured it was safe getting into his car, haha. It was nice to ride in a car and not an overcrowded bus. What a great (interesting) way to start the week!

I got back to base that afternoon and met up with the rest of my tzevet. The atmosphere was really relaxed for the two days we were there. Distance was broken between us and our commanders, we didn't have to run around places, we just had to go to our guard duty and report to different "classes" or for sports. For example, one day the MemMem of another machlekah taught our plugat how to read a map. The next day we watched an Israeli movie. Another time we had a few hours of Hebrew "class" where we just sat around and talked, in Hebrew, in English, it didn't really matter.

Monday night was a treat. I was one of a few English-speaking soldiers (but the only American) who were asked to say a few words before a group from Cleveland who came to Mikveh as they were interested in doing some English-tutoring volunteer work in the future. It was funny to hear everyone else introduce themselves in their heavily-accented English, say they're from this or that place in Israel, yada yada yada. "Hi, my name's Daniel, and I'm from Chicago." A few laughs followed as clearly they were not expecting an American, and we made short small talk about the Cubs, the snow, etc. It was fun. And it was funny that at the end my Hebrew learning, I spoke in English to a visiting group. Back in December, I did a similar thing, where I explained who I am, where I'm from, what I'm doing here, etc., but in Hebrew. Ironic. This also followed another "speaking appearance" I made a day before my tekkes to a group of Israeli boys studying in a yeshiva (a Jewish religious school). I was asked to say a few words about being religious in the army. It was fun and a great way for me to practice my Hebrew.

Sunday afternoon, before dinner, we were allowed to use the workout room! About time! It is a privilege reserved just for the commanders and officers. It felt real good to get back into a weight room; I haven't been in one since I left the US, instead I had been using the resistance bands I brought, doing pushups, sit-ups, and when in Tel Aviv, making use of their outdoor exercise areas along running paths. Monday afternoon we played soccer on one of the courts. Life was good.

It was during one of these Hebrew classes that my Mefakedet came up to me and told me to meet her outside for a minute. I had actually just discovered perhaps the most complex pen in the world. I was using my time to disassemble it, understand why it needed so many parts, and then reassemble it. I felt my time on this project was limited and extremely valuable, so I asked her if it could wait. 'No, come outside.' Of course, the pen then exploded and I, with ink all over my fingertips, went outside.

Now I'm not gonna lie: even after a few months of Hebrew, I really had no idea what my Mefakedet said. This could have been because I am nowhere near proficient, or it could have been that I stopped paying attention after she said that I passed Tzanchanim gibbush, and they want me in Paratroopers. B'hatzlachah! Hell YES! I didn't really know how to respond I was so pumped! She gave me an awkward high five and then told me who else got in. Of the eight guys in my machlekah who tried out, only four made it, all from my tzevet. In total, eleven soldiers from my plugat are invited into Tzanchanim. About eight guys from the other plugat (which speaks better Hebrew) passed the gibbush as well. I think about a third of those who tried out were invited into Tzanchanim.

So where did this desire to do Tzanchanim come from? I think it started last year on Birthright, when Ben, a former soldier and one of my friends here, told me that if I were to join the IDF, I should do Paratroopers. But that's probably not the serious beginning. When I signed with Mahal back in November, I was told that Tzanchanim is available for soldiers in Mahal, but that we'd have to sign on for more time than the eighteen month commitment I have right now. I was told I'd need to serve for two years. That time restraint dissuaded me from Paratroopers. During the last few months, both in and out of the army, I've thought about what life will be like for me if I do or don't join Tzanchanim. I initially signed up for the gibbush as a way to challenge myself. After completing the gibbush, and all the hurdles that came before it, becoming a part of Tzanchanim became much more real. In addition, a soldier in my tzevet commented that he had a buddy in Tzanchanim who was committed to only eighteen months. With that possibility now open, I went into the gibbush thinking that if I passed, then joining the unit would become a much more real possibility.

