Israel Defense Force's Tironut/Basic Training? Check

Demonstrating the MAG

I am done with basic training in the IDF!  Wow that feels great to say.  I have a full week ahead of me of relaxation, called 'regilah', a break soldiers are supposed to get about once every four months.  This is my first one since December.  December!  Seven months!  It is much needed, especially after the last two weeks of training, which turned out to be anything but a cakewalk.

The first of my last two weeks was another one in the 'shetach', in the field.  It's late June and the weather in the Judean desert has been heating up for weeks.  Israel maintains a heat index for the country; if it's too hot, soldiers (and people in general) are told not to be outdoors.  As will be explained, it makes for a very interesting training schedule.

We all knew that we had a week of field training ahead of us as we pulled into our base Sunday morning.  We just didn't know exactly when that week would begin.  The day was spent preparing our equipment and as night descended, it still did not look like we were to be leaving anytime soon.  We went on a few kilometer run around base, given an hour's break and sent to bed.  Then, at three thirty in the morning, we were woken up, ordered into our uniforms, grab all our gear and load a bus to take us into the shetach.  Our week had begun.

This week was called חוליה 'huliah' week.  It built on our previous shetach week; last time we learned to operate in two-man units, now we learned to operate as part of a four-man unit.  And these units of four in the larger citah (squad) are going to be our permanent units for the rest of training and operational status.  Each unit has a commander and then one or two specialty weapons, such as a sharpshooter, grenade launcher, rocket launcher, Negev or MAG.  As the MAGist of the machlekah (platoon), I am the specialist in my huliah.

So what do we do throughout the day?  Well, the 'day' has become a rather interesting concept.  I don't know exactly where to begin to describe a typical shetach day, but bear with me.  We wake up at four in the morning after sleeping in or on a sleeping bag for two hours.  If we need to move camps, we pack up our gear and walk the few kilometers to the next platoon's encampment, and they also rotate camps.  The morning is spent preparing the assigned hill for the 'targilim' (practices) for that day.  Since that only requires a few individuals and the officer, everyone else does 'yevishim.'  (See the video at the end of this post.)  These are 'dry' drills where our commanders yell the distance of the enemy and we jump into the proper firing position.  Then they shout that we have a problem with our magazine, gun, bullet, something.  We crawl.  We roll.  We don't stop.  And with the MAG, it's just all the more hard because of the weight of the weapon.  Yes, I had the MAG with me the entire week, although I never fired it once.

Once finished setting up our training course on the hill, the officer explained the drills and safety measures, then the rest of the morning was spent rotating huliahs into the 'retuv' or 'wet' area, meaning live rounds are used in our work to capture the hill as a four-man unit.  It's fun to begin to imagine what it's like to operate as a team with a common goal and purpose in mind.  It's exciting to feel a part of this military, knowing that it is comprised of your friends with faces and personalities and lives, not anonymous and distant individuals that you may hear about on the news back home.

It takes most of the morning for all of the huliahs to get their training in on the hill and we eat lunch from our field rations and then are sent to bed.  Yes, you did read that correctly.  Around one or two in the afternoon, the platoon gathers underneath a large tarp that provides (some) shade and we sleep for about six or seven hours.  In reality, it's never that long.  There always has to be two people awake to guard us while we sleep, which we rotate every twenty minutes, and you're sleeping on a thin mat on rocks and hard ground, and the sun shines brightly through the tarp, and the heat, and the flies....not a lot of fun.  But there is certainly a difference between one o'clock heat and seven o'clock heat.  You go to sleep sweltering and wake up somewhat cool.

Then the sun begins to set around seven thirty or eight and we do the 'rituv' drills again but at night.  This goes until two in the morning and we sleep (or nap) until four and do it all over again.

By Wednesday, we knew that the week was ending and that it was likely we were to have a masa (hike) that evening.  The other gduds (battalions) in Tzanchanim had completed their masa Sammal, the Sergeant's masa.  It is supposed to be one of the hardest masas because, as I've heard, the Sammals will kill themselves just to kill us.  They're in charge of discipline and their masa will reflect that.  Of course, a lot depends on the Sammal himself, if he's in shape, has the endurance, the will, etc., to put us through punishment and hell.

It quickly became no big secret that we were to have our masa Sammal from the shetach that Wednesday evening.  This was our first time going on a masa straight from the shetach as opposed to from base; it just provided an extra element to deal with.  All of the machlekahs gathered in the central encampment as, amazingly, we had a decent dinner brought in from base.  I didn't know if I was to bring my MAG along for this masa, and thankfully was eventually told to leave it aside and just carry my M-16.

We started the masa well after midnight.  As the third machlekah, we were last in line to begin.  Ahead of us, I could hear gun shots and the thunder of boots and shouts as the others began.  I looked at my friends in line and smiled, excited with the anticipation.  Eventually, only we were left.  Our Sammal appeared at the head of our two lines and spoke a few words that were difficult for me to discern.  But I caught the gist: no one stops.  Then he quickly turned, loaded his rifle, and took off at a dead sprint, firing shots into the air.  We didn't hesitate: we all let out our own "Rebel yell" and ran after him.

It was a tough masa.  Every so often, the Sammal would sprint for a hundred meters and we would all have to keep pace.  It was pitch black outside and earlier in the week I had lost my contacts, so I was wearing glasses, which kept fogging up.  After about fifty minutes, we had a ten minute break.  Six kilometers down.  A fellow lone soldier who was carrying one of the three water packs for the machlekah was having difficulty with it and I took it off his shoulders.  Add about fifteen kilograms of weight.  A plus, however, for me to have the water is that now I am at the head of the column.  I have long legs and am generally able to keep up with the Sammal, the Mem Mem, or whomever is leading the masa.  I don't have to run every few feet, which is a terrible drain.  As our break ended, we reformed our lines, and again the Sammal let out a yell, fired and ran.  And I ran with him, for the entire hundred or so meters.  I looked behind me and there was no one around us.  He eventually stopped running and told me to stop yelling.

The terrain was tough, with the dirt and gravel road winding up and down, potholes and tire tracks pockmarking the path the entire way.  I had a friend behind me the entire time who would help push me every time we ran if I slowed down at all or failed to keep pace.  People were tripping and falling.  And one time I did too.  I went down with a bang and struggled to get back on my feet because of the weight of the water.  My knee hurt a lot but there was no stopping.  We kept going.  After another kilometer or two, the Sammal got on his stomach and started to crawl.  It wasn't for long, only about twenty meters.  I think I did a quarter of the distance.  The weight of the water shifted terribly every time I moved one side of my body.  By time I got going, the Sammal was back on his feet and sprinting.  I needed to get back to the front of the line.

