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.

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!!!

From beneath the cows to above the clouds

I dropped to the ground, covering my head with my hands as my unit began to count the seconds until the light stick "grenade" would explode. The mefakedets were screaming to get down and lie still. After our counting, the MemMem yelled to start crawling, forward towards the front of the two lines. It was a free-for-all; if you were faster than the guy ahead of you, you tried to maneuver around him without having his boots kick you in the face. You didn't pay attention to what you were crawling over (mud, rocks, cow shit); you just focus on getting to the front as fast as possible, ignoring the pounding of your heart, muscles screaming for relief, and stones cutting into your knees. What were we doing in the middle of the night, slogging through a heavily muddied path, through cow fields, carried people on stretchers? It's called a 'masa', a hike led by a commander intended to practice and simulate patrols, complete with springing into different firing positions, shouting orders, and running. The night was cloudy and I had no idea if I was about to step onto somewhat solid ground or plunge my boot into a foot of water. I had my head down, looking at the guy's boots in front of me. I knew if we were about to sprint based on the sound of the soldiers ahead of me; the quickened pace sounded like an oncoming rush of water. In total, we hiked about six or eight kilometers. That's not significant distance by any stretch of the imagination, but what made it difficult were the conditions. And personally, I had also just completed a two hour shmirah shift.

As I mentioned in my last post, I was going to spend two straight weeks on base. It was time for my plugot to do shmirah, or guard duty. After a month with no guns, we went to the armory on Tuesday to receive our weapons. For the next week, the guns were not to leave our side. What's more, we had to always have our combat vests on, complete with two filled canteens and three magazines, each with twenty-nine rounds. Yes, I was packin' heat all week: eighty-seven 5.56 caliber bullets, ready to be locked and loaded if I noticed something suspicious while on guard duty. Every day, the MemMem spoke to my machlekah about guard duty: protocols, tips, sanctions, etc. In total, I pulled six, two-hour guard shifts. Twice I was the solo guard for the armory, another two times I was by myself at a post overlooking a valley, and another two times I was with another soldier at the "bunker", an isolated location on top of another hill, protecting Mikveh Alon's ammunition cache. Shmirah is good and bad. At some times I feel very proud to be protecting something, even if it is only Mikveh Alon (I swear, if Israel's enemies ever find it necessary to launch an assault on Mikveh, then Israel is already lost). It is also probably the only opportunity to be alone and have time to think. But the bunker is a great place, too. Its isolation makes it easy to see if a commander is coming to check on you, but, as in my case, I was paired with Russians both times and for two hours we spoke Hebrew. Shmirah, in general, is boring. It's also a huge pain in the @$$ getting up at 3:30, after four hours of sleep, to be ready for guard duty from 4-6 in the morning. After one of these shifts, I got back to my room at 6:15, we were to get up at 7:15. I just took off my vest, laid my gun down on my bed, sat down, leaning against the wall, and closed my eyes for an hour.

So what's the protocol if someone suspicious shows up at our guard post? If we don't recognize the person, we first ask, in Hebrew, "who is it?" If there's no response, or the individual appears to be a threat (pulls a weapon, starts running towards you, or, frankly, is Arab), we shout "stop!" in every language we know. They taught us how to stay "Stop or I'll shoot" in Arabic. The next step is to cock our gun twice, although without it loaded. Hopefully, the sound itself will frighten the individual. If that doesn't work, then we can load our guns with a magazine. Then we're allowed to shoot two warning shots into the air. If still that doesn't work, then we can shoot the threat in the legs. Thankfully, I never saw anyone I didn't know and never had to go through those steps.

For the two hour shift, we're only allowed to sit for the last ten minutes of each hour. The rest of the time I either stand in place or pace back and forth, counting the number of tiles on the ground, cows in the fields, or street lights in nearby towns. It is an automatic Shabbat (meaning you stay on base for the weekend) if you're caught sleeping, sitting, smoking, eating, or drinking (anything but water) during your shift. A friend had given me a candy bar before my first shift when I was solo at the armory. After the first hour I was bored of pacing back and forth and was starting to get really tired, so I made it a challenge to secretly open the candy bar with one hand in my pocket and break off small bites. The whole operation took a good twenty-five minutes. Quality use of time.