So why do I want Tzanchanim over the other options: Nahal, Givati or Golani? I'll first just say that I want it over Totchanim because I've always wanted to be in infantry. But I prefer it over the other three infantry divisions, and may be willing to spend more time in the IDF, because of Tzanchanim's history and prestige, even to this day. It is true that all four divisions pretty much do the same thing, just in different parts of the country (and they rotate territory every few years). The main differences between Paratroopers and the rest is that they have a gibbush (tryout) and they jump out of planes. Personally, I really want to join Tzanchanim for the masa koompta, literally "beret hike." At the end of the their training, every infantry division has a hike as a sort of culmination of their months of hard work. At the end, they are given their berets and have a tekkes as a formal acceptance into that particular infantry unit. For Tzanchanim, their masa koompta is well-known throughout the country. Because they were the ones who recaptured Jerusalem and the Old City from the Jordanians in 1967, Tzanchanim hike 75km (by far longer than any other unit's masa) and end up at the Western Wall, with all of the city out to welcome the conquering heroes.

There are other fashionable differences between Tzanchanim and other units, but I'll save that for later. One last thing that I want to mention is the photo of the Paratroopers at the Western Wall in 1967. For Israel, it is like the photo of the Marines hoisting the American flag over Iwo Jima during World War II. This photo, for me, captures a lot about why I am here. I have to do Tzanchanim.

After leaving Mikveh on Tuesday, I've had a few days off until I need to go to Tel Hashomer tomorrow morning. I've used this time to relax, watch some movies, have drinks with friends, meet up with old buddies. But I am really excited (even more so than in December) to start my service. I'm also excited to be going into Tzanchanim with some good buddies from Mikveh, although it is doubtful they will put English-speakers in the same tzevets. I'll just have to see. The weather was terrible since Tuesday; it was raining, cloud and cold. Today, however, is beautiful. One thing that I miss about this time in America is spring. David scoffed when I mentioned that earlier: "what are you talking about? Of course we get spring here!" To which I replied, "yeah, but with the heat today, for me it's like it's already summer." My point with spring is that after a (long) cold Chicago (or Champaign) winter, that first breeze from the south always brings tidings of good things to come. I would get excited about the possibilities for the summer. After months of applying to internships in Washington, D.C., with the idea of working there being nothing more than an abstract thought, the warmth in the atmosphere that accompanies the arrival of spring turns summer plans into a reality. Life is just better.

While I miss that breeze, I am warmed by finally becoming a (legitimate) part of the force that defends Israel. With Egypt down, Libya in flames, Iran on the rise, Lebanon teetering, and the Palestinian Authority more emboldened, Israel finds itself in a very precarious security situation. Did I come at the right time? I guess that depends on who's asking, haha! But I will say that--especially as a political science major, Arabic speaker, and Israeli advocate--I signed up without any disillusions about what Israel may be forced to do over the next few years. Damn, it feels good to be going to Tzanchanim!

(Some pretty cool news: my blog is now included on the Lone Soldier Center's forum [click]!)

tobealonesoldier

Ok, so maybe my last post was a bit heavy on the play-by-play of my life. Let me mix it up a bit. I'll be more than happy to open my life a little more to you and try to convey what it's like to be a lone soldier. I also think I promised a post more about thoughts and feelings a few weeks ago. One thing that my studies over the past year have taught me is to always repay my debts as soon as possible.