We had another rest after an hour.  We opened the three stretchers and put sandbags on them.  I tried to check my knee but didn't feel anything.  The water was starting to break my back, but there were only about three kilometers left, I couldn't give it up now!  The base, the end of the masa, and the end of the shetach week were all in sight!  Just a little more effort and we would be done.

And the the last few kilometers was a piece of cake.  The Sammal still ran every time he heard people talking in the column, and we went up steep hills and down steeper ones.  But we sprinted the last couple hundred meters in the base to our quarters.  It wasn't punishment sprinting; it was an adrenaline-filled energized run to the finish of a tough week and the completion of another landmark.  It was 3:30 in the morning.  13+3: thirteen kilometers plus three with the stretchers.

We stretched and were awarded our infantry corps pins, another piece of hardware to denote your time in service.  I finally inspected my knee and saw that my pants were torn and there was blood on them and running down my leg.  After showering, I went to see the company medic and he said I would probably need stitches but would have to wait to speak to the doctor.  Went to bed at 4:30 am.

Conveniently, the doctor the next day said that I probably did need stitches (note the past tense) but since it was six hours after cutting myself, it was too late for sutures.  Instead, she just bandaged the gaping hole on my knee.  It still didn't change the fact that no less than a few layers of skin were missing.  With it, I received bettim, medical leave from physical activity.  I needed it; I couldn't bend my knee and putting pressure from standing for a while made my leg ache and my cut burn.

The next day was Friday, and Shabbat in the evening.  We closed and then started the new week.  This was to be our last week in basic training, and spent doing more work in the kitchen, guard duty, and other cleaning work around the base.  To be honest, all I can remember from this week are two things: my Yom Siddurim and the Mem Mem masa.

On July 4th I got a Yom Siddurim, a day to take care of personal items.  Lone soldier are entitled to one a month and they offered to give it to me on the 4th, which I was willing to take.  I went back to my kibbutz to put contacts back in, returned to Tel Aviv and pick up my mom's Blackberry that finally arrived, and talked with my family for a few hours on the phone.  Had a beer in the evening on the beach and went to bed.

I returned to base at noon, barely had enough time to grab a small bite to eat from the cafeteria, and went to my plugah.  We organized all our equipment in preparation for advanced training.  We had a quick dinner around six thirty and prepared for our masa.  This time I would be with the MAG.

Before each masa, the medic checks every soldier for his pulse and asks how he's feeling.  After inspecting my knee, he told me I was not to do the masa.  The scabbing had just started, which kept a lot of the wound exposed, and my swelling had not gone done.  I pressed him that I was prepared to go with everyone and do it.  At my insistence, he inclined.

I'm not gonna lie: this was by far the hardest masa.  I replaced a 3.5kg weapon with a 10.85kg one.  But it's not just the weight itself that makes the MAG difficult.  The Negev is a light machine gun that weighs  about seven and a half kilograms, but its much more compact, about the same length as the M16.  The MAG, by comparison, is 1.2 meters in length, and the weight is not distributed evenly.  Thus, it is cumbersome and difficult to carry.

The first six kilometers was...ROUGH.  I honestly thought that I might not make it the entire masa, which was to be a total of twenty-one kilometers, the last three with stretchers.  We had fifteen kilometers to go and I was already sweating like a pig, my arms ached and my back was tired.  I couldn't keep pace with the Mem Mem even though I was at the head of the column.  I had to run every few feet.  I had been holding the gun against my chest, resting it on the top of my magazine clips.  While it takes the strain off my back temporarily, it was not working for the masa.  At the break, a commander helped me tie the legs down so they wouldn't flop around.  Then I decided to just let the gun hang and try to let the strap hang around my shoulders.  That, and as we started walking, I began to sing songs to myself.  And boy did it help the time pass.  Without even concentrating I was able to keep up, thanks to "American Pie", "Kol Ha'olam kulo", Shinedown, and other songs and artists.

The rest of the masa was certainly hard, but not as difficult as it at first seemed.  I survived the next few hours and dozen plus kilometers.  The last six were the hardest.  My feet started to hurt.  My legs got tired.  We had stretchers and not everyone helped out carrying them.  It was rough.  But we eventually finished and the we assembled behind the plugah building, still holding the stretchers at our shoulders.  The Mem Mem called me to the front to do the honors of ending the masa.  I stood before everyone, held my MAG above my head, and shouted, "Machlekah shalosh! Alei! Alei! Alei!" At each shout, the group raised the stretchers above their heads in a last effort of adrenaline.  The masa was over.

Lone soldiers after the Mem Mem masa.
Our shirts were at one point the same color as our pants.

We had a nice barbecue for the end of basic training ready for us at the end of the masa.  It was after midnight.  The masa took four hours.  We were tired, hungry, sweaty and now cold.  Still, we had a great meal and awards were given for the best soldiers in the machlekahs and the plugah.  Finally, an hour break and went to bed around two.

Woke up at five to work in the kitchen for the day.  Long day.  We worked half the next day in the kitchen as well.  That evening, Thursday, we had a fitness test of pushups, situps and a two kilometer run.  I banged out the maximum pushups and situps (75 and 86, respectively) and ran 8:13.  My knee was really bothering me from the masa, still recovering.  This was actually the second fitness exercise that we need to pass basic training.  The other is called the "bulkan maslul", an obstacle course.  It combines a 600 meter run, obstacle course, then another 500 meter run.  A total of 2k, but the course includes climbing over a wall, tire runs, climbing a rope, crawling, and negotiating other obstacles.  I did it all in 8:30, the second best time in the machlekah.  Most people had to do it one or two more times to pass.

Thursday night, to end basic training, was our "misdar" Mem Pay.   The entire day was spent organizing our equipment on our beds in preparation for an inspection by the company commander.  That evening, he spent a good twenty minutes questioning random soldiers in my squad about the different specialty weapons, had me answer about the MAG, and explained why this is this way and that is that way.  Overall, it was an official inspection, and so another very military-esque thing, which is fun and exciting.

The week ended, I'm at my kibbutz but planning on returning to Tel Aviv for the week to be with friends.  I had planned on going to Eilat, but doesn't look like that is going to happen.  We'll see.  There are some people I want to meet up with in Jerusalem.  Pretty much going to take advantage of the time off to relax, relax, and relax.

