Welcome Home, Welcome Back

Showing my dad, in his office, pictures of jumping
from a plane.

My brother parked the car a few blocks from the school.  It was the end of the day and the neighborhood buzzed with life as parents picked up their children, school buses rumbled around the streets, and crossing guards made sure the little ones made it safely across the road.  My brother, dad and I walked across the parking lot and towards the front door of the school.  Suddenly, I heard a shout and saw my mother running towards me, arms in the air in preparation for a loving embrace, her face happily contorted in a mix of crying and smiling.  I stopped in my tracks and waited for her to reach me.  As we threw our arms around each other, she rocked slightly as she always does when holding one of her children after a long absence.  Her son had finally come home.

My journey home began nearly two days earlier.  I spent my last day in Tel Aviv running around to finish a few loose ends, had a nice lunch with my friend Big Mike after he just got back from the States, and packed my bag to prepare to leave.  Amy, her girls and I had dinner (David was in Europe on business) and around nine that evening, I got in a cab and sped off to Ben Gurion Airport.

I at once wanted the driver to speed up and slow down: speed up because I was excited to come home and slow down because I wanted to cherish each second I have on my time off.  I get in line at the airport to check my ticket and one of the security agents, who checks everyone's luggage, asked the standard questions: did you pack your bag yourself?  Where are you going?  Etc etc.  Did this all in Hebrew.  Point for me.  Oh you're in the army?  Yes, Tzanchanim.  Nice, so was I.  Another point for me?

Time from entering the airport to being in the terminal: thirty minutes.  Thank you Israeli airport security.  America, get your act together.

I slept on the flight to Newark, called my parents with my old American phone when I landed, then went on the second leg of my journey and landed in Chicago.  I had been in contact with my dad and brother about which baggage claim I was at for them to come pick me up.  When they pulled up in the family's minivan, I thought that someone else might be in the car.  But it couldn't be my mother, because she was at school.  I slide open the side door and there's my grandmother waiting for me!  Such a surprise.  (But, more importantly, Grandma, where's the kugel?)

We drove home, and it didn't really feel weird that I was back in Chicago, in December, thirty degrees outside, with my family.  Israel, the IDF, Shchem...everything seemed so far away.  Although I am simply on a break, my life over there seemed to have ended, been cut off, a clean break.  I was free.

Entering my house again for the first time was...I don't know any word to describe it.  It was a combination of at ease and comfortable, as well as it being eery and off-putting.  I walked into my room, forgetting many of the things that line my bookshelves, desk, cabinets, and being pleasantly surprised at being able to discover these things all over again.  I lingered at my books, recounted my Chicago Cubs bobble heads, and laid back on my bed.  Suddenly, I felt ill.  My head began to spin and my two worlds crashed together.  A wave of thoughts and memories from the army came over me, even as I tried to shut them out and focus on being home in my room.  I knew that my month here will be short.  I could see how I can become very comfortable in this easy lifestyle I will lead for the next four weeks.  And then having to return to the army and the difficult life there, it could be easily the most emotional dive I would ever experience.  For longer than a fleeting moment, I wanted to be back in Israel and forego the entire month.

My mom was supposed to come home from school at four.  I thought it would be nice to go surprise her there.  My grandmother had gone home, so the three of us got in the car and drove off.  It turned out that she also surprised me.  I didn't want to go back to Israel for an entire month.

The past two weeks has gone by fast, as was almost expected.  I had big plans to prepare for: a weeklong trip to Los Angeles and then Las Vegas.  I've picked out some new clothes and shoes for the trip over the holidays.  I had some doctors' appointments as well.  Picked up some contacts that are designed to be slept in, which will be better for the shetach (field) than my current contacts that I'm supposed to take out every night.

I've also kept myself busy spending time with old friends.  Most of them have jobs or are in graduate school in the city.  Three good friends from home all live together in a great apartment, have jobs, girlfriends....pretty much a life.  A college roommate now goes to UC Medical school.  Others may be at home in Chicago but have jobs and careers started.  Everyone is moving on with their lives.  It's a great and hard thing to see.  Makes me want to start getting on with my life as well.  But then they ask me about what I'm doing, how I'm doing, and they say it's great and incredible and all that jazz.  My optometrist even mentioned how he wished he had taken a year off after undergrad to see the world or do something different.  It's great and all, but in the midst of my friends' successes and lives, it's hard to not want to start my own.

And then going out at night in the city made me wish I could do that all the time.  We went to bars and clubs, talking to girls, hitting on them, dancing with them, drinking with them.  All of it much easier to do here in Chicago than in Israel with Israeli girls.  How I wish I could do this every weekend!  One Tuesday evening, my hometown friends, my brother and myself met at a bar on the DePaul college campus in the city for a night of trivia.  This sports bar was packed, at first we sat on couches for an hour before a table opened up.  But the pitchers flowed and the atmosphere was alive that it didn't matter where we sat or what was going on.  Halfway through the evening, my brother and I noticed that this bar on that night seemed to have the highest concentration of average to good-looking girls we had ever seen at one location.  Oh how I want to be there and not have to return to winter training in Israel!

That day, my mother, brother and I had met my dad at a downtown restaurant near his office.  He had invited some people he works with to lunch for my homecoming.  It was a classy meal, with bottles of wine, classy appetizers, interesting and accomplished people, and great Italian food.

I also have had the opportunity to meet with some of the rabbis who mentored me over the past couple years and whom I consider close friends.  I met with R. Zev Alter at his new home and we began a multi-hour discussion on whatever comes to mind.  I then went to JET's Monday evening learning and sat with R. Shalom Garfinkle to learn about Chanukah.  The Festival of Lights started a few days ago.  It's been the one holiday, Jewish or American, that I've been home for in more than a year.

I've been welcomed home and welcomed back.  For Jews, our true home is the Land of Israel.  Rabbis Zev and Shalom each gave me a very sincere and warm 'welcome back', but to say 'welcome home' would belie Israel as our true home.  America, Illinois, Chicago: here still feels like home to me.  Perhaps my soul is at peace and feels at home when I am in Israel.  But my house in Chicago still feels like home to me.  My parents live here ('here'! meaning I'm in the states!), my brother is around, my sister is only two time zones away in Los Angeles, and it is a place my friends always come back to for holidays.

Now, to prepare for a trip out west for me and my brother to visit our sister in Los Angeles, then Las Vegas for New Years!!!

I'm comin' home!!!

Tell the world I'm comin' home!

It's my last day in Israel...for now.  One year, one month and five days.  In a few hours I'll be able to wrap my arms around my parents, my brother, iChat with my sister from only two time zones away as opposed to ten, and bundle up because of the cold.

I'm leaving for the airport around nine tonight, and taking off just after midnight.  This time, I won't be jumping out of the plane.

I have not stopped smiling since Monday morning.  I knew I was gonna be leaving the base in Jerusalem to get a ticket in Tel Aviv, but my pure, unbridled excitement started when my commander, before giving me some last few words to send me on my way, asked me where was all my equipment?  Excuse me?  "Daniel, you're done, you're not coming back here."  Within minutes, I had my personal duffel bag, my large army bag, my combat vest and my sleeping bag all set to go.  I was told to have fun, not drink too much in Vegas, and remember to come back....ok, maybe not all of that was true.  Anyway, I said goodbye to my buddies in my unit and got the hell out of there to Tel Aviv.

(New popular song, been in my head since I first heard it months ago, and on repeat since I got my ticket)

I dropped my stuff off at David and Amy's apartment and went to the office to get my ticket.  I gave the cute girl at the desk my military ID and passport, told her my dates, asked her out that night, and waited for her to get back to me.  Ok ok, so I really didn't ask her out, but I should have, I was flying on Cloud 9 all day!  An hour later, she had heard back from the travel agent and told me my flights: leaving at midnight Wednesday evening!  Literally forty minutes into my break, I'm in the air.  I land in Chicago at noon on Thursday; how awesome is that for timing!  And I return on January 5th, again in the morning.  I got really lucky with the airlines: flying El Al to and from Israel, and then American Airlines from Newark to Chicago.  I know a few buddies who had to fly Ukrainian airlines or somethin' and had a layover in Kiev.  The thought makes me shudder.