Throughout the day we had our normal Hebrew classes. Soldiers would leave in the middle of the day to report for shmirah duty. That's why we had to have our vests on at all times. One afternoon, after our MemMem gave us our daily shmirah briefing, the siren sounded. If that happens, we have exactly seven minutes to get from wherever we are (even if we're sleeping) to a predesignated spot and form a chet with the machlekah. After the formation, with our helmets on and canteens filled, we were told to run to the perimeter of the base. We spring to our designated spot, shouting war cries and running over people who are too slow; our excitement in pretending to be doing something important is evident. I run to some brush and lay down in prone position, aiming my gun at some random things in the distance. The drill was fun, if pointless. We were told we did a good job, and that was it.

The day after our nighttime masa, we had a competition between the nine tzevets in the plugot. This was one of the highlights of the week. First we had a "jeep" run: one soldier wrapped his arms around two others and draped his legs over the shoulders of a third. We sprinted about fifty meters, then had to answer a question in Hebrew from a mefakedet. Then we were to run to the next location around a bend. We started at a full on sprint, then realized it was a good quarter mile away. Most of us made it huffing and puffing. After another question, we had to crawl fifty meters over hard pavement, littered with rocks. I still have scabs on my hands, two weeks later, from the cuts. People's knees were bruised for days. Crawling isn't supposed to be as "bloody" as it was for us, but because we have no training, we just do whatever it takes to get to the finish line. Then we had to consume a can of beans, write "tzevet 3" with sticks, and spring to the flag for the final leg. In total, the competition was about twelve minutes, but it was fun. I always enjoy getting my blood pumping with competition and sport. We haven't had much of it over the past two months, so this was really enjoyable.

Finally, on Tuesday morning of the second week, we woke up at 2:30 AM for the masa of the MemPay, the officer in charge of the whole plugot. This turned out to be the easiest thing. We were bused about forty-five minutes to a random spot in the road, formed our two lines, and starting marching....on the road. In total, we walked about two kilometers, sometimes running, but never dropping down to a firing position and never crawling. At the end, we finished on top of a mountain overlooking the Kinneret, a lake in the north and Israel's main source of freshwater. The MemPay talked about the area, we grabbed some photos, then had a ceremony in the parking lot with the higher ups of the base present. It was nice, but unnecessary to wake up that early just to see the sunrise.

At the beginning of the two weeks, I was excited to do shmirah and spend my first Shabbat on base. A lot of guys were apprehensive about the two weeks without a break. The truth is, during kravi service, it is common to spend two to three weeks at a time on base. And Shabbat was fun. We had a great Friday night meal, and Saturday (aside from waking up at four for shmirah) was a lazy day. No one could order us to do anything. If we wanted to sleep, we could. If we wanted to exercise, it was no problem. Some people watched movies on their iPods, I read a book ("Brotherhood of Warriors" by Aaron Cohen, it's about Cohen's experience as an American in the IDF [sound familiar] in the mid-90s when he was a part of Duvdevan, an elite unit charged with infiltrating the West Bank), or we just talked about nothing. When Sunday and Monday rolled around, I felt completely at ease on base, as if we had not already spent seven or eight days there. It became routine. So long as you're with your friends, life becomes a whole lot easier.

Finally, after our week of shmirah ended, we left our base to go to Jerusalem. On Wednesday, we boarded a bus and drove to Har Hertzl, Israel's Arlington Cemetery. I was there a year ago on Birthright, but this time was completely different for me. I looked at the graves and the most off-putting thing about the place, is that most of the soldiers who lay forever on that hillside were between 18 and 23 years of age. When I say most, I mean if there's a row of ten graves, seven will be in their late teens or early twenties. One guy was born three weeks before me and was killed in action in 2006 in Lebanon. I remember a year ago thinking about the young age of the soldiers. I now thought....well, I'll keep that to myself.