I was told/cautioned back in Chicago that is it easy for a lone soldier to become an alone soldier. I have been so fortunate to have an incredibly supportive family in Tel Aviv. David and Amy and their daughters have been like an adoptive family to me. They initially welcomed me in with open arms and I am yet (I hope, haha) to overstay my welcome. I come home on weekends and return to base on Sunday. I don't see them so much anymore, but they are always happy to see me and provide me with anything I need. (One cute story: the other week, Amy was home with Shai (3), who wasn't feeling well and wanted to know where everyone in the family was. 'Where's Lena?' 'At school, honey.' 'Kaya?' 'Also at school.' 'Abba?' 'He's at work.' 'Daniel?' 'In the army.' I'm just extremely humbled and honored that Shai considers me a part of the family, or maybe just the apartment's new jungle gym [see photo]. First, I would like to thank the Academy, and of course my fans, and I would also like to thank....) I cannot imagine what it would have been like to come to Israel without any connections, as many of my friends did months before Mikveh. Kudos to them.

Lone soldiers have different living options in Israel. It is common for us to live with extended family (if we have any), stay on a kibbutz (where we can be adopted by an Israeli family), or to rent an apartment. I have begun to look into moving to a kibbutz. I love it in Tel Aviv, but I'm looking for a place with, quite frankly, my own room. Also on kibbutzim are other lone soldiers, so it'll be a good place to chill with more guys my age, going through similar experiences as me, when I come back every few weekends. It's an option I'm strongly considering, but the process takes time. I've talked with the Mishakit Tash (a girl on base who's job is to help soldiers with personal issues) and as it stands right now, I should get the next opening at one of two kibbutzim where a few of my friends already live.

Even with a family all around me, I certainly still feel like a stranger in a strange land. Never mind trying to feel like an Israeli, I'm simply concerning myself with feeling at home 6,000 miles away. I used to think to myself "why am I here?" However, since Mikveh Alon has ended and my IDF future is imminent, I have gotten caught up in my life and have become more certain in my decisions. Still, life (or the IDF) gave me a big slap-in-the-face reminder that I am indeed a lone soldier. During the tekkes last week for the conclusion of Mikveh Alon, many of the soldiers had families in attendance. I was left alone, with only my thoughts and other lone soldiers to keep me company. It was one thing to finish Mikveh, but it will certainly be another to make it through seven months of basic and advanced training and be alone for that tekkes. It is one thing to go through this life in the military in your own country, and quite another to do it in such a foreign place. Even when I am home on weekends, I often feel hurried, already looking Sunday morning when I will again walk to the train station and travel back up north. It is very difficult to feel grounded. Maybe this has something to do with living with David, Amy and the family, how I come home on Friday, and each family member is often busy with their own lives, running here and there for school, activities, work. It has been difficult to feel grounded and completely at ease since joining. Part of this, I believe, is because I've been anxious to get out of Mikveh. I want to start the 'real' army, as I've talked about before. Eventually I will develop a routine at my new base and start to feel more at home in Israel. but for now, such is the life.

The fire in my heart to serve Israel is alive and burning. Even if I were completely alone, it would not be extinguished. What keeps it strong? In large part, it is what this week has brought to many US college campuses: Israel Apartheid Week. From Monday to Friday, pro-Palestinian academics, professors, activists, and students host events or speakers dedicated to denouncing Israel as an apartheid state, likening it to South Africa. Last year during IAW was the first time that I really started actively advocating, or rather, defending, for Israel. It amazes me how intelligent, supposedly liberal and open-minded people can demonize a nation and a state to the extent they seek to achieve. Last year's IAW really brought out the reality, for me, that pro-Palestinian supporters are really anti-Israel demonstrators.

On my campus last March, IAW was complete with its own events, including a faux "apartheid wall" where hyped-up students, many of whom spewed non-sensical phrases and slogans, shouted through a microphone to classmates passing through to class about the supposed evils of Israel, the world's only Jewish state. Needless to say, I took exception to this and decided to have a few words (pleasant ones, I hoped) with a few of them. What started as a simple conversation, in which I searched, in vain, for moderate voices, turned into a five-on-one free-for-all. Can you guess who was the one? Damn straight, and proud of it! However, what I soon learned was that it was impossible to reason with people set in their beliefs. People who are for Israel or against Israel are not able to be convinced in the merits of other arguments. That goes for me too; no one will be able to tell me that Israel should not exist. Instead, what Israeli activists should focus on is convincing the majority of people who know nothing about the issues people face on this side of the world. That itself is a very difficult task, but there are people who are on the vanguard of this effort. One of these is Sgt. Benjamin Anthony.