(This video is on YouTube.  At 2:10 is a clip of the MAGists practicing 'yevishim' drills, I'm at the end on the right.  Then I have a cameo at 3:07 and 3:14.  Most of it is pictures of 'pakal' week, when we learned our new weapons.  Towards the end are pictures of the 'bulkan maslul.')

It's the Jews, stupid

Thank you to the Bill Clinton/James Carver 1992 presidential candidate/campaign strategist combo for helping me to quickly explain why there is no peace between Israel and the Palestinians, the Arabs...the world?  The phrase Clinton used to divert attention from George H.W. Bush's foreign policy successes and focus on the president's neglect of the economy is more than applicable when approaching the Arab-Israeli and Israeli-Palestinian conflicts.  What do I mean and why am I mentioning this here in my blog?

A few reasons.  One is that there has been a lot of political developments in Israel and between Israel and its Arab neighbors and Israel and the US over the past few weeks.  Obama gave a speech about his Middle East foreign policy at the State Department a few days before Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu was to travel to Washington to speak before a joint session of Congress and then get some face time with the president.  The Nakba and Naksa day stints/invasions/attacks/protests, call 'em what you want, are something never seen before and potentially a major security concern.  Pressure to seek UN support for a Palestinian state in September is building.  And finally, as I type this, there is another flotilla en route to Gaza.

With all of these developments, a few friends from home have been asking me for what the climate is like in Israel.  What do Israelis think of the Obama/Netanyahu rift and the Congress/Netanyahu understanding? How has the political upheavals in the region affected Israel?  What does it mean for my military service?  And so on.

Also, this past week wasn't too exciting and I can explain it in full in a paragraph or two.  And without any further ado, here it is:

Arrived on base Sunday afternoon and immediately my machlekah (platoon) was assigned to do shmirah (guard) duty.  My assigned times?  9-11 at night, 3-5 in the morning, 9-11 in the morning, then once more 3-5 in the afternoon.  Four times in one day!  Bottom line: not much sleep.  That evening we rotated into kitchen duty.  And by "we" I really mean everyone but me.  I had developed a bad case of, to keep it kosher I'll say, "loose stool."  If that happens, you're not allowed in the kitchen.  Makes sense, right?

The next day was Tuesday and that evening was the holiday of Shavuot (literally "weeks"), which is seven weeks after Pesach.  This is the holiday when the Jews received the Torah at Mt. Sinai.  Anyway, it is common for Jews in the Diaspora (outside Israel) to observe two days of holiday instead of just one. This was the same for Pesach; all the Israelis got a one-day vacation whereas myself and other lone soldiers had a two-day break.  However, the same was not true here; for whatever reason, the MemPay (company commander) had decided to make all of the lone soldiers stay.  Tuesday evening to Wednesday evening was fine, we were with all the Israelis, the base had shut down for the holiday, nothing was out of the ordinary.  But when the Israelis went back to "work" on Wednesday evening, the five of us lone soldiers who observe two days were still in holiday mode.  The next day, we slept a lot and walked around in workout clothes while everyone else was laboring and running around in the hot sun.  It was certainly not the best thing for the Israelis to be seeing, and I think a real fault of the MemPay to keep us for that second day.  The five of us (three from Canada, two from the States) discussed this a lot and while our disgruntled frustration certainly came out at having to stay and scramble to find a minyan for prayer, I certainly think that Tzanchanim has not been the best friend to lone soldiers.

That's a strong statement.  I've talked with buddies in other Tzanchanim units (101 and 890) and in other infantry units (Golani, Nachal, etc.), and despite the gifts we get (which really isn't from Tzanchanim), Tzanchanim doesn't treat its lone soldiers as well as other units.  Leaving early on Friday to take care of issues before Shabbat, getting Yom Siddurims, trying to see family...all of these issues are dealt with with relative easy in other units but in Tzanchanim they always seem to give us trouble.  My friend Gidon was told after our 9-11 shmirah shift on Monday night that he had a Yom Siddurim the next day.  Seriously?!  First off, we generally request a Yom Siddurim because we have personal issues to take care of.  Consequently, it takes time to plan your day, maybe you need to make an appointment with someone...bottom line, and especially since my friend lives in the north in Akko, it is not right to spring a Yom Siddurim on him mere hours before he was to leave.

Anyway, the chag (holiday) ended for us on Thursday evening and immediately after I was to go on a masa.  Right after I broke my nose, everyone had a 10+2 masa.  It's ten kilometers hiking/marching then two more carrying the stretcher.  The "makeup" masa on Thursday evening was for the guys who missed it a few weeks ago.  This masa was not fun.  We didn't go into the shetach (field); instead, we walked around the road that circles the base.  Half of it climbs uphill and then the second half is downhill.  The guy who carried the water pack was struggling the entire time, which made it harder on us because we had to push him and he wouldn't go faster.  We went at a much faster pace than usual.  Not fun.  But it ended, we went to sleep, woke up, and now I'm back at my kibbutz.

So that was my army life this week.  But there has been so much more happening outside my base than in it.  The past few weeks have been very tumultuous within the country and at its borders.  So, what's been going on?  I don't have the time or inclination right now to do the necessary research to provide you with an accurate timeline and explain the cause and effect of each incident.  However, what I can do is give you the major highlights and explain how they fit into each other and relate to the persistent problem of the Jews living in their homeland.

Let me start with something that got America all abuzz: Netanyahu's trip to Congress.  This trip had been planned months in advance; it was the prime minister's second time addressing a joint session of Congress, something that few foreign leaders have ever done.  Days before his address, Obama delivered a foundational foreign policy speech at the State Department.  It discussed many things, but focused on Israel and the Palestinians.  It was essentially a sucker punch to Netanyahu as our president outlined a plan for two states based on the 1967 borders.  Doesn't sound too radical, right?  In reality, it's not.  But the kicker is two-fold: first, although this negotiation point has often been the starter for peace talks, it has never before been publicly endorsed by an American president; second, the time is nothing short of impeccable.  A few days later, Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu stood before the House and Senate and gave one of the best speeches of his career, of a foreign dignitary addressing the American government, as the leader of a nation.  It was truly inspirational for Israelis across this country to see their leader travel to America and make the greatest case for their country to their greatest ally.  And I don't mean the American government; I think at this point, it's pretty clear that the Executive Branch's ties to Israel, while never exuberant, have certainly cooled as of late.