Next we went to Yad Vashem, Israel's Holocaust museum. Again, this was my third time within a year. But it's always an important place to go to if in Israel. If you haven't been to a Holocaust museum, please find one to visit. There's a great one in Washington, DC, and one recently opened near my town in northern Chicago. Yad Vashem, and my tour guide, really hammered home the point that the Nazis made the Jews out to be non-human, something aside from humanity. I could talk for hours about the museum and the Holocaust, but suffice it to say, as I've mentioned before, it reinvigorates me with a renewed sense of purpose in my service.

Afterwards, we went to Gush Etzion, an area in the Judean hills in the West Bank. The story behind Gush Etzion, briefly, is this: during the aliyahs of the early 20th century, many Jews wanted to settle this land that is believed to have been a passageway for Abraham and Isaac before they reached Mt. Moriah for the binding; King David slew Goliath in these hills; and other biblical stories. The climate was difficult, the soil rocky, and the surrounding people hostile. During the War of Independence, one day before the State of Israel was created, all the defenders of Gush Etzion were massacred by the Jordanian legions. The children of these Jews, having been evacuated weeks earlier, grew up and vowed to one day resettle the land. That opportunity came in 1967 when Israel reclaimed control of Judea and Samaria. Now, there are a few thriving communities in the area and a yeshiva for the study of Torah. It is a great testament to the will of the Jewish people to reclaim their land, a story of yearning and a hope fulfilled.

The next day, we were given a "tour" of Jerusalem's Old City, courtesy of our mefakedets. Hardy the best tour of anything I've ever received. I've lost a lot of respect for my mefakedet. At the yeshiva, my tzevet sat in a chet and our mefakedet asked us about our day, what we thought of Har Hertzl, Yad Vashem, Gush Etzion, etc. I told them, point-blank, "I feel like I'm on Birthright" not in the freakin' IDF. I'm sorry, but I don't really care to talk about what it was like to see twenty year olds buried in the ground with an eighteen year old girl who doesn't know anything about me, what I'm thinking, or who I am. What a load of crap this place and these people can be at times.

But on a high note, we were given time to ourselves at the Kotel, the Western Wall. And as the sun was setting, my entire plugot formed a big chet on the plaza in front of the Wall. We're about 100 soldiers, plus thirty or so commanders; needless to say, we took up a considerable area. We're standing with our berets on, at attention in formation, tourists stopping to take pictures or video, wondering what was going on. We all shout responsively in unison at the appropriate times, creating a small, thunderous echo off the surrounding buildings. The MemPay spoke some words, which I couldn't hear, but at the end of the ceremony, we were each given a military-issued Tanach, a book of the Torah, Prophets and Writings, essentially Judaism's entire Written Law. And its pretty awesome because it has the IDF insignia on its cover. This is just another example how I can be face-down, crawling through cow droppings one day, and standing in formation, in front of the eyes of Jerusalem, receiving an IDF edition Tanach.

Finally, that night, I ate dinner with another soldier with a family who lived in the area. Before we left base, the HaSammelot asked us who would want to eat dinner with a family who wants to get to know lone soldiers for Thursday night. I volunteered, and it was great. I got a great meal, spoke Hebrew the whole time, and now have some people who were genuinely interested in helping make my life here easier. Israelis can be incredible people.

A lot happened over the past two weeks. I'll leave the heavy thoughts, feelings, and emotions for next week. I'll just say that now it's getting to crunch time to deciding whether I want to go to the Tzanchanim gibbush, try to get into Nahal with my medical profile, or go to Totchanim (Artillery). The HaSammelot gave us a presentation about each of these units before we went to Jerusalem. I think we're going to learn more this week, but that is still to be determined. And I feel completely out of world events. Apparently the Arab world is on fire. We'll see what that means for Israel in the comings weeks. 'Til next time, you stay classy!