A few weeks after IAW, the Jewish organizations on campus held Israel Peace and Israel Independence Weeks. It was a fortnight of activity for the promotion of Israel and hopes for peace. One night, we had a former IDF soldier come to speak to a group of pro- and anti-Israel students. Ben Anthony made aliyah from Britain and fought the Second Lebanon War in 2006. After his service, he started an organization called Our Soldiers Speak (click), in which he explains to audiences the front-line experiences of Israel's conflicts, as opposed to what the media portrays. When he came to my campus last year, he requested a diverse audience, with supporters and detractors. I believe his intent is not only to field difficult questions from anti-Israel people and provide a solid and carefully crafted response, but also to demonstrate to the pro-Israel students that we don't have to be cowered into intimidation by the often volatile-prone nature of anti-Israel activism and their use of such difficult and emotional terms like "genocide," "apartheid" or "human rights violations." For example, in response to a comment that one Palestinian posed explaining how his grandmother feels humiliated while trying to pass through security checkpoints in the West Bank, Sgt. Anthony took the time to explain the purpose of the checkpoints (they were established during the Second Intifadah where the only way Israel knew how to defend herself was to physically create a barrier to control and monitor the flow of people to and from Israel proper) and then provided perhaps the most human of all arguments in support of Israel's practices: "I am truly sorry for the inconvenience your grandmother faces, but, simply put, I don't want to be blown up."

It is this most basic of human desires--to exist, to live--that was one of my initial driving forces pushing me to fight for Israel. There are many people out there who do not wish me, as a Jew, to have even the simplest of earthly desires. (Anyone who tells you that anti-Semitism is a thing of the past is sadly mistaken. In fact, in many parts of the world, it is on the rise.) I spoke to my brother, Eric, the other week and he mentioned how Sgt. Anthony had returned to U of I for another talk. This time, however, he spoke more about struggles he and his soldiers faced with themselves, not so much about Lebanon or living in Israel. According to Eric, there were times throughout his service that they pondered the following scenario: someone has a gun toward your head and says, 'convert or die.' What do you do?

Eric posed the same question to me. I didn't have a quick response. On the surface, I suppose it is certainly something that I need to consider, being in the military. But on a deeper level, this simple question is directed at something much more profound: would I be willing to die for my religion, for my belief in Judaism? On the one hand, it is easy to say, "Yes! I feel that strongly and am willing to sacrifice my life to practice as I please." On the other hand, I could respond with, "Sure I'll convert, then I'll just quietly practice Judaism" (much like Jews in Spain did after their expulsion in 1492). The truth? I don't know what I would do. The Israelis' response? Action; take the gun or die trying.

I wear a kippah everyday to remind myself of many things, but one of them is that I am here as a Jew. I am not Israeli, nor am I a mercenary fighting for any certain political cause (there's no way I can ever be given 'mercenary' status making 700 shekels a month!). So, to an extent--and I'm not going to skirt around this reality--I am certainly fighting a religious war. However, the battle lines have shifted. As I've mentioned before, I do not believe Israel today is threatened by Damascus, Beirut, Riyadh, or Baghdad (Tehran is a different story). Instead, Israel is losing the political and public relations battle. And where are those battle lines? On college campuses and in government corridors. It starts with IAW or the BDS (Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions) Movement (click). It appears to be directed at the Knesset's (Parliament) policies. It soon develops into a cause and then becomes a necessity. But if you come to Israel, if you study its history, if you learn about the relations between Jews and Arabs/Muslims, Israelis and Palestinians, if you take the time to listen to all sides, learn the facts, and see the results, then, I believe, you will get a much different picture than the ones who spearhead IAW or BDS paint for their consumers. You soon realize that much of anti-Israel rhetoric and activity is in fact anti-Semitism, but, unfortunately, there aren't enough people with the chutzpah necessary to call it as such.