(Real nice, acoustic song, from a favorite band in high school)

I was back at the apartment having a beer and catching up on the internet when my commander called and said I had to go back to Shchem that night.  Kinda inconvenient, but it actually turned out to be golden.  I needed to return all of my equipment to the army, that's why I was traveling all over Israel loaded down with bags and equipment.  I heard that turning in equipment could be an all day affair.  I got back at night, talked with some friends I hadn't seen in a while and went to sleep.  By 8:30, I had eaten and was dressed for the day.  By 10:30, I was out of there!  Turning in my gun, my Bet uniforms, sleeping bag, vest, magazines, helmet, jacket, kneepads, and everything else took about two hours.  Bada bing bada boom thank you for playing.  (Maybe you prefer 'wham bam thank you ma'am'?)

(My dad will appreciate this song, always the first one to be played on our family road trips.)

I stopped back in my apartment in Jerusalem, packed a few last things, and came back to Tel Aviv.  I was planning on meeting up last night with Big Mike after he got back from the States, but it didn't work out.  No worries, still nice to be with Amy and the girls (David flew to Rome for business) before I leave for home.  Some symmetry there.  And food.  Drinks.  Company.  A ride to the airport.

My last day in Israel.  I've got next to nothing to do today.  Some last few things in the laundry.  Maybe walk around Tel Aviv for a bit.  And goin to the airport at nine tonight!  Haven't stopped smiling.

(I love the piano part, and my brother hates it, which makes this song a classic.  Is this borderline overkill now?)

(I don't care, because we gotta end with a great one!)

(Ok, maybe one more.  Too much of Chicago to pass up.)

Un-Happy Thanksgiving-- Shavuuuz

My place at my family's Thanksgiving dinner table

I'm shavuz.  It's a simple fact.  No other way to call my run of emotions over the past fortnight.  Literally, shavuz means "broken dick" (shavur zayin), but in slang refers to feeling down or depressed.  There have certainly been hard times over the past year, both mentally and physically, but the past two weeks have gotten to me in a new way.  This isn't going to be a very long post...it also might not be the most spirited.  While I'd like to apologize, this is my experience and my feelings during the course of my service.  I'm trying to smile while writing this, but there is only one thing that brings me out of the depths of my mental darkness.  Read to the end.

After returning to Shchem two Sundays ago, my citah and another left for a base in Jerusalem.  Israel's military is organized into three command areas: Northern Command, Central Command and Southern Command.  We arrived at the Central Command base for the sole purpose of doing guard duty.  And that's what we've done for two straight weeks.  That's all we will do for two straight weeks.  We do arbah-shemoneh, four-eight, shifts: four hours guarding, eight hours free.

But the free time is not free.  We have a schedule.  The same one every day.  In fact, I could probably tell you what everyone is doing right now.  Take today for example.  Aside from the fact that I am sitting in David and Amy's apartment writing this post on my yom siddurim, this day would have been no different than any other days.

I woke up at 2:10 to guard from 2:30 to 6:30, in the morning.  Went to sleep for an hour or less until everyone has to stand at 8:00.  We clean our rooms, brush our teeth, shave and shine our boots until 8:20.  Clean our guns until 8:40.  Eat whatever food was scrounged from the cafeteria (there is no breakfast at this base) until 9:00.  Then we have a lesson of guarding the base.  It's the exact same powerpoint we see everyday at 9am.  Depending on the officer giving the lecture, it will end roughly after half an hour.  Then we put on our vests, helmets, guns and kneepads for our commanders to check that we have full ammunition, water and no problems with our equipment.  Then usually we have down time until 12:00 for lunch.  Yesterday, we did yevishim, dry gun drills, like what we would do back in training.  At 11:45, they tell us we have to stand at 3:30 in workout clothes.  The next few hours are to eat, sleep or go guard if it's your shift.  If I guarded at 2:30 that morning, and our rotation is 4-8, that means I guard again at 2:30 in the afternoon.

While I'm spending the next four hours in a guard booth, the rest of the guys will go for a run, do pushups and situps, or some combination.  Actually, we've also done some krav maga workouts.  It's nothing like the intense training that course krava maga puts you through; instead, its some guy who supposedly was in a top-secret unit showing us some moves, how to take someone down quietly, how to operate in a neighborhood, etc.  It's hard to remember everything, but for the time being it's fun and a change.

Dinner is at 6:00.  When I come down from my guard shift at 6:30, I go straight to the cafeteria.  Everyone stands at about 7:15.  We may have a lesson about some equipment or weapon for a bit.  Then we're done at 9:00 to sleep.  Only to start again the next day.

View after the sunrise

The shifts are not always 4-8.  Sometimes you'll get a 4-12 thrown in, so your guard time changes, which means you'll miss some things on some days (like not getting a full few hours to sleep in the afternoon, or not working out).  Some days we do krav maga and a workout.  Last night, for fun, we watched "G.I. Jane."  It was kinda fun to explain things about the movie to the Israelis.  It was also kinda depressing to see, compared to us, how an intense operational unit works.

So, you can see that the eight hours off are not really free time.  What's worse is that when you're done guarding, you become a part of a response unit.  Three soldiers and a commander make up a rapid response team that is supposed to be able to respond to any crisis on the base within minutes.  There would be random times they would shout for our unit to respond, in the middle of the night, as I'm sitting down to dinner, whenever.

You have to constantly be in your uniform, boots on your feet, kneepads on your legs.  Always.  Even if you go to sleep.  When I get down from guarding at 6:30 and go to bed around 9 or 9:30, I sleep with my boots on.  If I happen to wake up when the next group gets done at 10:30, then I can take my boots off.  But usually I'm not waking up until my 2:30 shift.  Which means I'll constantly be in my uniform and boots.

The four hours guarding lend themselves to a lot of time to think.  I think about whether or not I want to become a sniper, what I want to do after the army, what job I want to look for, how I am going to be sure I get my month off to go home, and why I am here.  It's good to think.  I find it refreshing and valuable self-reflection time.  But when a third of my life is spent in this state, it's overkill and has probably done more to get me down than give me a boost for the future.

And then, finally, my commanders.  We're the only ones here from our unit at this base.  We are fighters now, no longer in training.  Yet we often do the miniscule, tedious tasks as if we are still in training.  My commanders, to say the least, are certainly not leaders.  Sure they are my superiors, in rank not age, but they don't command our respect.  They have strips on their arms or bars on their shoulders, and they think they have a world of experience and advise to offer.  I've known the age difference between me and them for months.  But I was really asking myself, "what the hell am I doing here with a Bachelor's Degree and Latin Honors?"

What made these two weeks real rough was a convergence of various different factors and influences.  For one thing, my time on kav is ending.  In about three months I'll be on the Lebanese border, but I had heard from other soldiers that Shchem is really the place where there is a lot of action.  What have I done?  Guard, guard, and more guarding.  At least at the base near Shchem, in the West Bank, it's a different, somewhat dangerous place, which makes life exciting and interesting.  Here at the base in Jerusalem, while there are Arab houses within a stone's throw of my guard positions, it still doesn't feel like an "outpost" or "frontier," as I talked about in my last post.

In addition, this is a jobnik base.  Everyone here has a desk job.  Literally, the thirteen soldiers and three commanders of my unit are the only kravi soldiers on the base.  We are called the "lochem," warriors or fighters.

While there are jobniks on every base, being on a specifically jobnik base gives me a look into the "other half" of the IDF.  Although they make up the overwhelming number of soldiers (I think around 80%), I start to see how truly not everyone can be a fighter.  It's not fair to ask every young man to sign up for kravi.  While there are certainly jobniks with legitimate reasons why they are not fit for kravi (medical, religious, psychological, moral), many are just lazy guys looking to do two to three years and get out.  I feel a big sense of pride with my red beret and my gun, compared to the rest of the base with their easy lives.  They leave for home every day or every weekend.  They arrive at 10 and leave at 5.  My Facebook status last week as I was guarding the main gate in the afternoon: "Ah yes, the jobniks' daily 5pm exercise: the run to catch the bus to go home...go to your families and dinner tables, to your warm showers and clean beds, I shall be here all night, likely not showering, likely not changing out of my uniform, likely not sleeping, guarding you and yours."  Just being around all jobniks made my life seem so much harder.  I wasn't a very happy camper.