PS- if you want to get a quick look into what my life is like, check this out:http://www.jpost.com/VideoArticles/Video/Article.aspx?id=207527

The Final Countdown

Winter is here! What a change of weather since the photo I posted on my last entry. The rain that Israel so desperately needs has finally come...in droves! It first started with cooler temperatures ("cooler" being in low 60s or upper 50s, although some parts of the north reported snowfall), then came darkening skies and lightning, quickly followed by deafening thunder claps. I'm tellin' you, G-d sure knows how to put on a show in His house! That was Friday morning and early afternoon. The day then turned bright, the sun came out, and David, Amy, the kids and I went to the boardwalk on the beach to watch the sunset. To our north, we could see occasional lightning bolts cut across the sky, providing a dull purple glow to the dark and menacing storm clouds.

Yesterday morning, the storm kicked into high gear. Gusting winds knocked over trees and power lines all over Tel Aviv. Our apartment building lost power for an hour. Today was no better. The rain comes in fits and starts, powerful and overwhelming one minute, gone the next. This has been Israel's driest year since records were first kept in 1927, and this rain spell probably won't be enough to provide for the country's needs. The Kinneret's water level, the largest body of freshwater and beginnings of the Jordan River, is at the black line, past the red line. Translation: that ain't good.

I battled the elements today when I returned to Tel Hashomer to pick up my tzav hagiyus (draft form). Three days before the date I've been planning for months to enlist, it is finally official. I also picked up two forms that confirm my status as a chayal boded.

What's left to do before Wednesday? After Tel Hashomer, I went to a mall in Tel Aviv and finally bought my own cell phone. Why didn't I do this weeks ago when I first got here? Every cell phone company has a special plan or rates for soldiers. Naturally, I sought out these plans. However, a subscription requires two things: an Israeli bank account and an IDF letter confirming my draft date. I got the former weeks ago, the latter just today. And David and Amy were kind enough to let me borrow one of their phones for the past month.

Over the past few days, I've been preparing a mental list about what to bring to Mikveh Alon. I'm fortunate to have two good Israeli friends who, while serving in the IDF, were on my Birthright trip last winter, Sam and Ben. Their suggestions and advice have helped me prepare, know what to expect, what to bring and what to leave behind, how I should conduct myself, etc. For the most part, the IDF supplies everything for me. They suggest I bring a stopwatch, knife, flashlight, etc., not all of it necessary but suggested nonetheless. In addition, being winter and moving north to a colder climate and higher altitude, Ben gave me warm socks, thermals, and other warm gear. He also threw in some tips on how to clean my canteen, stay awake during lessons, and other useful information. Sam told me that he has a couple locks I can use.

Both these guys are great friends and a primary support system I will constantly turn to throughout my service. I have my family (David and Amy and co.) but I'm sure I will want to talk with guys my age who have done the whole song and dance. This past Friday, Sam invited me over for Shabbat dinner. His family and some of their friends all sat down to a wonderful home-cooked meal. Everyone in Israel comes home for Shabbat dinner, he commented. Even if they're not religious, Friday night is a time for family. Unfortunately, I don't believe the same can be said for families in the States. Be that as it may, I want to point out the amount of care and compassion people in Israel have for one another. I've alluded to this in previous posts, but want to emphasize it here. When I left Sam's, his mother and father each impressed upon me how welcome I am to stay for a meal or a weekend during my service. It was a gracious overture on their part, and on the drive back to Tel Aviv, Sam made sure I understood that their offers are sincere.

Perhaps the one word I would use to describe Israelis (despite the plethora of different people and backgrounds that comprise this tiny state's citizenry) is "passionate." You're not partaking in a true Israeli conversation unless one or both of you starts to shout. Let me explain. Driving here, I will admit, at first seemed downright dangerous. Especially coming from America, with big lanes, big cars and lots of cops around, Tel Aviv's narrow, curving roads, bustling with small cars and more Vespas and motorbikes than you can count, and of course, the seeming lack of a police force make this transportation's wild west. Although I have not driven yet, riding a bike on the sidewalk is a risk all by itself. The Vespas are allowed to go on the sidewalks and people rarely care to abide by the designated bike lanes on certain streets. The stoplights are something different altogether. Before the light turns green, the orange light turns on with the red light, then to green. Why? Well, I think it was originally because most cars were manual, so it allowed the drivers to shift into gear before the light turned green. (Now, most cars are automatic.) This led to a mentality that expected the car at the head of the lane to be halfway into the intersection by time the light changes. If not, expect to hear a chorus of honking. People shout out windows all the time, swerve between lanes, Vespas dart between cars and trucks, buses randomly stop to pick up passengers, delivery trucks block entire lanes for unload their goods...all kosher in Israel. Nobody is mad at one another; they're just annoyed by the current situation and are not afraid to express their opinion.