If you want to see the speech, I highly recommend it.  Netanyahu speaks perfect English, is engaging, humorous, insightful and strong:

Israelis really wonder what has happened to their ally across the world.  The past few weeks highlighted for them the close ties they have with the Legislative Branch and the fraying ties with the Oval Office.  The sheer number of times that both sides of the aisle stood to applaud Netanyahu is remarkable.  There is even one time a woman heckled the prime minister from the balcony.  He paused to let her finish her rant and, amid a chorus of boos directed at the woman, actually enthusiastically added that the house and the country should be grateful that dissent such as that woman's can take place.  That it is only in Israel that similar sentiment can be displayed.  If you travel outside the region's only democracy, you know how they handle dissent?  The governments call in the soldiers, the tear gas, the bullets, the tanks.

Now, why is it that the Jews, and not simply Israel, is the problem in the Middle East?  And before you scoff and exclaim that if I were to just read the news I would know that Israel is the issue and not the Jews, I challenge you to look past the headlines and understand the meaning behind the rhetoric and actions.

What would compel hundreds of Syrians to try and physically cross into Israel?  Is it because they are truly at odds with a democratic state?  I think not, considering thousands are protesting and dozens dying in Damascus against authoritarian rule.  Then it must be something that goes much deeper, that is much more engrained in their psyche that there is something fundamentally wrong about Israel's existence.  What's wrong, I believe, is that Israel is a country for Jews.

There are still many more who make vicious and slanderous claims against Israel.  Even Mahmoud Abbas claimed earlier this year that there is no Jewish connection to Israel, Jerusalem and the Western Wall.  For years, critics and opponents of Israel have waged a campaign to delegitimize the state.  That begins with calling into question its history, its place as the homeland for the Jewish people and the only safe place in the world for Jews, and its continued existence as a legitimate country.  The terrorists/fanatics, both Muslims and non-Muslims, who were on the flotilla last year shouted for the Jews to go back to Auschwitz.  Helen Thomas demanded the Jews "get the hell out of Palestine" and go back to Poland and Germany.

There are many more examples and I could easily write dozens of pages about this, but that is not my purpose or intent here.  Instead, I'll just end with a positive thought.  Read the book "Start-Up Nation".  Watch some videos on YouTube or some of the links I have posted on the right hand side.  If you do a little research, you'll realize that there are whole classes of people out there who support Israel.  I'm not just talking about people crazy enough to leave their family and their country, travel halfway around the world and join Israel's army.  Nor am I talking about Jews, Zionists, or other affiliates.  I'm talking about the people who give others an opportunity to improve their lives.  I'm talking about businesses and entrepreneurs.  The people who create jobs, ideas, and technologies.  The ones who are beholden to nothing but their innovation--and maybe shareholders.  Politicians are always at the whim of their constituents, their voters, special interests.  Somehow Abbas is considered a moderate in the West; I think his actions (forming an agreement with Hamas, which has as its sworn purpose the destruction of Israel) and words (in addition to denying the Jewish connection to Israel, he wrote a thesis denying the Holocaust) speak otherwise.  But that isn't the point.  There are thousands of people across the world who continue to invest in Israel, despite the anti-Semitism, the anti-Israel, and the wars. People like the employers who provide jobs for you to put food on your table see the merits of Israel and don't care if its a Jewish, Muslim or Zoroastrianism state.  They see a successful product when they see it.  Why can't the rest of the world?  Perhaps because there is something that is festering beneath the surface of newspaper headlines.  Perhaps people don't want to accept Israel because that would mean accepting the Jews.  Perhaps.

Like I said: "it's the Jews, stupid!"

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I planned this past week on writing a lot more and making a stronger case.  However, right now, I don't have the will to do so.  I need to get things in order for spending the next two weeks on base.  If you have any comments, questions or other arguments, please continue this in the comment box below and I'll do my best to respond.

Standing at the Wall

The tunnel was packed with soldiers jumping, shouting, sweating, pushing each other in a huge mosh pit as we followed the lead of our commanders, getting ourselves psyched up to formally announce our loyalty to the defense of the State of Israel.  101, 202, and 890 shouted their particular battlecries, hurling insults at each other as we proved our own units to be the best.  We were moments away from walking out to the Western Wall and we were acting like animals with too much testosterone to burn off.  And it was fun.

Shortly before 8:00pm on Thursday evening, we formed rows of six, donned our berets on our heads, rolled our sleeves down (something kravi [combat] soldiers never do, we're tough guys so our sleeves are always rolled up past our elbows, no matter the weather), and started to stamp our feet in unison before marching forward.  I passed the entrance of the tunnel and a rush of cool air and the cheers and camera flashes from hundreds of people hit me.  Our marching led us out onto the huge plaza in front of the Western Wall and into a sectioned off area for the ceremony.  As we marched, I looked around for people I knew were coming to see me: David and Amy and their three girls; Sam and Ben, my Israeli friends; and Ami, a friend from Chicago who is studying at the same yeshivah where I spent three weeks last summer.  I couldn't find them, but knew they were somewhere in the crowd.

As I stood there as important generals and colonels made speeches about the history of Tzanchanim and the Kotel (Western Wall), about the loyalty Israelis show to their country by serving in the armed forces, about the journey ahead of us, I couldn't believe that a year ago I was standing at a different ceremony: my college graduation.  The past year has been one of the craziest of my life, if not the most insane!  I'm so proud to be here; during the speeches, I found myself thinking, "a hundred meters to my right is the reason that I am here; when it comes down to it, I am here simply because I want to be between the Wall and anyone that wants to destroy it."

This ceremony was incredibly more powerful and important than the one I had at Mikveh Alon.  Actually, I think I'll just stop talking about Mikveh and you can always assume that everything I do is incomparably superior to that base.  Instead of repeating lines of an oath of loyalty, one of the high ranking generals said some words and then everyone shouted in unison: "אני נשבע Ani Nishba I SWEAR!"  Silence for a second, then the entire plaza erupted with cheers and applause.  We were officially sworn in as soldiers of the IDF.