Then, last Thursday was Thanksgiving...and I was depressed.  On that day, I wanted out of the base in Jerusalem, out of the army, out of Israel.  I was with all Israelis, not one American, let alone lone soldier, to commiserate with and complain about not being home.  I missed America and my family.  And not one of the soldiers, friends or commanders I was with could understand.  They just can't.  They can't fathom the life that I and other lone soldiers lead.  It was a rough day, a very rough day.

And the past two weeks have been the same, day in day out.

But I've got great news to look forward to!  One week from today, I'M COMING HOME!!!  For an entire month!

Kav Shchem קו שכם (tobealonesoldier IV)

I’m finally spending my first full weekend at my new apartment in Jerusalem.  All of my things are moved in and organized in my room.  I’m settled in.  There is something different about life here as opposed to Tel Aviv.  Tel Aviv could be any city in any country.  But Jerusalem is Jerusalem.  There are none like it.

The move here was difficult.  It’s been one of the more trying times in the army.  It has had nothing to do with the rigors of daily life in the army, the physical and mental strains of being a soldier.  Instead, what gave me such a hard time was that I am a lone soldier.  How do I mean?  I’ll start at the beginning.

On October 27^th, I left the Shchem (Nablus) to come back to Tel Aviv because I was to sign my apartment contract the following day, Friday.  I had to virtually fight with my platoon commander to take the days off to take care of the contract.  It would not have been a big deal except that we were supposed to close Shabbat, stay at base for the weekend.  In the end, everything turned out alright.  I was home for the weekend.

Sunday started two weeks of ulpan at my training base.  It was something the lone soldiers had been looking forward to for some time.  We knew that after our masa kumtah, when our training ended, the lone soldiers in Tzanchanim would be given two weeks of Hebrew classes back at the base.  As it turned out, we spent the first week after training in Shchem, followed by a fortnight of Hebrew.

Life there was “tash”, a military term that when used in slang refers to something relaxed or chilled.  There were about twenty of us.  Not all lone soldiers went; if they’re Hebrew is sufficient, they didn’t need it.  But for those of us there, we had a great time.  We’re not training anymore, so even though we had commanders with us, we definitely had freedom and leeway with our time.  We would be in class most of the day, with a few breaks for snacks and lunch.  We would learn from after breakfast up until dinner.  In the evening, we would do different things: exercise with our commander, we watched a couple Israeli films, and one evening the soldiers who were teaching us threw us a little Halloween party.  We generally had a couple hours free before we went to bed, and most of us chose to workout.

We had a blast that week.  Most of us were English speakers.  We got along great and messed with each at every available opportunity.  If a guy left his gun in the room and went to the bathroom, for example, within seconds, two or three guys would be taking it apart.  They would take off the strap, sight, disassemble the firing pin and equipment, the stock, everything.  The unfortunate guy would come back to see his gun in thirty pieces.  Thank you, Sean from South Africa.

The first Wednesday I had requested off to move from my kibbutz to my new apartment.  My plan was to take off Wednesday and Thursday and then go to Eilat to visit Sam from Thursday to Sunday.  On my way to Jerusalem from my base, I get a call from my commander who tells me that the Mem Mem (platoon commander) had said for me to come back to Shchem for the weekend.  I called him to talk about it because I knew my unit was off for the weekend, so why did I have to come back?  Basically, he said that because I left the weekend before, I had to make it up this weekend.  “We talked about it last week, Daniel.”  Excuse me, but we spoke in English about my time to sign the contract so I would understand everything and you did not mention me closing this weekend.  I’m going to Eilat.  “I’m sorry but you’re not.  You are going to be in the army this weekend.”  And that was that.  He lied to me.  I could have fought it more, but didn’t want to, I had already gotten off the weekend before.

I went to Tel Aviv in the afternoon because David was going to help me move.  We drove to my kibbutz and packed all my things in the car.  I returned my key and said goodbye to Hama’pil.  On the way to Jerusalem, Amy called and said I had left my kumtah (beret) in their apartment.  “I’ll get it tomorrow.”  We continued to Jerusalem and I was officially moved in.

But my headache would continue.  It turns out that my commander of the past eight months has gone on to become an officer.  So the next day, I receive a phone call from my new commander (who also happens to be Druze, just like my last one), and he tells me that I need to get back to base that night.  I tell him that it's not possible, that I'm at the shuk (market) buying things for my apartment and there's a lot of cleaning and work to be done.  Also, my Mem Mem had given me the time off.  He said he'll get back to me.  Later that afternoon, I'm on a bus back to Tel Aviv when it begins to rain.  My commander calls and texts me to get back to him.  We proceed to have a long argument about how there's no way I can make it back to base that night.  We settle that I need to be on the first bus out of Jerusalem at 5:30 the next morning.  The bus arrives and I go to David and Amy's apartment.  I'm soaking wet.  A car runs through a huge puddle and water sprays halfway up my body.  I was cold, wet, tired, frustrated, and felt so alone.  I wanted to be anywhere but there at that moment.

I returned to my apartment, three hours of my life wasted.  The next morning I wake up before dawn.  I go outside and see no buses to take me to the bus station.  I go back to sleep and take the 8:30 bus.  I arrive at Shchem, my commander isn't there, and no one cares that I arrived in the early afternoon.

But you live and learn.  It was truly a time I felt like a lone soldier.  The kids that are my commanders do not understand what it means to move to an apartment.  They live with their parents, understandably.  They have no idea how to sign a contract, shlep all your belongings from place to place, make sure everything is ok with the new place, account for all of the minor problems that become apparent once you move in...and do it all in a foreign language and foreign country.  I was pretty depressed for a while there.  But I knew things would turn around, that in a few days I would be fine, and I was.

I returned to Shchem to do three shifts of guard duty.  Six total hours!  Instead of Eilat!  Life sucked a bit.  But then I went back for another week of Hebrew, with Thursday spent in Yafo/Jaffa on a little trip. A few of us chilled at a friend's apartment for the afternoon and returned on a bus to Shchem that evening.

--------------------

Entering the West Bank is like traveling to a different world.  It truly is a world apart from the rest of Israel.  The first world gives way to the third world once you pass through the checkpoints.  The purpose of the Oslo Accords in 1993 was to have the PLO build a state within the West Bank.  I swear, the Arab towns are just ramshackle buildings thrown together.  The streets are dirty and there's trash everywhere.  Within the West Bank are also Jewish towns and cities.  These present a stark contrast to the Arab villages.  The buildings are nice and ordered.  The streets are wide and clean.  You wouldn't know if you were in the West Bank or Israel proper if you stood in the middle of these towns.

The Jewish villages in Samaria (northern West Bank), or at least on the way to base at Shchem, are permanent structures.  Compared to the yishuvim (settlements) I guarded during Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish presence in Samaria is much more pronounced, much more permanent.  The population of these towns cannot be counted on a few hands, the town is not comprised of a single road, some trailers for a house, a synagogue, and a park for children.  Rather, Ariel, for example, boasts a university, is a central hub of traffic, and can be found on virtually every map that lists simply the major cities in Israel and the West Bank.  

However, walking around a settlement of twenty-five families or driving through villages of thousands, the same strange and unfortunate feeling fills up inside of me: that I'm entering an 'outpost' in a 'frontier'; that these are colonists in an alien land.  All of the Jewish towns and cities are surrounded by barbed-wire and motion sensor fencing, in addition to a heavy yellow gate that's guarded at all hours.  The term 'colony' conjures up images of the movie "Aliens," that they live in a hostile world.  It saddens me that I must think this, because it certainly is true that the Jews in the West Bank do live in an insecure and dangerous place.  On a small scale, as an example, an Arab isn't afraid to walk around the Jewish section of the Old City in Jerusalem.  Unfortunately, a Jew is fearful of walking through the Arab quarter.  It's not Jews stealing into Arab towns and murdering families, like an Arab did last year to a family in Itamar.  This is sad because the Jews live here because they, rightly, believe that this is our land.

For someone who comes from the sometimes-depressing and often-convenient flat lands of Chicago and the Midwest, the ruggedness of the Shamron (Samaria) is like entering a foreign land.  As I took the bus with Adam from Tel Aviv to Ariel, en route back to base, and maybe it was because I was talking with him about going home, but I happened to glance out the window, and from my vantage point standing in the aisle, looking downwards at the highway's second lane, passing cars, white striped lane markers and barrier, I could have sworn I was on the Edens expressway in Chicago.  But that fleeting sense of familiarity ended abruptly as the bus traversed the steep grades of the winding road through the hills.