The newspapers are abuzz with controversial policies and questionable actions. What should the IDF's policy be on conversions? Should Jews not sell or rent homes to Arabs or Druze? What to make on the recent wave of Latin American countries recognizing a Palestinian state? Hamas recently launched a series of mortar attacks into Israel: what should the response be? How do we properly thank the international community for its outpouring of support in the wake of the Carmel fire? Can we trust Obama or is it time to recognize him as the spineless, anti-Israel leader that he is? Ok, perhaps that last one was slightly, but not entirely, off-base.

Israelis care. Life here is constantly moving forward. TIME magazine's September cover story was about the peace process and how supposedly "Israel don't care about making peace." Bullshit. Israelis care. It's innate in the Jewish soul to care about another human being. In today's Jerusalem Post, op-ed contributor Katie Green shares a personal story about her son serving on the Egyptian border ("The gloves are off," Jerusalem Post, Dec 13, 2010). One of Israel's most pressing problems is the influx of refugees from Africa who cross inhospitable terrain, hostile governments, and come to Israel hoping for a chance at...money to send back to their families? No. Fame? Absolutely not. A chance to live? Yes. The Darfur refugee who risks everything crossing the Sinai peninsula, evading Egyptian troops who are likely to use these refugees for target practice, doesn't care what slurs the world hurls at Israel. He wraps his arms around Green's son, thankful to be out of reach of any Arab government. In the Jewish state, he will be taken in, processed, given a warm bed and a hot meal, and released into the only free society in the region. To say Israelis don't care about Palestinians is just wrong. Israelis care about peace because conflict isn't the answer, but sometimes the necessary route.

If conflict comes, then so be it. Israel knows how to defend itself. It also knows how to go on the offensive and try its hardest to prevent civilian casualties...even among the enemy's population! (What I am referring to here is the historically unprecedented actions Israel took during Operation Cast Lead to warn Gazans of its impending operation. This included: dropping leaflets from planes, specifically stating which buildings were going to be attacked; calling and text messaging Gazans warning of attacks; dropping fake bombs on roofs to disperse people who were sent up by Hamas to become 'martyrs'.) And if Israel goes to battle, then I shall go with her. As it looks right now, not as a foot soldier. My health profile does not allow me to be in infantry. Instead, my options are tanks, armored corps, artillery, or army engineers. None of this is certain. In three months, after Mikveh Alon, I will know where I will serve.

I have my supplies ready to report on Wednesday morning at 8:00 AM. I'm excited. It is certainly a new adventure, unlike anything I have done and will likely never do again. I will learn things that only soldiers will know. Not necessarily how to fight or shoot, but rather what serving in a military means. I will be able to add my name to the historical annals of those who have ever served in a military (see my first blog entry). The military will test me physically, emotionally, and mentally. It will be an incredible challenge. I will be given a number, become a statistic; my entire existence will be stamped on a small metal square to hang around my neck. But I will be proud of my uniform. Proud of what it stands for. Proud to serve a people, and not some dictator. Proud to serve in one of the world's finest and most elite militaries. Proud to be in the world's only Jewish army.

Fire and Rain

It's been another week in Israel. The impending date of my enlistment quickly approaches. Well, that isn't really correct. "Impending"? Hell no! My enlistment approaches and I welcome it with, to be honest, a bit of apprehension and nervousness, but also plenty of excitement. Part of the uncertainty comes from the ample time I've had to consider what I'm doing with my life for the next eighteen months.

After last week's tzav rishon I've had nothing to do, save wait for my appointment today to get an eye exam. Seem random? Not quite. I guess the IDF doctor at lishgat hagiyus didn't trust my optometrist's records, so I had to return to Tel Hashomer this morning for an eye exam. In short, by the end of the day I had completed my tzav rishon and received my medical form. A friend told me earlier that my account of last week's experience helped him out, so I will quickly recount the following experience.