A week and a half before, my gdud (battalion) earned our tekkes hashba'ah (swearing-in ceremony).  We had another masa (hike): seven plus one.  Daniel, that's eight kilometers, why don't you just say 'eight?'  Thank you for asking, interested and slightly confused reader!  We say 'seven plus one' because the last kilometer is traveled while carrying someone on the stretcher.  This masa was called the 'masa hashba'ah' because at the end, we were to receive our paratrooper tags (to be explained in a little bit).  It was going to be a hike with our entire gdud: MemMem, MemPay, the works.  For this, I decided to step up and take the pack of water on my bag.  Every masa, each citah (squad) has to have a man on the radio, another carrying the stretcher, and a third with the water.  The guy with the radio is at the front of the column with the commander; generally he doesn't do much with the radio itself and is just there to run up and down the column relaying orders from the commander.  However, this time, because of the large group, our MemMem (company commander) was at the front of the machlekah (company) and he used the radio quite often to communicate with the front of the gdud.  The guy with the water is carrying a lot more weight.  In addition to our combat vest, helmet and rifle, he carries an extra pack with about twenty liters of water.  I was that guy.  An advantage to carrying the water is that you stand at the head of the column, right next to the commander.  At first, because we had three citahs in the column, I was behind another 'water guy.'  But he couldn't keep up with the MemMem, and would walk a few paces then run to catch up, walk then run, walk then run.  I knew the masa would be significantly harder if I kept that up because I was behind him.  After the first two kilometers, I grabbed his arm, told him to switch with me, and then was able to keep pace with the Mefaked Machlekah for the rest of the hike.

And this masa wasn't easy.  We went up a sloping hill, then up a steep climb; we caught our breath for five minutes at the top, then went down the other side, in the dark, with rocks and boulders, pits and sloping surfaces, enough to twist ankles and throw off your balance.  By the end of the masa, especially after carrying the stretcher for the last kilometer, I was tired, but not beat.  All three machlekahs gathered in a chet formation and the MemPay, who led the masa, stood in the middle, shouting at us, and each time he shouted we raised our stretchers up.  They lit a fire that spelled our gdud's name and number: 202 צפא (tzefa: python).  Then we received our tags.

If you come to Israel and see all the soldiers, you'll notice a few things.  First off, everyone has different colored berets for their different units.  Tzanchanim is red, Golani is brown, Nachal is light green, Modi'in (intelligence) is dark green, Totchanim (artillery) is blue, and so on.  You can learn what each kumta (beret) is as there are only about a dozen different ones.  In addition, each soldier has a tag on their left shoulder, but these you cannot know all because there are dozens and dozens.  You can learn to recognize the major fighting units' tags, but there are also so many more that are specific to different jobnik positions or even within combat.

The Tzanchanim tag has a green snake with white and black wings against a red backdrop.  All of the gduds are named after different snakes (check out the Tzanchanim website link on the right for more, and specific, information!).  I think I read somewhere (probably on that website) that Tzanchanim are like snakes because we can attack quickly and viciously.  We can infiltrate through the air and carry out a mission that would otherwise be impossible because it can't be accessed by land.  The wings are for that, for being a tzanchan-- a paratrooper.  You see that tag, you know the soldier is in Tzanchanim.  Receiving it is one more official step to becoming an accomplished Israeli soldier; it is another piece of hardware that proves your experience.

I spent Shabbat on the base and then we had a few days of guard duty and kitchen work, really nothing to write home about.  But, as you already, I had a yom siddurim in the middle of the week, which was great.  But when I got back, I found out that my machlekah had gone to the firing range and done a lot of work with their rifles.  I'm pretty bummed I missed that because I have not fired my M16 since those few times almost two months ago when we aligned our sights.  I honestly feel like the entire Israeli army has done more than my gdud.  It's very frustrating to hear about my friends in Nachal, Golani or even in gdud 890 in Tzancahnim tell me that they've spent days on the rifle range, or that they know certain things about the Syrian army or Hezbollah, or that they've already completed a krav maga class where all they did was stay in a pushup position for an hour.  Instead, it seems that all we do is guard duty and kitchen work.  But if at the end of basic and advanced training we know and have done everything that everyone has and we're at the same level, then it's all good.  But for right now, I've been frustrated and, honestly, it kinda sucks.

One good thing about guard duty, and this is very particular, is if you guard at the front gate.  It's better for many reasons, the main one is that you are with someone else.  Not another soldier, but a commander; either your Mefaked, Sammal, or MemMem.  The time goes by faster because you can talk with each other, or at least attempt to.  The first hour of my shift I was with the commander who punishes me whenever I speak English.  While there is some distance between the soldiers and our commanders, it is certainly nothing like at Mikveh, and it will go down because distance isn't good when you're going to battle together.  Anyway, we had a great conversation for an hour, and in Hebrew, mind you.  The next hour, he switched out with the Sammal (sergeant) and lets just say that talking was kept to a minimum and there was plenty of distance--literally, he moved to stand on the other side of the road and was on the phone most of the time.  But it was all good, the time still passed.

As I look back on the last week, I do realize that I've learned quite a bit.  We had an intense day or two of learning first aid: what to do if you come upon a soldier lying on the ground; how to treat his wounds; the different kinds of treatment; pretty much everything that a soldier who is not the medic needs to know and do to help his buddy.  It was actually during a break in one of these lessons that the commander heard me talking English to the other Americans and pulled me out of class.  I then did sprints for ten minutes, including shouting to a rock, in Hebrew, and in full view of a citah passing by, "I will not speak English again!  I will not speak English again!" and then sprinting back to make it in the twenty seconds.  Fun stuff.

We also learned about the different pachals, the specific weapon assignments each soldier will receive.  These include everything from being the radio man to a sharpshooter, carrying anti-tank missiles to light machine guns.  I'll talk more about that in my next post.  We're supposed to get our assignments in the next two or three weeks.  890 already has theirs; just another indication that it really seems like 202 is behind.

On Thursday morning, I woke up at 5:30 after four hours of sleep and we practiced our marching in preparation for the tekkes that evening.  We spent the next several hours cleaning our rooms and bathroom.  Tedious, unnecessary work.  I ate breakfast in seven minutes.  We boarded buses around eleven to head to Jerusalem.  We arrived two hours later and stopped at a high vantage point on Mount Scopus, next to Hebrew University.  Our MemMem gave us a lecture on what Tzanchanim encountered as they battled the Jordanians on their way to retaking the Old City and the Kotel in the Six Day War.  The next several hours were spent walking that path.  And this was pretty cool.  We would stop every kilometer or so for an update on what battle or skirmish took place at that location.  There would also be a small memorial or monument to the soldiers who fell in that location or from the specific unit that fought there.