Entering the West Bank is like a world apart.

And life at Shchem is different indeed.  Most of our time has been spent guarding the base.  When not guarding, we either have down time to relax, we organize our equipment, or again do a lot of things that just make the day go by.  We walk around the base with our magazines in our guns.  There is constant guarding and always a response unit in case of an emergency.  I've started to work out again, using the tiny trailer that houses some weights, thereby becoming the workout room.  I've done a lot of reading the past few weeks.  I picked up from Amy "Water for Elephants," and from David "Game Change."  Then I stopped in a second hand bookstore on Thursday in Jerusalem and came out a few books richer.  I feel like I'm starting to enjoy my life again.

After guarding from ten to midnight one evening, I slept for a few hours and then got up for a patrol at five.  Me, another soldier, our commander and a driver spent the next five hours driving up and down the road to Shchem.  That quickly turned into us parking at this intersection and watching the newest Fast and Furious movie on the driver's iPhone.  That evening we were supposed to go on a patrol in a nearby Arab village, but the ShinBet (Shabak, like the FBI) canceled it.  We were all dressed up with nowhere to go.

We were in the middle of a briefing the other day when my commander pulled me outside.  Then he asked me the oddest question: "you're a lone soldier, right?"  Haha, what?!  Really, what gave it away?  Yes I am.  I really didn't understand the connection, because he then asked me something incredible: "are you interested in going to course tzelaphim?"  Course tzelaphim?!  I definitely am!  Of course I would be.  How awesome would it be to go to Sniper's Course and become a sniper in Tzanchanim!  But there are complications.  I've heard that I would probably have to sign more time, probably six months.  In addition, I heard that Mahal soldiers need to make aliyah if they sign more time.  I held off an answer until I know more information.  And then there's the issue with my eyesight...

But I also received the best news of all two weeks ago.  I'm coming home, I'm coming home, tell the world I'm coming home!!  December 8th to January 8th!  It'll be my first time home in over a year.  I am so excited to get back home and see my family and friends.  To finally sleep in my bed.  To wake up in my room.  To be in my hometown.  To drive my car again!  (I hope I still remember how to drive stick!)  And, best of all, my brother and sister planned an incredible trip for me and Eric to visit her in Los Angeles over Christmas, and the the three of us drive to Las Vegas for New Years!  December 8th cannot come soon enough.

One year

A few days ago marked one year in Ha'aretz, the Land, Israel.  One year since being home in America, or one year since I've come home to Israel.  It hasn't yet been a year in the army, but I'm coming up on that milestone in a few weeks' time.  What's it like to realize that it has been 365 days since being in the States?  That twelve months have passed by and I'm still out here on my magnificent, glorious, incredible adventure?  That it will still be some more time before I can return to my family, friends and life away/free from the army?

I noticed this first when I studied in Europe for a semester and have often experienced a similar feeling here.  It comes from not being in the most comfortably or familiar setting, from being elsewhere, far away from what I know and love.  It's a feeling of restriction, not of what is and is not possible, but rather a physical tightness in my chest as I mentally grasp for order and understanding in my new world.  It's like being hyped up on too much caffeine: my mind rushes as I try to complete menial simple tasks that never seem to end, and always take three or four times as long to accomplish.  The language barrier doesn't help, also.

While my Hebrew is certainly infinitely better than when I first arrived last November, while I can do pretty much any normal task in this foreign language, while Israelis often think I am one of them (not gonna lie, the uniform doesn't hurt), for me life in a foreign language is still fuzzy.  I feel most comfortable flexing my Hebrew muscles in the army; outside of it, I often stumble over my words or phrases, lose my confidence, or simply forget simple conjugations and sayings (but then I've found a cure for that: the more I drink, the better my Hebrew becomes, just ask every taxi driver who's driven me somewhere on a Thursday, Friday or Saturday evening).  Still, I am yet to feel completely grounded.

My physical tightness comes from an unexplainable sense of suffocation.  I feel like I need to come up for air from the world that surrounds me, drowning me in its foreign-ness.  I felt this in Europe and have often experienced it here.  Back home, "Israel" was as much an idea of a foreign land as it was about a new life, the home of my people, and a dynamic country.  It may as well have been in a different world.  These thoughts and feelings surprised me because I had been here twice before on  programs.  But somehow, when I slept on the flight from Newark to Tel Aviv, who's to say we didn't travel to a different dimension or some strange new world?  Can we breathe there?  I stepped out of the plane and everything looked normal, just on the exact opposite side of the world, eight time zones ahead of Chicago.  It's November, why is it so sunny and warm?  Those characters on the wall?  Surely they were only reserved for biblical scripts of an ancient language.  Hebrew is a holy language, to be found in the Torah and other religious scriptures.  The Semitic characters make no sense to me, I can't find any reason in the block print.  Even to this day, I am woefully unable to pick up any advertisement or newspaper headline and immediately understand what is written.  I have to sit for a few seconds and translate.  Without even realizing it until recently, I am more than capable of opening a book,  immediately begin reading and understand the story.  Give me ten years for Hebrew.

When away from family and familiarity for so long, you start to realize what is important from your "past" life.  It says something when your Gmail inbox is filled with correspondence with family.  I still receive mail from college organizations, newspaper, magazines and other websites I've subscribed to over the years.  But once openened and confirmed that they are of no significance, the letter is deleted.  What I am left with are emails with family.  They range from simply discussing what times everyone is available to iChat, Skype or talk on the phone, to more serious issues of money or passport, to the weekly Friday letter I would write giving a brief synopsis of my week.  Of one hundred emails still in my in box, well over ninety would be from family.

But it's been a hell of a growing and learning experience to be here for a year.  David, Amy and the girls have been an incredible support system; I've popped into their apartment countless times for even a quick things, to say hello, grab something to eat or a coffee, the English version of the Jerusalem Post, or stay the night.  They've never said they can't have me for even a few hours or an evening.  I'm truly lucky and blessed to have family here.

I was at Shchem this weekend doing guard duty at my base (again, sorry, more to come about life there in my next post).  But I have another week of ulpan, learning Hebrew, at the Bach in the south.  I left my base at six in the morning, go to Tel Aviv around eight, and popped in for an hour to say hello and be a part of their lives for a little.  Time to go catch a train to Kiryat Gat and a week of easy life learning Hebrew.

Time marches on, and we march with it.

Transitions

"Hatikvah/the Hope" Israel's national anthem.  One of
the most beautiful songs I've ever heard.  Listen here.

My entire world right now is in a transition.

My life in the army has advanced from training to operational.

My life outside the army finds me moving from my quiet kibbutz to an apartment in Jerusalem.

Israel is experiencing a resuscitation of the summer social protests and people continue to question and critique the deal that brought Gilad Shalit home after over five years of captivity in Gaza.  Most recently, the Israeli-American law student, Ilan Grapel, was also released after being taken prisoner five months ago in Egypt.  Shalit was traded for 1,027 Palestinian terrorists; Grapel for 25 Egyptian prisoners.

Meanwhile, Europe's great European Community experiment appears to be going down in flames with Germany and other nations being forced to pay the price for Greece and Italy's financial woes/crises/disasters/the list goes on.

And Occupy Wall Street.....I mean c'mon, get real.  They actually demean the sixties social protests against the government and the "Man."  At least the hippies and disheveled, bearded and bra-less men and women then had a political aim, namely pulling out of Vietnam.  From what I've read, while Occupy (insert unfortunate, hapless city here) has attracted a wide cross-section of Americans, many are there just to be there (probably because they are unemployed, and while angry and frustrated as a result, are yet to channel it into a coherent political message).  Furthermore, they seem to vilify the very institution that can bring their hopes and dreams (whatever they may be, beyond thought bubbles) to fruition.

Anywho, I ramble.

My green kumtah (beret) of the past ten months is no longer a permanent fixture on my left shoulder.  A reed kumtah has replaced it as I am now officially a part of chetivah Tzanchanim (Paratroopers' Brigade).  Some of the guys who were with us in training have gone off to a special course to become mefakdim, commanders.  Others will follow in the coming months.  And some guys "fell" from kravi to job, they are now jobniks, non-combat soldiers.  In total, the citahs, machlekahs, and plugah have lost a noticeable number, which now makes for smaller units and tighter coordination and communities.