Although not always the biggest advocate for Israel, Thomas Friedman said it best: "Criticizing Israel is not anti-Semitic, and saying so is vile. But singling out Israel for opprobrium and international sanction--out of all proportion to any other party in the Middle East--is anti-Semitic, and not saying so is dishonest."

So, how does it feel to be a lone soldier? How does it feel to be fighting for my people in one of the world's strongest militaries, in a volatile region, amidst a hotbed of upheaval and unrest? How does it feel to know more parts of the M-16 in Hebrew than in English? How does it feel to be living in one of the world's most beautiful and diverse country? A country that is energetic, humanitarian, passionate and also lawless on so many levels? How does it feel to be on the other side of the world, without constant connection to friends and loved ones? And how does it feel to be in Tzanchanim, the Paratroopers, for my IDF service? (BLEEPING) AWESOME!!!

bruised body/broken distance

My muscles burned and my body bruised as I crawled uphill towards the sandbag. My uniform, already smeared with dirt, moisture and foliage, tugged at my upper body as I dragged my legs forward.  I reached with my right hand and tried to grab onto anything to pull myself to a new position.  My hand sank into the dirt and I had to swivel my body to angle my left leg above my hip, anchor it into the soil and extend my body forward.  The Mefaked stood a few meters in front of me, shouting as us to get moving.  I put my head down for a second, gathering strength for a quick burst of energy.  "C'mon!" I yelled to myself, "isn't this why you're here?!  Don't you want to be down in the dirt, with your muscles aching?  Move your ass!"  I looked up and targeted a shallow depression, willing myself to reach it.  I pulled my forearms in close and began to raise my knees off the ground.  Trying my best to work my limbs in unison after crawling for over two hundred meters, I jetted forward, one forearm in front of the other, not looking up, just staring down at the earth, the rocks, the glass, ignoring all of it as I just kept moving, just kept moving, until I reached the Mefaked and shouted "Shteim!  Two!"

This continued for four hours.  From 4:00 to 8:00 in the morning, I put myself through the hardest physical workout of my life.  What was it all for?  To get into Tzanchanim, the Paratroopers.  A special infantry unit with a storied history: they were instrumental in Israel's victorious war against Egypt in 1956, and, most importantly, they were the unit that recaptured Jerusalem from Jordanian control in 1967 Six Day War.  There's an incredibly famous (and moving) photo of three paratroopers at the Western Wall, the first time ever that the State of ISrael had a definitive presence at Judaism's holiest site.  In remembrance of this incredible victory, Tzanchanim soldiers culminate hteir basic trianing in a 74km hike, ending at the Wall, with all of Jerusalem out to see their triumphant entrance after their daylong march.  In addition, Tzanchanim, as paratroopers, learn to jump out of an airplane; they do this five times during their training.  The final thing that distinguished Tzanchanim from the other infantry units is their gibbush, or tryout.  THe only purpose of the gibbush is to keep with the unit's tradition.  I'm certain that at one point they were a specialized or elite unit, but, especially since paratrooping is unlikely to ever be used again in wartime, Tzanchanim is seen as not unlike other infantry units.  For example, even though hundreds of new soldiers attend the gibbush, Tzanchanim is not allowed to take only the best soldiers.  They have to take the best of the best, the best of the middle, and the best of the bottom.  Why?  Because its demographic has to contain a range of soldiers, not simply the best; otherwise, the other units would be stripped of the best, as they would all be in Tzanchanim.  However, there were certainly many soldiers who went through the gibbush simply for the experience, without ever intending to go into Tzanchanim.

Initially, that was my approach.  I had heard that if I wanted Tzanchanim, I would have to extend my service to two full years.  It's a decision I've been wrestling with for some time now. But I'll explain more  about that later.  For now, you don't even know if I survived the gibbush....