The path took us deep into East Jerusalem, the Arab part of the city.  All of us are in our Aleph uniforms with our guns strapped on our shoulders and a double magazine holding fifty-eight bullets on our belts.  Some of the looks we got from the locals were anything but friends.  I heard awkward, uncomfortable laughs as we passed by food stands.  One time when we stopped for an update, I saw two young boys, probably seven or eight, one of which had a rusted piece of metal that happened to form the shape of a gun, pointing it at us and pretending to jab us as he ran by.  A friend of mine told me over drinks last night that he narrowly missed being hit by a rock thrown by another child.  I felt pretty safe the entire time, but I could also tell there was tension in the air, especially after the Nakba Day turmoil.  But one of the bright spots was passing the U.S. Consulate!  Oh it was great to be on American soil, or the steps, for even ten seconds.  But it was also during this time that I spoke a sentence in English to a South African friend who asked if I liked being home.  Another Mefaked heard me, asked me how many English words I spoke ('9), and how many pushups per word ('don't know'), ok then you owe me ninety push-ups.  Ummm, rain check, please?

We finally got to the Kotel around four in the afternoon and set our bags aside along a wall.  We were given twenty minutes free time to pray, use the bathroom, whatever.  There was certainly a buzz among the tourists as they saw a bunch of soldiers with guns show up.  Especially coming from the States, you'd think there was some sort of national security issue.  But this is Israel; there are always soldiers with guns.  I heard one man talking, in English, with his yeshivah students and wondering what was going on.  He came up to me and asked in Hebrew, 'what time is your ceremony tonight?'  To which I replied in English.  Hell yeah I want him to know that I ain't Israeli!  He was shocked and eventually asked for my picture!  What a celebrity I am, haha!  But honestly, he was excited to hear about there being non-Israelis in the IDF.

At five thirty, all of the lone soldiers had to gather because we had a dinner to attend.  Instead of eating plain sandwiches, the lone soldiers and their families who came were treated to a very nice meal at a restaurant near the Kotel that I've passed by a hundred times but don't have the funds to eat at.  At the end, we received more gifts, this time clothes like socks, boxers, undershirts, etc.  And also letters from people around the world expressing their gratitude for our service.  It's the same company that is the link on the right: Lone Soldier Care Packages.

We finished the meal with about forty-five minutes until our tekkes.  I put my gift in my bag, gave my gun to a commander who put it on the rack for the ceremony, and rejoined my brothers in the tunnel.  Enjoy this little snippet I took on my phone:

There were people on the sides taking photos and videos, enjoying every minute of being part of something very Israeli.  As a twenty-three year-old college graduate, I appreciate the vow I have taken much more, I'm sure, than the eighteen and nineteen year-old soldiers in my unit.  This was a conscious decision I made to uproot and move out here.  I gave it a lot of thought and consideration about what it means to pledge myself to a cause, to another country.

Reliving old times, Sam (l) and Ben?

It wasn't until I was in formation standing at attention that I saw my friends.  During a quiet moment between instructions, I hear my name shouted to my left.  I look and see Sam and Ben shouting, smiling and waving at me.  I knew my friends and family was in attendance, but it was great to see them.  In addition, a great surprise was having David's mother and her husband in attendance.  Her husband was born in Israel and served in the paratroopers back in the 1950s.  As you can see in the picture above, he wore his beret from his service; it's over fifty years old!  Incredible.

Of course now the best thing to come out of the whole tekkes is that I get to take my gun home on weekends.  It's sitting in the apartment, and I can take it apart, play with it, admire it, whatever, anytime I want.  Even though I don't yet have the red Tzanchanim kumta, I do have a gun with my on the train.

It's been a great חמשוש chamshoosh, or when you get off from the army on Thursday as opposed to Friday.  I was able to hang out with friends, have some drinks, check out some new bars in Tel Aviv and Herziliya.  Tonight is Lag B'Omer, thirty-three days after Pesach and a celebration where we light fires.  See Wikipedia for more.  I return tomorrow and will spend another week in the shetach (field).  Then next Shabbat my gdud is going to Hebron for guard duty!  I'm really pumped for this.  I don't really know what to expect, but it's off base, it's in Hebron, and it's the first legitimate defending of something in Israel that I will do.  Two weeks until I'm back...again.  But I'm getting used to this.  The days and weeks are going by and they certain move faster if I'm on base more often.  Until then, thanks for reading!

Helmet for my pillow: my first week in the field

My body aches.  Every part of it is cut up, scratched, bruised and beaten.  I just finished a week training in the shetach (field) (for glossary of Israeli military jargon, click here).  This was nothing like my few days in the field during my service at Mikveh Alon.  Or rather, Mikveh was nothing like this.  Actually, Mikveh was really nothing like anything.  Even the Tzanchanim gibbush (tryout) was absolutely nothing like the past five days.  I was warned beforehand that this past week would probably be the hardest of my training, not necessarily just the physical aspect, but being our first field experience would make the week a trying experience, to say the least.  But from the beginning...

In the Diaspora (outside Israel), Jews observe two days of holiday at the beginning and end of Pesach.  As an American, I, and other lone soldiers, was able to return to base on Wednesday, a day later than the Israelis.  What was the first thing I did for my first day back on base?  Initially, we learned about chemical, biological and atomic weapons and attacks.  We learned how to use a gas mask in the event of such an attack.  And then we did a little more than that.

The entire plugah gathered just outside the base's fence near a tent filled with a form of tear gas.  Every few minutes, a soldier or two would be seen scrambling out, clawing at the ground, coughing, slobbering, trying to regain control over himself.  Just being within twenty meters of the tent made my eyes sting and start to tear.  A few soldiers at a time were ordered to put on their masks.  First, however, I had to take out my contacts and since glasses don't fit inside the mask, I pretty much did this exercise blind.  Then, with a partner, our Sammel (sergeant) tells us to do ten pushups, then run to a pole and back, then some more pushups.  The point?  To get us out of breath and panicked.  I was certainly already there.  For one thing, I literally could not breathe with the mask on.  Secondly, I knew I was going into a tent filled with tear gas.  