My first week wasn't exactly what I would call thrilling.  It was great on Sunday morning to not get on the train and go to Machanah Natan in Beersheva.  Instead, I took a bus from Tel Aviv to Ariel, a Jewish city in the West Bank.  My plugah gathered there.  It was great to see all the guys after the break for Simchat Torah after our masa kumtah and tekkes kumtah.  We are all no longer trainees, we are operational soldiers, with our company gun straps, our paratrooper wings, and our red berets.  Ready for the bus to take us to a base outside Shchem.

Looking down at Shchem.  I had second thoughts about
putting up such a belligerent-looking photo, but read
to the end of this post, hopefully you'll understand.

Its only been a week, but life thus far is much different than the training base.  There was still a certain degree of distance between the soldiers and commanders in advanced training.  While we were reminded of maintaining distance the first day on kav, the commanders aren't necessarily my military elders as much as they have since become the young nineteen to twenty-somethin' year olds.  I certainly still respect them as more experienced (to an extent), but we are on a more familiar and informal level than ever before.

But, the bottom line about kav duty, is that its been just a week.  While most of my time won't be so glamorous, I will still have missions, patrols and guard duty.  Hopefully legit military work.

I just slept my last night in my kibbutz apartment.  In the past few months, I've returned to my kibbutz twice, I think.  For the holidays and weekends off, I've either been in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem with family or friends.  My kibbutz has simply become a place to keep my belongings.  I've kept a backpack at David and Amy's apartment in Tel Aviv and have lived out of it for weekends off.  Why am I so averse to going to my kibbutz?  Because the thought of getting to and from it is just simply daunting.  I have to catch a bus or train to Hadera, no big deal.  But then to get to my actual kibbutz, I have to rely on someone being able to pick me up from the depot, but he's not always readily available.  So then I have to pay 70-80 shekels for a cab ride.  And then to leave, except for Sunday mornings when he drives all the lone soldiers, I need to catch a tramp from inside the kibbutz (very dangerous thing to do in uniform if not from inside the kibbutz) to a nearby intersection, catch a bus to Hadera, then another bus to Tel Aviv or elsewhere.  And as I haven't been there so often anymore, it's a place another lone soldier could be living.  There's nothing to do at night, no girls, no bars in the area, and because I haven't been there so often, I've never really formed any strong friendships with the other soldiers, many of whom aren't from the States.  And when it comes down to it, a guy like me needs to be in a city...so Jerusalem here I come!

On Tuesday, I'm moving my things from Kibbutz Hama'pil to an apartment in Jerusalem.  The contract was signed today and I'm going to be living with Shmuel (in Tzanchanim/from New York), Effy (Tzanchanim/Australia), Simcha (Golani/Canada) and Chaim (formerly in Kfir/Canada).  Although this sentiment will echo something I said before moving to Hama'pil, I will repeat it now: I'm finally going to be living in a place of my own.  It'll be with other lone soldiers.  They're all Chabad, religious guys.  I'm exploring my religion but have made it clear that I am not shomer Shabbat.  It'll be an experience, and I hope a great one at that.

Going back to my training base (Bach Tzanchanim) for two weeks of ulpan, learning Hebrew.  It'll be a short week; I'm moving on Tuesday and Wednesday, and we get Thursday through Sunday off.  I plan to be in Eilat next weekend.  Going with a girl I've been seeing.  Life's pretty good.

But in Israel, I just found out that rockets are falling on Beersheva, Ashkelon and other southern cities.  And now, following the "success" of the Shalit deal, a Saudi Arabia cleric and prince have offered a combined $1,000,000 to kidnap an Israeli soldier.  One million dollars!  For a soldier in the IDF.  Sure it's some random Israeli, Jewish/Arab/Druze/Christian teenager or young adult.  But do you know who else that is?

That's me.  One million dollars to capture me.

Where is Obama and the US in telling our Saudi allies that this is downright unacceptable?

Becoming a Tzanchan

Just been named Machlekah Mitzdayin, Excellence in Platoon

For ten months, I have worn a green beret on my shoulder.  Called the "Bakkum kumtah" for the draft office every soldier goes through on his or her first day of IDF service, it is a constant reminder of inexperience, of training, of being "tsair," young.    As I travel around the country on busses and trains, I look around and see a rainbow of colored berets on other soldiers' shoulders.  The colored beret of your unit is the most coveted thing to receive because it indicates a culmination and transition from training to being operational, being a part of and belonging to the division and not the training base.  But you have to earn it.  Eight months of training, of sweating, bleeding, not sleeping, constantly pressing on, and then a final trial to prove your worth: the masa kumtah.

My feet had never hurt so much in their life.  I didn't walk so much as I waddled, trying to ease the pressure on my soles.  My muscles ached and my eyelids drooped.  I looked up at the daunting hill we were trying to circumvent, finding a way into the city.  Jerusalem is located at the top of a mountain, the biblical Mt. Moriah.  Our holy city was built on this site because it is the location of the Akeidah, the trial where Abraham bound his son Isaac and prepared to sacrifice him for Hashem (G-d).  Supposedly Abraham saw his destination from a distance.  I looked up and could barely see a hundred meters up the mountain.  Our road seemed to never end.  It was discouraging.  What was supposed to be simply seven kilometers carrying three stretchers with sixty kilograms of bags and weight on top turned into an over two hour trudge through the ravines that cut through the mountains, knowing that we are at the absolute lowest power in the area and we need to eventually climb into the city.

Earlier in the day, we had packed up all our bags and gear and loaded them onto buses to take us from our training base in the southern Judean desert to Beit Shemesh for the beginning of our hike.  All three plugot (companies) gathered in a small wooded area off to the side of a highway.  There were a few families barbecuing food and handing out pitah sandwiches to all of the soldiers, and we gratefully ate.  Just before 5 pm, the roughly four hundred soldiers formed a chet and the head officer of the base spoke to us about something or other.  Then at 5:00 pm on Monday, October 17th, we started off on our masa kumtah.

Without a doubt, of the ten masas we did over the course of training, this was the hardest.  All previous masas were done in the desert around my base; eventually you become aware of the same rest points and can gauge our pace based on familiar landmarks.  The path now was completely new, and the trails were anything but the easiest to negotiate.  Instead of the wide, gravelly path of the base, oftentimes the paths here were narrow and confining, littered with baseball-sized rocks, dips and pockets that were impossible to see at night, and we would march uphill then downhill then up then down and so on.  Our previous masas, we walk at "ketsev sheish", pace of six kilometers per hour.  Every fifty to sixty minutes we would rest for ten minutes.  Because of our slower pace, we often walked for an hour and ten or twenty minutes before resting.  Physically it is not difficult to walk for that long without a break, but when you can't drink water during that time, it gets difficult.  It's nearly impossible to drink from our canteens when walking, and when you don't have canteens because it puts you over 30% body weight, you have to rely on you buddies' water, which can only be drunk during breaks.

The air was much cooler, especially as we started to climb into the mountains.  We had a half-hour break about halfway in and had to switch uniform shirts because we would have frozen due to our sweat and the cold air.  But you couldn't sit down.  Even for the thirty minutes, or any rest period for that matter, our commanders would yell at us if we sat down.  They didn't want our muscles to tighten up, but we wanted to get off our feet for even just a few minutes.  But we couldn't.

We were allowed to bring snacks on this masa, as well as our previous masa.  Guys moved their magazines to the pack on the back of the vest and loaded their magazine pockets with Mentos, sunflower seeds, chocolate, Mike and Ikes, gum, energy gels and bars, anything that provided some boost for the night hike.  I would often take out a piece of gum and chew it as long as I could, not looking at my watch, then moving on to some sunflower seeds and a Mentos or two.  Finally, after one round of this ritual, I would glance at my watch and see that about thirty-five or forty minutes had passed since our last rest period.  That's great!  We likely only had about twenty minutes until our next one.  Well, that wasn't necessarily the case on this masa.  But you do anything you can to pass the time and resist the temptation to be a slave to the watch.

