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.

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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.