I pulled aside the flap and stepped inside.  The gas that filled the tent and the few Mefakeds (commanders) in full chemical protection regalia made the scene very eerie, like something out of X-Files.  My Mefaked turned to me and knocked me on the arm a few times, trying to pump me up.  He told me to just start talking in English, tell him a lesson about anything in English.  I could only think of one thing: the Cubs.  After a minute, in which, surprisingly, I found it relatively easy to breathe, he told me to take my mask off.  Now, I hear that the Commanders then ask for you to repeat your personal number.  I didn't get that far.  I ripped the mask off and the gas rushed to my face, my eyes, inside my mouth.  I couldn't hear or see anything; I didn't want to be in there.  My Mefaked tried to grab my shoulders and keep me inside but I shoved him off and stumbled outside, falling on my hands and knees, eyes streaming tears, nose running, saliva drooling from my mouth.

It took my a good twenty minutes to recover from the intense gas concentration.  The smell of the gas stayed with me for the rest of the day, it was in the fabric of my clothes, in my hair, in everything I did and everywhere I went.  It was not a fun experience, but it was certainly pretty cool.  I would probably do it again, but just one more time.  It's just another thing that you can do in the army but never outside.

That night we had another masa (hike).  These six kilometers were harder than the previous four kilometer masa, not because of the extra two kilometers, but because I was in front of the unlucky guy who had to carry the twenty or so liters of water on his back.  He was struggling.  The entire three kilometers on the way back, I told him to hold onto the back of my combat vest for support.  I was practically carrying him the entire way.  But he's a trooper and made it through.  For completing the masa, everyone in my plugah received watch covers with our draft, plugah and Tzanchanim logo on it.  It's one of the pieces of swag every soldier looks forward to receiving to prove he's less and less of a rookie; it indicates experience.

Thursday and Friday were two very forgettable days doing kitchen duty or practicing marching for hours.  But again Friday night came and the formalities between soldiers and commanders went.  After services and before dinner, our plugah, as usual, formed a chet outside the dining hall, getting ready to go in.  Some guys started singing what has become our plugah's anthem: כל העולם כולו/Kol Ha'olam Kulo/The Whole Wide World.  (Please, click here to hear it.)  This is one of my favorite songs: it's short, simple, and has a great message:

כל העולם כולו         Kol ha'olam kulo               The whole world
גשר צר מאוד           Gesher tzar me'od             is a very narrow bridge

והעיקר                  Veha'ikar                         And the main thing to recall
לא לפחד כלל           Lo lefached klal                is not to be afraid at all

And people get riled up when they sing it (click here).  This time, we start singing and before we know the commanders are egging us on and have brought out a Tzanchanim flag and they give me an Israeli one.  And we're all jumping up and down in a huge dog pile, like a football team getting pumped up before a game.  The scene is a crazy frenzy.  Another gdud comes by, and we go back and forth, shouting all our songs at each other.  A friend picks me up on his shoulders and I'm waving the Israeli flag furiously back and forth, shouting at the top of my lungs words I don't know to a song I've never heard.  It was a great time.  Finally, a pep rally that means something.

Shabbat came and went.  And then a hell storm came, and didn't leave for five days.

All day Sunday was spent preparing for the upcoming week in the field.  That evening, the entire plugah gathered in a large chet to be inspected by the MemPay (company Commander).  He came around and would speak a few words to a couple soldiers.  He stopped when he saw me and asked how everything was.  I replied 'it's all good, but I can't feel my left arm.'  And that was certainly true: the bag's straps are bly (ruined) so they don't hang on the shoulders properly, thus putting undue pressure where the padding ends, and cutting off circulation.  Within minutes of putting the bag on my back, I couldn't feel my arm.  The MemPay moved on, spoke a few words to the entire plugah, emphasizing the difficulty of the week ahead, and offering encouragement to each soldier.

So, what exactly is shavuah sadehoute (week in the field)?  It is...

• carrying over 45kg of weight on your back for kilometers at a time
• not changing uniforms for the entire week, and never taking your boots off except to change your socks one time
• after wearing your combat vest every minute of every day, even to sleep, having it start to feel constricting 
• being woken up after sleeping for ten minutes by rifle fire and your commanders screaming at you to get your packs ready to leave camp and hike to a random spot on a mountain, dig yourself a hole, and sleep in it with three other guys
• getting the worst, coldest, most sleepless nights of sleep of your life
• trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, even with the canteens in your combat vest digging into your kidneys
• using your helmet for a pillow, and shifting it's position every thirty seconds to make something that can stop a bullet a suitable substitute for a soft pillow (I feel a link is necessary here, to a book I read when I was younger about a Marine's experience in the Pacific during WWII, from which I took the title for this post)
• not taking your contacts out from Sunday night to Thursday night, not brushing your teeth and certainly not showering
• being able to identify the six or seven different types of foliage of the Judean Desert by how much pain they inflict on your body when you crawl through or over them
• having foreign bugs crawling over your clothes and packs, and starting to say 'hi' to them
• suddenly appreciating the thick leather of your boots when dozens of thorns penetrate the soft fabric of your running shoes as you go for a 4k run, the last 2k carrying someone on a stretcher
• crawling 200 meters up a mountain to get to your breakfast
• realizing that nighttime crawling is better than crawling during the day because at night you can't see the rocks, thorns, spikes, roots, depressions, inclines that will hurt you, make you cut, bleed and bruise 
• learning different troop formations while on patrol, learning hand signals, how to conceal one's self, how to build a firing post, how to capture a hill, how to cross a road, how to determine your direction...all in Hebrew
• suddenly fearing the sight of your Sammel because you know he will make you do things you don't want to do, like crawl for hours up and down a mountain
• having a friend tell you that his machlekah's Mefakeds laughed at my citah for how hard my Mefaked was making us work compared to the rest of the plugah
• learning how to operate at night, with strict silence observance, donning camoflauge face paint, keeping tighter formations
• fourteen people getting ten to twelve minutes to ration food from a box, with always four people on guard duty
• being paired up with another soldier so you share a personal bag, sleep together, and if one went off to relieve himself, the other had to follow
• hiking kilometers a day, sometimes just for the sake of hiking, going up mountains and down mountains
• learning how to handle hiking with heavy load on your back, learning to cope with weight, learning to put the pain and discomfort out of your mind and focus on something, anything, maybe the mission, the country/desert, a song lyric, trying to grasp how it is you came to be doing this, anything
• after being asked where would be be right now if you weren't here, responding, 'איפושו יש בירות קרות ובחורות יפות/Anywhere there's cold beer and beautiful girls'
• being conditioned to the point that whenever a Commander picks up a stone, you automatically spring from the lulled slumber you've drifted off to into a crouched position, ready to sprint if he tosses the rock and shouts "'Aza" to mimic a grenade
• learning to pick up your wounded buddy from the ground and carry him up a mountain, which, let me tell you, you won't be able to do your first dozen times
• being on a patrol or hike, and ordered to jump into schiva (prone) position, try to find a comfortable place for your elbows amid the thorns, reorganizing rocks so they don't stab you in the groin, stay there for fifteen minutes, then get back up, all with over 40kg of weight on your back
• being outside, in the beautiful land of my people, with my military gear, praying with other soldiers
• always sweating, constantly, and consequently being freezing at night, but knowing that at any given hour, you will be doing physical work again that'll get your body temperature back up
• trying to climb a mountain with your partner during the day to steal a Commander's hat, or at night to grab a stick light; doing it stealthily, crawling slowly, not attracting attention
• laughing when your Commander tells you on the last night at 8:30 to go to sleep, knowing that it's crap and he will 'unexpectedly' wake you up within minutes, which happens and you have to carry all the citah's gear, hike a few kilometers, and gather with the rest of the plugah for the beginning of a physical test on what we learned during the week
• waiting almost two hours because we are the last numbered citah in the plugah, grabbing some shut-eye, and then starting to hike at 2:00 in the morning
• two hours of constant physical work: crawling, trying to navigate walking up, down and across steep mountain sides, only seeing dark and light shades, not knowing what you are stepping on, not caring, constantly twisting your ankles, keeping your gun cradled in your arms high up on your chest, which provides the best support for your back with the heavy weight, but does not provide the best balance
• sprinting the last few hundred meters as you walk into the base at 3:00 in the morning, full of energy and excitement for completing the test
• taking off all the gear, resting, stretching, being given an hour's free time before bed
• stripping down and getting in line for the shower when all of the Sammels and Mefakeds in the plugah suddenly run crazy all over the building, gas masks on their hands, brandishing sticks, beating walls, poles, beds, people, tell us to get the hell out of the bathrooms, the bedrooms, get our gear on and be downstairs with our masks
• wearing the masks and carrying the stretcher with sandbags to the gate of the base, then hiking back into the field, and up into some woods behind the base, finishing there at 5:15 to sleep as a citah under the pine trees
• waking up at 6:00 for morning prayer, eating breakfast, falling into an uncomfortable sleep for a few hours, then eating lunch and returning to base at 2:00 in the afternoon, finally ending the week