And this masa, above everything, in all honesty, was boring.  It was difficult to enjoy walking through the hills when they hurt your feet and back, it was too dark to really see anything, and your constantly tripping over rocks or smashing your toes by kicking them.  I was with the MAG, not my M16, so it was harder to negotiate the narrower paths and I generally had both hands on my weapon, which meant steadying myself for inclines or declines was trickier.  But I was used to carrying my machine gun at this point, so the weight of the gun itself didn't bother me so much.  It's just so damn awkward!  Then for one stretch, I carried the pack of water on my back as well.  The soldier who was carrying it is a big guy (he's the one we carried on one of the stretchers for the last masa) but weak willed; he was falling asleep when walking and it took three to four guys to push or pull him.  I convinced him at one rest stop that a commander had ordered him to give me the water.  I then carried it for the next hour and a half.  It was hard.  My back didn't feel great after it but, as I had hoped, the soldier was better off for it when he retook the pack.

Our masa was supposed to be 48+7.  Forty-eight kilometers hiking then the last seven with open stretchers.  Everyone looks forward to the stretchers; it's certainly harder, but it means you're almost at the end.  Except for this masa.  By the end, I think we walked over twelve kilometers with open stretchers.  It was depressing not knowing how or where we were to enter the city.  The sun rose as we neared Jerusalem.  But all it shone light on was how much further we had to travel.  It was discouraging when our path led us downhill, knowing that we eventually had to go quite a distance uphill.  But we eventually arrived at a highway that wrapped around the city.  All of us stopped there for a twenty minute break, and then prepared to enter the city.

A few people's families were waiting for us at the gathering point.  We put down our stretchers and milled about, no one really sure on what to do.  We were evidently waiting for the orders to proceed, but that took some time.  I was standing around, just trying to relax, shifting my weight back and forth, trying to give my feet a brief respite, when I saw Shmuel taking a picture with a woman.  I eagerly hopped in and asked for her to take one of us together.  "I know you," she replied.  I gave an inquisitive look until she mentioned how she's Effy's mother, from Australia.  We had spoken on the phone literally a week ago, and now she was here, snapping a photo of me and Shmuel in Jerusalem on our masa kumtah.  Small world.

Finally, we formed our two lines and set off along the highway to our destination, Givat Hatachmoshet/Ammunition Hill.  As we walked on the sidewalk, cars driving past would be honking at us in support and solidarity, people leaned out of their windows asking which unit we were, and plenty of other smiled and waved.  This was the final trek.  My body ached and I was tired.  But this was it.  Just two to three kilometers, and then it is over.  As we crossed roads, cars were stopped and we had free passage across intersections.  Some people walked with us, soldiers' moms snapping photos, running forward, and then taking them again as we passed.  I have to say that it wasn't exactly how I pictured walking into Jerusalem; we were no where near any central part of the city, but it was still exciting nonetheless.  And we reached the neighborhood of Ammunition Hill and started one last final trek uphill.

As we neared the battlefield park, everyone broke out into song.  We sang our division's anthems, fight songs, anything else that came to mind.  The crowd of people grew thicker as we reached the final few blocks.  People unsure of which direction we were to come from suddenly came running towards us, shouting in excitement and snapping photos, some guys' girlfriends or mothers running over to greet them.

And then we crossed the road, entered Givat Hatachmoshet, and were finished.  It was 8 am.

Fifteen hours.  Nearly sixty kilometers.  Done.

Next came a big surprise.  We were gathering as a machlekah (platoon) to stretch, when suddenly I heard from behind me, "you gettin' ready to go to Vegas?"  I looked around and saw Ben and Kathryn, two of my friends from school who are also in the army.  I had sent them messages about my masa, but didn't expect them to be waiting for me at eight in the morning as we finished.  First I had to stretch and organize my equipment, but then I was able to spend time with them.  Families had set up long tables of food and drink for the soldiers, which we attacked and grabbed plates to sit down and eat.  The three of us sat down and caught up on lost time.  Shmuel, Adam and some other lone soldiers joined us.  It was the most painful thing to stand back up and grab more food.  But it was a necessary evil.

Instead of sleeping for those few hours, I stayed up and chatted with my friends.  We were to have our tekkes, ceremony, at four in the afternoon.  Around noon, Ben and Kathryn left and I shut my eyes, only to be told we have to stand at 12:30.  Then we got changed into our Aleph uniforms and had a practice rehearsal of the ceremony.  It was impossible to stand and concentrate.  My entire body ached and my lower back, which had hurt me often before the army, was in pain.  I had chaffing in certain places that made any movement uncomfortable.  And our thicker uniforms with sleeves rolled down wasn't merciful to us in the hot sun.

Maybe I didn't eat enough or should have slept, but I suddenly felt very weak.  Not just a tired, exhausted sort of weakness.  Instead I felt my hands start to shake slightly and thought I might throw up any second.  Breaking all rules, I quietly slipped out of our formation to sit down on a small stage behind us, cradling my head in my hands.  All of a sudden, the guys around me are staring at me, urgently telling me to stand up!  What are you guys talking about?  I know their mentioning the mitzdayin of the machlekahs and plugahs (the best soldier in the platoons and companies), but c'mon, I'm pretty sure it's not gonna be me and I didn't hear my name.  But Daniel, it is you!  Go to the front, now!

I couldn't believe it.  I hastily shouted, "ken, hamefaked" (Yes, commander) and wound my way to the front of the pack, standing in front of my plugah with two other soldiers.  I was Machlekah Mitzdayin for Tzanchanim's Plugah Bet, Machlekah Shalosh (Second Company, Third Platoon).

The rehearsal promptly ended and we gathered by machlekah to hear a few words from our commanders.  Afterwards, my MemMem (Platoon Commander) called me aside and, smiling, explained why I had earned mitzdayin.  I really still didn't understand everything he said (for some reason, I have a hard time figuring out his Hebrew), but I got the gist.  About halfway through imun mitkadem (advance training), I stepped up my game.  I worked hard and had the necessary energy and "rabak" to inspire others to work hard as well.  The language notwithstanding, I had become an example to my fellow soldiers.  He gave me a strong handshake and moved on.

Next my Sammal (sergeant) came up to me and proceeded to give me two hard punches to the chest as he likes to do, followed by a strong, but manly, hug.  He's a great guy.  Then the Sammal of machlekah shteim, who I was with all throughout War Week and he had taken a liking to because here's this crazy American, wielding the MAG machine gun, shouting random phrases in broken Hebrew, but displaying crazy amounts of energy throughout, gave me a big hug as well.

We had a couple hours before our actual ceremony and I wandered around the area, grabbing some more food, meeting Bear's parents, Cooper's family (who's mother tells me she gets more information about the military from me than her own son, a common refrain I've heard from others as well, haha), but mainly just sitting inside the visitor's entrance, looking hopefully towards the door and the streams of people entering, wishing to see some of my friends or family walk through.

A quarter to four and we got in formation on the grounds immediately in front of bleachers packed with families.  I'm just chatting away with some of my friends when I hear my name being shouted from behind me and I look back and see Ben, my Israeli friend, standing at the barrier.  I walk over and he gives me a big hug.  I return to formation and the ceremony begins.

All of the commanders walk in, followed by some of the highest officers in Tzanchanim.  Then they call the mitzdayin soldiers.  My names is called and I walk to the front to stand before my unit.  The MemPay (Company Commander) turns around and takes a red beret from the table.  He takes my green beret off my head and replaces it with the red Tzanchanim beret.  He shakes my hand and moves to the next soldier.  It is done.  I am in Tzanchanim.  I am a Tzanchan.

At the end of the ceremony, we sang Hatikvah, Israel's national anthem.  Maybe it was the setting sun and cooling of temperatures, maybe it was the fatigue and weariness, or maybe it was because of something more, but I got chills when I sang this nation's song.  For me, Hatikvah isn't just a song of Israel, the country.  Instead, it is also for Israel, the nation of Jews.  My eyes welled up a little as I sang about the same hope in every Jewish soul, for two thousand years, to return to our beloved homeland, the land of Zion and Jerusalem.

We tossed our new red berets in the air.  The tekkes was over.