I arrived at base as usual on Sunday, just before lunch.  That entire afternoon was spent rehearsing for our tekkes, a ceremony to be held that Wednesday as the culmination of our time at MIkveh Alon.  Out marching went on for hours.  Nothing exciting to report.  That evening, after dinner, those who were going ot the gibbush the next day were given instructions on what to bring, when to get up, etc.  We were to awake at 4:00 am, dress in our Bet uniforms, and bring with us our extra Bet uniform, as well as our Aleph uniform.  I was pumped as this was actually happening.  But then, my Mefakedet pulled me aside, away from the group, and sat me down. I knew this wasn't good.  Then she asked me a rhetorical question, "Daniel, what's your profile?"  I say it was rhetorical because they have always known that I'm a 72.  "Why?"  Because of my eyes.  Don't you remember when I was gone for a full day to go see an eye doctor?!  And you also asked me a bunch of questions a few weeks ago as part of the gibbush application and I specifically asked you about my profile, if it would be a problem!  "Well, as of right now, I don't know if you can go."  WHAT?!  Hell no!  I've always wondered how I can go; I've been told that a 72 cannot do infantry.  "I want you to be able to go.  I'll talk to my commander and then I'll wake you up and let you know."  Wonderful.  I love the last-minute ambiguity of the entire situation.  The gibbush guys went to bed around 8:00 at night.  As I was getting into my room, my Mefakedet told me to dress in my Aleph uniform to see the eye doctor the following morning.  I really don't know what exactly I was expected to do, because I knew there was no way any doctor would be on base at four in the morning, and I also knew that if they looked at my eyes, they would definitely tell me I couldn't go.  So I awoke with the rest of the guys and dressed in my Aleph.  Essentially, I eventually made my way onto the bus, although my name wasn't on the list.  I've ben told time and again, if you want something in the army, it's all a matter of getting on or staying off the bus.  In this case, I wanted to go, so I just got on the bus.

We drove to Tel Hashomer, the same base where I had my Tzav Rishon and reported for my first day back in December.  After arriving, we grabbed our Bet bags and sleeping bags, arranged them into pyramids, and formed a large chet in the center of the pavilion's basketball court.  There was already a sizeable crowd sitting on the bleachers, mainly Israelis in civilian clothes.  I have to admit, I gained quite a bit of confidence after showing up in my uniform.   One of the good things about Mikveh is that I am a soldier, and I know how to act accordingly, what to expect, etc.  Seeing the wide-eyed eighteen year old Israelis, with absolutely no military experience, staring at us in our perfect chet, shouting in unison, I got excited and pumped to begin the gibbush.

Unfortunately, things again took a turn for the worse.  The Tzanchanim officers formed everyone into groups of twenty or thirty.  Initially, all the Mikveh guys were put together--except a few others and me. I was eventually put with another group from Mikveh, but seeing all my friends together made me feel lost in the wind, to an extent.  I was already in a different environment, one where if you didn't know the Hebrew it was kinda tough luck.  Next, we went to see the medical team.  They took my temperature and pulse.  One of my friends, Mike, unfortunately, was sent home because he had a high temperature.  Then the doctor fo the gibbush had to clear us.  We had each previously been given our medical form, which the doctor had to sign off on.  (A quick backstory is required here: my mom has developed a potential hereditary heart condition and I needed to got o a doctor for a test to see if I was at risk.  I left base the previous Thursday, went to the hospital, got the test, and was cleared.  However, my medical form still said I was going to a cardiologist for my heart.)  When she looked at my form, she asked for the results of the test, which I didn't have.  "Can't let you do the gibbush until I see the results."  Not again!  Long story short, I called the hospital, they faxed the papers to Mikveh, who then faxed it to Tel Hashomer.  At this point, my unit had gone to eat and I was thrown into another group, this time with all Israelis.  Talk about feeling like a fish out of water.  And speaking of water, throughout the day, our Mefakeds ordered us to fill our canteens, drink the entirety, and hold it over our heads to prove it was empty.  These canteens are .75 liters.  I first thought it was one of the challenges of the gibbush, like they were going to make us run after, but the next day proved how thankful I was that we drank all that water the night before.

