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.
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