For the next couple hours, I met all my friends who came to see me.  Ben and some of his friends, Ami who's still studying in yeshivah, David, Amy and the girls, Shai, and Adira, another friend from the States.  We took pictures, I talked about the masa, tried not to fall over, and enjoyed ourselves.  I met some of my friends' families, grabbing pictures with them.  We all congratulated ourselves on making it to this stage.  Now not everyone is going to be together anymore.  Some guys are going to a course to become commanders.  Most of us are going to our new assignment: Shechem (also called Nablus) in the West Bank.

--------------------

The best news on Tuesday wasn't the end of the masa kumtah, the completion of training, and receiving the red beret.  Instead, it was that Gilad Shalit finally returned home.  After more than five years in captivity, he has come home to his family.  In Israel, everyone knows about Gilad and his ordeal.  Everyone now knows that he is home.  While every Israeli feels for him and his family and is happy that he has returned home in relatively good condition, not everyone agrees with the terms of his return.  I wrote about this in my last post, but I want to explore a little more what his exchange means for Israel.

To begin with, Israel and Hamas agreed to the Egyptian-brokered exchange a few weeks ago.  The numbers?  Gilad Shalit, one Israeli soldier, for 1,027 Palestinian....fighters?  They are certainly not soldiers.  The most appropriate term would be "terrorists."  The Palestinians involved in this exchange were not captured on a field of battle as Gilad was (his tank was ambushed as it patrolled the border near Gaza.  His crew was killed and he was dragged across the border).  Instead, these Palestinian men and women were involved in bombings, stabbings and other terrorist activities.  They either planned, aided or executed these attacks.

How can Israel agree to a one for one thousand exchange?  Won't these terrorists just kill again?  Isn't this a tactical and strategic fail?  Was this deal the right thing to do?

Yes.

Let me explain.  From a military and policy standpoint, this deal was terrible.  I don't know if it is appropriate to call it a failure because Gilad is home safe, but to call it a pseudo-surrender, I believe, is not far from the truth.  A few reasons for why I think this.  First, it is difficult for me to believe that the IDF and security and intelligence apparatuses in the government really did not know where Gilad was being held in the Gaza strip.  In Operation Caste Lead in 2009-2010, I don't know why a stronger effort was not made to locate and retrieve him.  For as much intelligence as Israel has, for them to not be able to locate Gilad in the small Gaza strip is beyond me.  In addition, where was the daring and strength of purpose and resolve Israel so vividly demonstrated during Operation Entebbe, when Israeli passengers were being held hostage in Uganda and the IDF, led by Jonathan Netanyahu, the current prime minister's brother and only casualty of the operation, conducted a daring raid to free its citizens, held hostage by Palestinian terrorists, from the airport?  (Also watch the movie "The Last King of Scotland."  The rescue is the last scene of the movie.)  Where was the boldness Israel demonstrated in Operation Solomon, when it rescued hundreds of Ethiopian Jews and brought them back to Israel?

What does it mean now that Israel negotiates one for one thousand?  Israel used to inspire hope and pride when it would go to such great lengths, requiring incredible human feats, to protect its citizens and Jews worldwide.  Now it gives in to terrorists who we can easily wipe out without even so much as a second thought.  And, in due time, the world would most likely thank us.

But Israel's ShinBet (FBI) and Mossad (CIA) gave the green light for this exchange.  Most of the terrorists will be sent abroad, to other Middle Eastern states, Europe or Africa.  Few will be allowed to remain in Gaza or the West Bank.  ShinBet and Mossad plan to track every freed terrorist.  While that seems incredibly difficult, daunting and draining of a task, if they signed off on it, then I trust that.

However, that notwithstanding, doesn't the one for one thousand just encourage Hamas to keep capturing Israeli soldiers?  Am I suddenly a much juicier target?  I've learned that Hamas and Hezbollah, learning from experience, would much rather capture than kill an IDF soldier.  Soon enough, they may get all of their fighters back if they take hostage only four or five of my friends.

But then what should Israel pay to get back only one of its sons?  If Hamas wants to say that its fighters are worth 0.0009737 of an IDF soldier, fine.  I would agree.  Gilad Shalit will never put on an IDF uniform again in his life.  The terrorists Israel freed will certainly take up arms, if given the opportunity, against Israel.  I can't even say they will put on a uniform because they have no uniform to don.  They will pick up a rifle off the ground and fire into a crowd.  So then, should Israel just negotiate one for one?  Five Hamas fighters for Gilad?  Twenty for one?  One hundred for one?  What is the appropriate number?  Maybe one thousand is too much.  Maybe it is an absurd number.  But where do you draw the line on a number being too high?

Meanwhile, the families of the victims of these terrorists' attacks are upset, and with good reason.  But I went to a concert the other night in Acko.  A famous Israeli artist, Ritah, sang for the opening of an arts festival.  Between songs, she mentioned how Gilad was coming home and the whole crowd broke out into a thunderous applause.  And I realized then that every mother has been in Gaza with Gilad throughout the past five years.  Every parent has a child who has served in the army.  Many parents have children in combat service who stand at some of the most dangerous borders in the world.  Gilad has become the son of every Israeli, of every Jew.

Adam mentioned to me that there is an American being held captive in Afghanistan.  Captured in 2009, Bowe Bergdahl is yet to be released.  While his incarceration has been only half the time of Gilad's, I wonder how many Americans know about his capture.  I certainly didn't until Adam told me.  From day one, virtually every Israeli knew about Gilad.  He is a national story.  The nation couldn't move on until he was brought home.  (There are many who softly criticize Gilad's father, Noam, for starting the campaign to free his son, because it has effectively handcuffed every Israeli government and ultimately forced the one for one thousand exchange.)  Gilad is the son of Israel.

The newspapers are abuzz with different opinions on what the exchange means for Israel and Hamas.  I saw two separate articles calling for the reintroduction of the death penalty in Israel (it was used only one time, for the execution of Adolf Eichmann).  I read a very good article calling out the differences in Israeli society and Palestinian society.  We welcomed home a soldier while they welcomed back terrorists, who readily admitted to their murderous deeds and intentions.  It is a contrast between good and evil, yet somehow the world barely notices, blurring the lines and even flipping sides on which is which to each respective people.

In Jewish law, a person cannot be considered dead until his body is recovered.  With the exception of one individual, Ron Arad, Israel has reclaimed every soldier lost across its borders.  In an exchange a few years ago with Hezbollah, Israel recovered two soldiers captured at the beginning of the Second Lebanon War in 2006.  Unfortunately, Hezbollah returned two dead bodies.  Gilad is the first time a soldier has been returned alive.

While I am not prepared to say one thousand twenty-seven fighters is an appropriate number for the return of one Israeli soldier, it is the government's responsibility to protect its citizens and soldiers.  There are already thousands of Palestinians on our borders--and millions of other Arabs in the region--who want to harm Israel.  At the risk of sounding slightly callous, what will a few hundred more amount to?  The freed terrorists will be monitored.  Israel continues to protect itself via the security fence, checkpoints, the work of the IDF and intelligence agencies, and with new technologies, such as Iron Dome, which shoots down rockets from Gaza.

But the bottom line is that this is the world and reality within which Jews and Israel live.  We must look out for one another and ensure we are unified and strong, even if that means giving up dangerous individuals.  People will always want to harm us, to kill us, to say that we do not deserve to live because we are Jews, because we pray and believe differently than others.  People throughout history have always said this.  But we can withstand these attacks.  I truly believe in God because the evidence is all around me.  Israel is here and it is thriving!  Despite the evil intentions of every one of its neighbors for sixty years, Israel survives.  It continues to be the one light in a region of darkness.  It comes at a price at times, but we can pay that price, we have to pay that price.  When they want to destroy us, we stand strong and fight back.  We get crazy Americans to come over here and join in the battle.  The situation of Gilad Shalit is heart-wrenching and there is certainly no right answer.  But as it was, it must have been done.  It is the price of being Jewish.