But our work didn't end.  All I wanted to do at that point was take off my clothes and jump into a nice long, cool shower.  That wouldn't happen for another five hours.  Over that period, we had to organize all our equipment, return items, take stock of what we lost, what's broken, put everything away properly in our lockers and bags, thoroughly clean our guns (even though we didn't shoot even one bullet), have our feet, legs and arms inspected by a doctor, and, of course, each citah in the plugah went on a four kilometer jog around the base.  (I mean, why not, right?  It's not like we were just on our feet for 20 hours a head the past five days.)  Finally, we were given an hour to calm down, shower and change.

Throughout the week, I was constantly pulling tiny thorns, some no longer than a few centimeters, out of my clothing.  I could feel them scraping against my body, against my arms, my elbows, back, legs, ankles, some even poked through my boxers!  Every time we sat down in the field or jumped into schiva, whenever we stood up, we would quickly brush off any twigs or anything in our uniforms and equipment.  During our lessons, I would found myself absentmindedly feeling around my clothing and my skin for thorns.  Not until I got into the shower did I realize how much damage the week had done to my body.  I found bruises high up on my legs, a line of cuts around my ankles where the boots end, splinters galore on my palms, and raised welts from thorns or bug bites all over my legs and arms.

Fortunately, I didn't have any serious problems during the week.  My feet weren't overly cut up; some people had popped blisters, skin peeling on their heels or Achilles' tendons, or other serious issues.  About halfway through the week, standing up and sitting down started to become a struggle.  Late Wednesday, my feet began to let me know they didn't want to keep moving.  On Thursday, simply moving any part of my body brought pain and discomfort.

After the jog and shower, my citah gathered to discuss the week in a sort of end-of-the-week therapeutic review session.  Then we had a half hour before dinner.  What better to do than let the Sammel have his way with us and make us do countless pushups.  But it was ok, but the dinner experience was nothing short of spectacular.

Special for my plugah, our Rassap (a position under the Rassar [Master Sergeant]) had managed to host a nice meal outside our building.  There were long tables with red and white table cloths.  It was like a Shabbat meal, with better-than-usual food: hummus, pitah, different kinds of meat, juice and pop.  Oh, and did I have pop.  For some reason, I was absolutely craving the sugar and carbonation; I easily drank at least a liter.  And then, just like on Shabbat, we started singing our gdud's songs.  Quickly, one of the commanders rushed in to shut us up.  "Stop that singing!" he yelled at us with a serious face.  "What do you think you are doing?  If you are going to sing, I want the entire base to hear you!"  We laughed and gladly shouted at the top of our lungs.  Again we sang Kol Ha'olam Kulo, among other anthems, which I am still learning.  It was a great end to the week!

This was certainly a very trying week.  It was the hardest in Tzanchanim, the hardest in the army, and probably the hardest in my life.  I learned a lot of things, but perhaps the most important weren't about where to stand in formation, or how to capture a hill, or how to stay quiet at night.  Yes those are all very critical, but I can and will learn them anyway; in fact, they are all things I can learn in a classroom.  Instead, what I gained most from this week was a better sense of what my body is capable of: how much weight I can carry, how I can press on when I don't want to, how I can split hikes up into ups and downs of mountains.

There were plenty of times when I was like: I don't know why I'm not sitting comfortably in some library right now study for a law school final exam.  But you don't focus on that.  You focus on the guy in front of you and the mission at hand.  I'm no longer fearful that my back won't be able to handle over 100lbs of weight.  Suddenly, the masas of the future, with its increased distance, don't seem as daunting.  I can do this.

It quickly became mentally difficult to constantly wear my combat vest, constantly sweat, constantly be in discomfort from the heat or the cool evenings.  But there were those times during dusk, when the sun was setting and the temperature cooled, the light was less glaring and you could look at a mountain top and see the silhouette of Israeli soldiers practicing formations, just like in the propaganda pictures and videos you've seen dozens of times.  Then you think that those same soldiers are looking back at you and thinking the same thing about you and your group of guys.  And the world makes sense.

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]!)