Hello IDF: TZAV RISHON

I crossed another bridge on my path to enlistment: the tzav rishon, or "first notice." It was quite an experience. Over the past forty-eight hours, I have experienced IDF bureaucracy at its best. It's the closest I've been to the IDF thus far. I've also learned a lot about my enlistment, and about myself. So, how did I learn about my tzav rishon, and what exactly happens on the most important day in a soldier-to-be's life?

On Thanksgiving, I received a call from Mahal telling me my tzav rishon was scheduled for Sunday (remember, it's like Monday in Israel). I was to show up at Liskat Hagiyus (Draft Office) in Tel HaShomer at 8:30 am. The soldiers from my Birthright trip had prepared me for a long day, telling me to get a full night's sleep and eat well that morning; the tzav rishon would determine my life for the next eighteen months! Definitely not something to be taken take lightly.

David drove me the forty-five minutes from Tel Aviv to Tel HaShomer. It was great not having to fret over which buses to take and where to go. He had planned on parking and walking in with me but that proved impossible as yesterday (and today) was a 'send-off' date. The courtyard just inside the gate was full of families saying goodbye to their sons and daughters, who would board buses and begin their IDF service.

To begin with, amid the carnival-esque atmosphere (probably most akin to parents dropping their kids off at college for the first time), with lots of people and plenty of loud music, shouting, excitement and cigarette smoke, I was utterly confused on what to do first. It took me a few seconds to realize what was going on, and then just thought it best to try and walk into the base itself. There were two soldiers at the door to determine who was allowed in. I first tried to say, "Shalom, ani Mahal, v'ani chayal boded" (Hello, I'm Mahal, and I'm a lone soldier), to which they would reply in perfect and rapid Hebrew. I had no choice then but to respond, "Sleicha, ani lo m'daber ivrit" (Sorry, I don't speak Hebrew). Thankfully, one of them spoke English well enough and directed me back through the crowd to a window at the security entrance. After a little pushing and shoving (aka: the Israeli way of moving forward in a line), I got there and just thought, to hell with it, I'm gonna ask if they speak English right away. The girl (soldier) did and told me to go to modi'in (information) outside the gate. Wonderful, back to square one.

I walked out of the base and waited in line again. When I approached the counter, the girl behind the desk asked me something terrifying: "Where are you papers?" Papers?! Shit, the Mahal guy just said to show up and bring my passport! I suppose I could have brought the Mahal letter I got weeks ago, but I thought that wasn't needed anymore. I've heard about friends, in trying to deal with the Israeli bureaucracy or military, are sent home because they didn't have a form there were never told to bring. Thankfully, she took my passport, looked something up in the computer, and then put a little sticker with some Hebrew words, a barcode, and the date on the back of my passport.

Back in the base, I went quickly through the short line to enter the building, then to the office where they handle Mahal individuals. Another girl took my passport for a few minutes then brought me upstairs to begin my tzav rishon. My first meeting was with a (very cute) soldier who spoke to me in Hebrew, asking simple questions, just to gauge my comprehension. Clearly, it was limited. Then she sent me to another (cute as well) soldier who I sat with for the next hour, half the time with a frozen computer, as she asked me all sorts of questions: what had I done for the past few months; my history as a student, beginning in elementary school; contacts in Israel; and a Hebrew exam, to which I probably failed, although not miserably. And of course, there was the question that 'G-d forbid anything should happen to you during your service,' who do I want to collect the insurance money? Oh, and by the way, it has to be someone living in Israel; translation: not my parents. Freakin' weird. I signed my life's worth over to David. Eery.

Anyway, after this interview, I went up two levels to the medical floor. I provided a urine sample, then flashed the bar code on my passport sticker in a machine in the hall and waited....and waited....and waited. After forty-five minutes, my name was called. A soldier was about to bring me into a room for a physical when, after telling her I didn't speak Hebrew (definitely not well enough for a medical appointment!), she told me to sit back down and wait for her to call me again when they got an English-speaking doctor. That wait turned into an hour. Finally, I stopped the soldier in the hall while she was flying back and forth and asked her about how much longer. The day was getting on and I knew there was still more things I had to do. At my request, she took me into the room and waited for the doctor to get in. Easy, frustrating, Israel.

My exam went smooth enough. It seems that almost everyone who works at the base is female, including the doctor (very nice!). I responded 'no' to all the routine medical questions (allergies, illnesses, surgeries, etc.), had my blood pressure taken, stripped down to check my breathing, you get the drill. The one hiccup (and it's a pretty big one) is that my eyesight is terrible, with a capital T. I estimated it at about minus 7.5 and minus 8. With eyesight that bad, she wants me to see a doctor to verify. Instead, I'm having my optometrist back home fax my records over. Other than that, I got a clean bill of health. Time now for an IQ test.