A few hours later, all 262 of us gathered on a basketball court, preparing to run the 2k.  They read the first forty names in alphabetical order, and continued until everyone's name had been called--once again, everyone but me and a few others.  Even though my last name begins with an "F", it is really a "פ, Pay" in Hebrew, the 18th letter.  Still, they didn't call me.  I think this all stemmed from me not really supposed to be on that bus.  But anyway, I ended up being number 252, and ran an 8:21.  The course was harder than the paved surface of Mikveh Alon when I ran an 8:07 the previous week.  It was on soft dirt (it had rained for a few hours in the morning) and the trail rose and fell a significant amount.  Regardless, I was pleased with my time.  Everyone was to change back into their uniforms (we ran in sport clothes) and go to dinner.

The next morning, we were to report in a chet at 3:30, wearing nothing but our Bet uniforms.  When I say nothing, I mean no undershirts or long johns.  Needless to say, it was frigid when we woke up at 3:00.  We were herded into an area where everyone at the gibbush stood in chet.  They began reading off names, forming new units.  Thankfully, I was in a group of 20 with some of my best friends from Mikveh.  Finally, I felt my spirits lift after thinking for hours that I would only be with Israelis.  We were given tags with numbers on them to hang on our shoulder epaulettes.  I was number "two."  The Mefaked in charge of our unit gathered us in a chet and we began.

Throughout the four hours, the Mefakeds would ask us our numbers.  If you did something really good or failed, they wanted to know our numbers.  They told us to each grab a sandbag from a pile.  I picked one up and returned to the chet.  The Mefaked looked at what I had grabbed, commented that it wasn't big enough, and then asked for my number.  What a great way to start.

We then carried the stretcher, two jerry cnas, and our sandbags and headed off into the field.  We stopped at a stretch of dirt road, tossed our sandbags into the grass and formed lines of there.  There was one bag placed uphill on the road about forty meters away.  "Spring there and back, form lines of three, fourteen seconds.  Tze!"  The road was too small for all of us to fit.  If you were at the front of the line, you could make it first.  Other times, I just sucked up the burn in my legs, and sprinted there and back, pushing past people as best I could.  If you were first or last, the Mefakeds asked for our numbers.  Then they wanted to know the top three people.  Next, we sprinted there and back twice, with the first four people back carrying the stretcher for the second time back.  This lasted a good forty-five minutes, sprinting there and abck thirty or forty times.  If you drank from your canteen, the Mefaked asked what you were doing and took your number.  You couldn't even piss without being given permission.

Next we were told to grab our sandbags and hold them over our heads.  Just stand there and hold them.  If you drop your bag or it falls below your head, they ask for your number and make you stand in the middle of the chet.  This went on for five minutes.  Then we threw them down, jogged back about twenty meters, and were ordered to crawl to the sandbag in the middle of hte path and back...go!  At this point, I was thankful we didn't have any clothing on underneath our uniforms.  I began to rethink this as I started to cut up and bruise my body with the crawling.  In total, we crawled over two hundred meters throughout the morning.  For the next couple of days, it hurt to rest my elbows on a table; I'm still finding scrapes on my body.

After a few rounds of crawling, we picked up all our materials and followed the Mefaked as he marched off into the bushes.  When we arrived at some location, we were given five minutes to make a three meter by three meter Star of David out of branches, brush, anything we could find.  Then we had to make the Tzanchanim logo.  This was to see how we interacted in a group.  Although almost all of us spoke English, we had to use Hebrew.  During the day we also had to decide as a group three pros and cons of women serving in the military, money in professional sports, speak about any topic for twenty seconds, and other conversational segments.  In addition, we had a challenge to complete: get everyone over a wall ten meters away, using only a wooden light post, an oil drum and a tire.  It was impossible to accomplish in the allotted time, but, once again, the exercise was designed to see our interaction.