When I walked into the doctor's office, I told him I was wearing contacts. He gave me an incredulous look and exclaimed, "you need to have your contacts out for twenty hours before this test!" My heart dropped. No way was I gonna be turned away and required to return tomorrow, after not wearing my contacts or glasses all day and then be required to navigate the bus system without my sight. Unbelievable. Pretty much, I acted like an Israeli and pushed until I got what I wanted. He used drops to dilate my eyes and I took the tests. Bottom line, they were the exact same tests my optometrist performed earlier this summer and the doctor here got the same results.

When it was all said and done, another doctor told me my health profile score is a 72. What does that mean? The highest health score is a 97. The next highest is an 82. After that is 72. According to the doc, I cannot score higher than 72 with a prescription below a -6.00 (my eyes are worse than that). She said that I am still kravi (combat). What can and can't I do? Don't know yet. I'll find out in the coming days and weeks and will fill you in.

But, today I did not want to talk too much about myself. My life outside of army stuff hasn't been too exciting the past week. My best friend from home, Ben, is here; he made aaliyah (despite already being Israeli) and is joining the IDF as well. Outside of our experiences, Israel is undergoing quite a lot these days: Chanukah and fires.

Chanukah is a time for a great celebration in Israel. As opposed to Christmas and New Year's break, students here have the week off for Chanukah. So what is Chanukah? Lighting candles and giving presents? Yes and...well, kinda. Chanukah is a remembrance of the Jewish experience in the second century BCE. After Alexander the Great conquered Judea, he allowed his subjects to freely practice their religion, customs, etc. This benevolent rule led to rampant assimilation among the Jewish population. A century later, Antiochus IV began oppressing and massacring Jews. Judah Maccabee led a revolt against the Greeks' oppression and assimilation. This culminated in the rededication of the Temple. So, where's the miracle? While a small force standing up to the largest empire the world had ever seen is no small feat, the miracle was when the Greeks left only a small amount of oil for the menorah, which is required to burn every night, but miraculously burned for eight straight nights. (Jews don't commemorate military victories. And as for presents? It's just a tradition started by Jews who lived near people celebrating Christmas. Here we go again with the assimilation...)

Unfortunately, Israel has had to cope with an extremely inordinate amount of fire and light. I am talking, if you don't already know, about the fire in Carmel, northern Israel. On Thursday, a fire was started in Carmel (near Haifa) that quickly grew out of control. When it threatened a prison, a bus full of extra security guards was brought in to help evacuate the prisoners, but the fire quickly spread 1500 meters in 3 minutes to engulf the bus, killing all forty onboard. The fire is a national emergency; experts say it will take forty years for the over 10,000 acres destroyed to regrow. The fire also exposed some serious flaws in Israel's fire and emergency management services.

Despite the devastation and horror, there are some bright spots to emerge from this disaster. For one thing, the international response has been extremely positive. As hoped, the United States, Britain, France and Russia have been forthcoming with supplies. An incredible, welcome surprise is the aid provided by Turkey, Egypt, Jordan, and even the PA. Of course there have been calls on Arab websites for Syria and Hamas to fire rockets, have the fires spread, and even incidents of Arabs in Israel throwing Molotov cocktails to spread the flames. But for some states--especially Turkey--to offer aid is a big positive step, especially after the flotilla this summer.

As of right now, the fire has been contained. Tel Aviv was never threatened; I was never in any danger, never even saw any smoke. Now Israel will work to recover from the damage and pay tribute to the brave men and women who fell trying to fight the flames. There is a lot of work to do to rebuild homes and lives.

So, there is quite a lot going on in Israel right now. In the world, as you know: Wikileaks. Great news for Israel: the entire Arab world's leaders want Iran stopped. Now the American public knows what America's leaders (should) know. Julian Assange, you are destroying the very thing you are trying to enhance: information. Stay in that bunker you've scurried to.

My next step is to wait to hear about my enlistment date being finalized. Until then, shalom and chag sameach!

Oh, and it rained today!