I went down a floor and scanned my passport again. After a few minutes, another female soldier came out of a room, verified my name, took my passport, and suggested I make sure I was well-fed and drank water; the test would be about an hour, without any breaks and it was very important. I grabbed a candy bar and reported back, was let into the room, sat at a computer, and began the test.

Let me be clear: there's no feasible way for this test to tell anyone their actual IQ. The test was in two sections. The first featured three rows of three figures or shapes. I had to detect a pattern and fill in the bottom right figure (which always had a question mark) with the correct answer from a list of eight choices at the bottom of the screen. Ten minutes to do thirty-one questions. They got progressively more difficult, and, truth be told, I couldn't figure out the pattern on the last one or two. I barely finished with seconds remaining, but still felt confident. The second section (fifteen minutes for thirty questions) was analogies. An example is small triangle is to big triangle as small square is to blank. They too became progressively harder, requiring me to be able to see figures in different angles or reversed. But, this was easier than the first section. All done in twenty-five minutes, thirty with setting up and reading instructions.

I reported back to the original Mahal office on the main floor. It was just after four, but the base was closing down. I was all done except for an interview, which I had to come back for this morning. Life's a bitch sometimes.

I returned by bus at ten this morning for the interview. I was directed to the top floor and proceeded to wait for the better part of two hours. It went by, though, because I had met another American at the end of yesterday. He's a chayal boded from Baltimore, pretty much the same background as me. We pissed and moaned about how slow everything was going, oggled at some of the female soldiers, talked about Israel, yada yada yada. Actually, waiting turned out to be kinda fun. I met another guy from France, living in Ashdod, who is also Mahal/chayal boded. He speaks French, fair amount of Hebrew and a little English. I haven't spoken French since studying abroad in Geneva junior year of college. But the rust wore off quickly, and between English, French and Hebrew, we were able to have a pleasant, albeit simple, conversation.

Finally, my name was called and I was led into the office of the commander of the base. I expected to be in and out in a few minutes, but ended up talking with the officer for the better part of a half hour. He was excited to hear that I was from Chicago, a political science major, and he had a genuine interest in what compelled me, and other chayalim bodedim, to come and serve. In addition, he asked the required questions: when's my planned enlistment; what unit; etc. He told me that I passed the IQ test, and would have told me my overall score from the two days but health score isn't complete yet; I'm waiting on my eyes. (I'll explain more about scores once I actually get mine.) At the end of the interview, he gave me his card and told me to contact him with any questions or problems. I thanked him for his time and left.

One final, and very, very important task left: registering for lone soldier status. A soldier from the commander's office led me downstairs to another office where two (yes, of course very cute) soldiers asked me questions for lone soldiers: do my parents support me financially; where am I staying; do I want to get an apartment, live on a kibbutz, be semi-adopted by a host family; is my family living back in the States; do my parents have Israeli citizenship; and a host of others. This took fifteen minutes, and then I was finally able to leave Liskat Hagiyus...until December 15.

That date is fast approaching. After speaking with other Mahal guys I've met, looking at other people's blogs, and talking with my soldier friends, I've got lots of anticipation about joining, and also a little trepidation. I am certainly excited--and yes, certainly a little nervous as well. Life is going to be demanding and radically different. Life, as I know it now, will cease to be. It will become long days full of rigorous activity, designed to test each person's physical and mental abilities. Life is going to become an adventure. As Sam, a soldier from Birthright, commented to me once, "there will be times where you will want to give up and give in. To get through these difficult times, you will have to remind myself why you am here."

Why am I here? If this pattern isn't already clear to you, it's because I am Jewish. Consequently, as a Jew, while in Israel, I wear a kippah. I don't wear one in America (except for Shabbat), but feel it important to wear one full-time now. I am in G-d's country, His land that He set aside for the Jewish people, His people that He chose (and that chose Him) out of all the nations to bring His presence into the world. I wore a kippah during my three weeks at yeshiva this summer for that exact reason. I wear it now for that purpose as well. But I also wear it for another reason, more pertinent to my service. Although I love the state and un-like many religious Jews support its creation and existence, I am not serving in the IDF and fighting for Israel as an Israeli. Rather, donning a kippah reminds me that I am part of a larger cause: I am fighting as a Jew for the Jewish people.