Finally, we were led to a location with a square pull up bar.  Everyone was ordered up, eyes closed, and hold on as long as possible.  You could hear thuds as people jumped down, although it was often the Mefakeds trying to make us think that people were falling.  After a few rounds of this, we gathered our supplies and went on a last hike back to the entrance.  Our physical tests were done.

Next was the interview.  This was simple enough; for me, my interviewers said that they want to know all about me, my history, family, why I'm here, etc.  I started to speak in Hebrew.  They stopped me and said if I don't have the conversational ability to explain all that, then I should speak in English, and it wouldn't affect my score.  Well, I trusted them and spoke in English.  They were good guys who seemed genuinely interested in why someone from college would to Israel to fight.  They asked interesting, exploring questions.  They even seemed interested about this blog!  What up, guys!! Let me in to Tzanchanim!

Then that was it for the gibbush.  At the end of it, I was tired, bruised and dirty.  But I honestly felt that, perhaps except for the crawling, I could do the whole thing over again, no problem.  It was hard, but not really difficult.  The main purpose of the gibbush is for the Mefakeds to test our mental toughness.  I heard accounts of them kicking soldiers our of certain exercises, only to see if the individual would fight to get back in.  That didn't happen with my group.  Only one guy dropped, and I think it was because he was sick at the beginning.  In other groups, up to half of the soldiers didn't make it to the end.

If you're reading this and are planning on taking the gibbush, let me say this: never quit, never give up!  At the very least, don't give them the satisfaction.  Also, it isn't overly difficult.  Remember: the pain you feel is only temporary, literally only for those few minutes.  Don't regret not giving it your all just to get back into your comfort zone.  You're in the military now: you will never be comfortable.  Just keep on trucking.  And anything you try your best at, you feel great about later.  A little pain now can pay dividends later.  For me, even if I don't make Tzanchanim, I am proud of my performance.  I tried hard and I think I stood out.  Hopefully I'll find out in the next couple days.

We left a few hours later and returned to base.  That entire afternoon we worked on marching for our tekkes.  That evening was a fun event: soldiers from each country at Mikveh had come up with a few minute presentation about their country.  The Americans had some dance moves, others just showed YouTube videos about their country, etc.  It was a fun event.

The next morning, again we rehearsed.  Finally, our tekkes was in the afternoon, and we were done with Mikveh!!  That evening, we broke distance with our commanders.  They told us their names, and we could ask them personal questions, talk candidly about the past few months, and more.  It was fun to see the Russians' expressions when they found out that my Mefakedet understands Russian; they swore at her every day.  My Mefakedet also said that she had worked for eight months in the States, even living for a few weeks in a town twenty minutes from me!  With breaking distance came a relaxing of formalities.  The HaSammelot and MemMem also talked about themselves for a bit.  They're still our officers, but the atmosphere for that evening and the next morning was certainly more relaxed; we all felt at ease, filled with a sense of accomplishment.

We left on Thursday but are returning tomorrow for a few days of shmirah (guard duty).  The following Sunday is supposed to be my first day in my new unit.  I still don't know if it's Tzanchanim, Nahal, or Totchanim.  There are a lot of things still up in the air.  But I'm feeling good about the future.  Our Mefakedet asked us last Sunday if we were excited to be leaving Mikveh.  I answered with a resounding "yes!"  However, as the last week went by, I started to think about not living with English speakers, not seeing the friends I've made over the past three months, and just being thrown into an entirely new environment.  It's certainly going to be a challenge.  And I welcome it!  It's the ISRAELI DEFENSE FORCE!