High Holidays in the Holy Land

The backdrop to everything I write here is a feeling of excitement throughout Israel.  The words that I type to narrate and explain the past two weeks of my life are meaningless compared to what is currently taking place in this country.  My own attempt to masquerade as an Israeli soldier is put to shame by the reality and truth of what is about to occur: Gilad Shalit, held captive by Hamas in the Gaza Strip for five years, without a visit from any aid organization, is finally coming home!  Why must I mention the "truth"?  Because of the cost to bring home one Jewish soldier: 1,027 terrorists.  Not soldiers.  Terrorists, a third of whom are serving one or more life sentences.  And this has been the policy of the Israeli government since its independence over sixty years ago; Israel will go to whatever length it needs to bring its soldiers, dead or alive, back home (the only exception is Ron Arad, a pilot shot down in the 1980s, whose whereabouts are unknown).  Both Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and Hamas leader Khaled Meshaal have made it clear that one Jewish life is worth more than a thousand Palestinians lives.  Gilad will return home and never don the Tzahal uniform ever again.  The Palestinian terrorists will undoubtedly take violent action against Israel.  In no way is this trade "fair" or "just."  But it is the way it is.  It is the policy of Israel, as a Jewish state.  It's a, pardon my language, shitty calculus.  But this is what must be done.  Because we're Jews.

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Last time I wrote an entry, I was on a yom siddurim.  That notwithstanding, I just finished closing twenty-four days on base.  Three straight weekends.  Two high holidays.  It should be twenty-eight days but thankfully Sukkot fell in the middle of this week and they let everyone go home.  No one else in the entire base for all of my training closed as much in one stretch.  Such is the army at times.

The day after the yom siddurim, Jesse, Shmuel and myself met up with my citah at a tiny reserve base in the middle of the West Bank.  We were located just outside Hebron to guard settlements for Rosh Hashanah.  Yes, settlements.  That dark, combative word.  The supposed obstacle to any peace between Israel and the Palestinians.  I was there, front row, between the Jews living their, practicing their faith and celebrating the new year, and the ring of Arab villages around us.

Ok, so it really wasn't as glorified as that may sound.  The first yishuv (settlement) I guarded had literally twenty-five families.  The "town" consisted of a dozen or so houses that would not have looked out of place in any American trailer park.  Each yishuv certainly has a synagogue.  And what surprised me, was that every yishuv I guarded had a very nice park for children.  I've learned that in Jewish law and history, if you are going to build a town, you must build a school.  If not, then the town is forsaken and should be destroyed.  This is the kind of emphasis Judaism places on education.  And for the even younger individuals of the town, they build a beautiful park.

That same night, I also guarded at a second yishuv, this one even smaller with just eleven families.  Eleven!  They barely have enough individuals to make a minyon (quorum) for prayer.  And when the families come to the temple for services, the men are all packing.  They'll have a rifle slung over their shoulder or a pistol under their shirt.  These people live in the reality that what they are doing is dangerous.  It's an incredibly sad thing: to live on land that is yours and yet fear for your life and the life of your family.  The amount of firepower that was in this village surprised me and made me think that the patrols that me, my commander and a few other soldiers were conducting were a frivolous waste of time.  But still, aside from the cold, the boredom, and the desire to be in Jerusalem for Rosh Hashanah, it was fulfilling to be protecting Jews on our land.

The weekend was uneventful and passed quickly enough.  Then we returned to base on Sunday.  Monday, however, was a great day to be a lone soldier; we had a yom kef, a fun day.  We had a similar one a few months ago, but this time it was for all of the lone soldiers in all of Tzahal, as opposed to just an alternative for lone soldiers who had no parents to come to the base for parents day.  This time, there were hundred of soldiers, we were on a beach, I got a couple massages, played some football in the water, ate great food.  It was a great day.

We returned that night and had a physical test: pushups, sit-ups and running two kilometers.  Did the max in both and ran a decent 7:57 2k.  The next day or two was spent cleaning up our living quarters and returning equipment.  Nothing special.  We had an inspection by an officer on base of our rooms and then on Wednesday evening, had a masa, our last one before the final one in a few days.

Here's the email I sent my family from my Blackberry after the masa:

"Its 7 in the morning on thursday.  Yesterday, I had a pretty normal day: a small shooting test, a run through of my ceremony in two weeks, and preparation for a masa, the last one before the masa kumta for the red beret (kumta) of tzanchanim.


The masa started at 730 in the evening...and we just got back a little while ago, at 6.  Count it: 10.5 hours, 48 kilometers.  How long is a marathon in kilometers?  About 42?  Yeah, that's what I thought.


The last 6 was carrying a heavy guy, weight 110kilograms.  Yeah, that's 242 pounds.  We're warriors.


We got back to the plugah and the mem pay (company commander, top dog in the unit) said a few words and then called on me to stand before all 100 or so soldiers for the honor of rallying them up and lifting the stretchers over their heads.


I think we're going to bed in half an hour.


All in a days work!


Love all!


Daniel"


After the masa, we received company gun straps.  It has our logo, gdud number and name, and our draft date.  One of the final pieces to becoming an IDF soldier.

It hurt to walk the next day.  But you recover and staying another weekend for Yom Kippur on base also helps cut down on the amount of walking needed.  This time, just my citah closed for the holiest day in the Jewish year.  It was an easy fast, probably considering how used I am to having an irregular eating schedule from so many days in the shetach.

On Sunday, all three plugahs went to a different training base to get prepared for our upcoming operational deployments.  We had a few hours of lessons and a morning training in the shetach.  Then life sucked for a bit.  While my entire plugah went back to base on Monday evening for a barbecue and sport day on Tuesday and then leaving in the afternoon, me and six others went to jump a fifth time.  Remember how I got split up last month at jump school?  Came back to bite me in the you know what.

We went to Tel Nof on Monday evening and spent the next morning running through training exercises again, things I wouldn't care to do ever again in my life.  Then that afternoon, we set off for the last jump, one that is different than all the others.

This final jump was in a different location.  We weren't to jump on the soft sandy dunes near the Mediterranean; instead, we drove two hours south to the Judean or northern Negev desert.  We had our equipment already prepared in the sack we would dangle from our harness.  We arrived at the base and the first thing I noticed was the wind.  It wasn't just a breeze, it was windy, which makes it much worse when you're in the air.  But nothing to do about it, although one Israeli did ask if we were going to still jump despite the conditions.

On the plane, I was nervous.  I had lost the groove and rhythm of the four previous jumps because now there was a month gap between them and this last one.  The plane also noticeably rocked back and forth as we neared the jump zone.  I was to be the last guy in the first jump group, but then a commander joined the twelve of us and I was pushed to thirteen...but still in the first group.  I did not like this.  I did not want to be about to jump and then the light turn back to red and be pulled in.  But there was nothing for me to do.  I said a quiet prayer and tried not to think about jumping into the blustery wind that filled the cabin.

We all stood up as the plane approached the site.  Commanders checked our equipment, the lights in the cabin went from yellow to red, and the red door light turned on.  Less than a minute.  Then green.  Jump jump jump jump jump...it continued as the guys were sucked out the door.  I stayed as close to the guy in front of me as I could, hoping to just get it over with.  I was still freaking out a bit.  But then I saw the outside and suddenly all of my nerves left me and I was pumped to jump.  And then I'm in the door.  My left leg forward.  My right leg is swinging forward, literally outside the plane, and from the corner of my eye I see the green door light turn back red.  I look forward, pretending not to notice, hoping against hope that the commanders didn't notice and could just let me jump....but no!  My right leg is literally outside the airplane when I feel hands tug me back inside, nearly knocking me off my feet.

Thus I was destined to be first in the next group.  That was ok.  It wasn't ideal--my nerves started to come back--but before I knew it I was back in the door, waiting, and waiting, and waiting, seeing the ground below and the lights in the distance.  But mainly, despite the full moon, from the perspective of the open doorway of a plane, things were black and indistinguishable.  My left hand was outside the plane, rubbing against the cold metal and my right gripped my equipment bag.  The light turned green and I was ready to jump.  But nothing.  Literally three or four seconds passed before I felt a hand hit me on the shoulder and push me out the door.  And I was gone, being whipped behind the plane.

I tried to look up at my parachute but couldn't lift my head.  My rope was tangled!  I prepared to pull my reserve chute but felt myself spinning around as the cords untangled themselves.  And I was smooth sailing (or falling) the rest of the way.  Until the ground came upon me faster than before, and I hit it hard.  My left leg is still a bit sore.  After that, I gathered my chute, put on my combat vest, and trekked off to the rendezvous point.  When the entire jump group had gathered, we set off across the vast jump zone and to a waiting bus, five kilometers.  It was a hard walk.  But it was over.

Went to bed late, woke up early and left for Tel Aviv.