A Week of War to become a Warrior

Me and Michael, my MAG partner, after War Week

I am a military buff.  It's a passion I inherited from my father; he loves reading about history in general and wars in particular.  When I was younger, my family took two separate driving trips through the eastern and western theaters of the Civil War, touring battle sites and exploring the land.  Sounds thrilling, right?  Ok, that was actually not sarcastic!  I formalized my understanding and knowledge of history and conflict through studies in high school and college, in addition to personal learning, which includes reading, movies, etc.  Through all of this, I truly believe that you cannot understand war, or judge someone's behavior or actions in the heat of conflict, until you personally have been in battle.

With that being said, this past week was War Week, a culmination of my training in a week-long exercise in the shetach designed to simulate being....well....in a war.  And did it succeed?  You be the judge.

First let me say that Sunday we had returned to Tel Nof for another paratroop jump.  It was to be my plugah's fifth and my fourth.  On the plane, I was to be the last one in the second jump group.  However, not everyone in the first and second jump groups got out the door in time.  That left me second in the third group.  The guy ahead of me panicked beyond belief, saying that there is no way he can be first, and they switched our yellow cords, putting me at the head of the pack.  What this entails is standing two feet from the door the entire time the plane circles back.  It entails entering the doorway a good two minutes before the plane enters the drop zone, being able to see everything, the sky above, the horizon in front and the ground way below.  It entails looking at the side of the door and not seeing the lights on, then suddenly the red light goes on and you know you have literally seconds before the green light flashes....on....JUMP!

This was an intense, incredible jump.  For my fifth one, hopefully in a few weeks, I would love to be first out the door again.  That evening, my entire plugah received their confats, the paratroopers' wings.  Then we returned to our base.

We prepared our equipment for two days before leaving the base on Tuesday evening.  To start off the week, we were walking out of the base when a wasp stung me on my head.  Literally, just flew in, dug its claws into my hair above my temple, and put its stinger in my noggin.  It was painful and a little swollen, but I was ok.  Just a great way to start the most intense training experience of my life.

All three plugahs (101, 202 and 890) gathered in the field outside the base's fence and as we each waited our turn for helicopters to take a handful of soldiers and fly off deep into the shetach.  My MemPay (Company Commander) had told us before that we are envision not being the shetach around Bach Tzanchanim, but rather in southern Lebanon.  That was hard to do when I recognized every hill and valley we walked through.

And most of the week, we just walked.  There was a rough schedule to each day, much like the days and weeks in the shetach throughout my training.  We would have a day and night exercise or 'targile' and often sleep around noon, during the hottest part of the day.  When the choppers finished dropping the last citah (squad) of the plugah (company) off around midnight, we walked a few kilometers then slept, I think.  To be honest, the week is pretty much one long experience between the sun rising and falling and the stars rotating in the sky.  I couldn't tell you on this day we did such and such a thing or this particular targile.  I have a rough memory of the order of the targiles, but not necessarily their placement in the days.

Anyway, I know the first day we slept for a good five hours in the early afternoon.  We woke up, had field rations for dinner, then walked and walked for hours to the location of the next targile.  We would arrive each evening at the next exercise location between ten or two at night.  After the exercise, we would walk again for hours.  Then maybe be given two hours to sleep, wake up around six for another targile.

Each targile is really a TarPal, a targile plugah.  It is something that defines a soldier as a warrior; once completing these large exercises, the soldier is fit for combat.  Each TarPal can take over two hours; we have a dry run and then a wet run, the first essentially walk-through and the latter with live ammunition.  Maneuvering over a hundred soldiers in an area a square kilometer with large hills can take some time.

For me, I was in a unit that provided covering fire, called Cipah Retik.

(In fact, probably because I'm the only non-Israeli in the group and I'm not shy about my amateur Hebrew level, I would often shout words of encouragement or motivation.  The commander of the unit is a sammal (sergeant), a tough, kinda crazy, guy who will yell horrible, hilarious things at us if he gets upset or frustrated.  He quickly took a liking to me because I would act a bit crazy.  He said to me before the week started, "you have all the 'rabak' in the world."  That's pretty nice praise; 'rabak' is something like spirit and craziness and heart all rolled into one.  It's like the Rebel Yell, except something that you carry within yourself all the time, not just before a battle.  As the week progressed, everyone in the plugah would shout things to me when we passed by, calling us 'cipah rabak' or 'satlanim!' [stoners] a word I had used a few weeks prior to describe the unit.)

I was with my MAG, in its stand, on the top of a hill, overlooking the exercise area, shooting at different spots on the target hill, pretending to blow enemies away.  I never shot the MAG so much.  I would receive hundreds of bullets for each exercise, and fire through them literally within minutes.  At night, I had night-vision goggles (which is pretty awesome) and an infra-red laser on my red-dot sight to see where my barrel was aiming. On one particular evening, I shot literally about five hundred bullets.  In the night vision, the barrel shone white it was so hot.  I said to Michael, my MAG partner, "you want to return to the Bach now [by way of injury]?  Just touch the barrel."  Seriously, a guy from the previous draft returned early from burning his hand on the barrel.

But I would shoot the gun for a few minutes, then at the end of the targile, be required, with the other Magist in the group, to run down my hill/mountain, and up the target hill or hills, past most of the plugah, in preparation for attacking the following hill.  And this is with full ammunition already in my vest, about thirty-five kilograms of weight.  Not fun.  And those few minutes of shooting the MAG couldn't really make up for the hours (literally hours) each day of carrying the weapon as we hiked for kilometers and kilometers.  Each night, we would average around ten kilometers, stopping every hour for a few minutes before continuing.  We didn't follow any roads; instead, as if stalking an enemy, we traversed terrain that brought us to our destination as quickly and quietly as possible, but that often meant climbing up and down hills that would measure a hundred meters or more in height.

One evening, tanks were involved in a targile.  It was at night, and with my night-vision I could see them.  They played only a cursory role in the exercise, providing fire in support of the foot soldiers.  And the fire was also a MAG, but attached to the tank itself.  They didn't fire their cannons.  There were also supposed to be snipers with us, but that never materialized.

We spent Shabbat in the field as well.  This was actually a pretty nice experience.  On Friday morning, after not sleeping at all in the night, we came up the buildings we use for urban warfare exercises, and pretended to attack another plugah that was occupying the area.  We had the next few hours to eat and chill, then given the last two hours before Shabbat for ourselves to relax, take off our vests (which we were never allowed to do at all during the week), go to sleep, whatever else there is to do when you have nothing to do it with.

Evening prayer service was very nice, although short for me because I had to guard the tent full of ammunition.  Seeing all the soldiers, dirty and tired from three rough days, in our uniforms in the field evokes a different emotion than seeing us all clean in our Aleph uniforms in the synagogue on base.  It's almost as if we truly are in combat and taking these few moments to attend to the reason that we fight: our Judaism.

I was finally able to change my socks and take my contacts out for the first time all week.  I slept on Shabbat without my boots on, but the rocky ground made sleeping anything but easy and comfortable.  Then when Shabbat ended, it was right back to work and a two hour hike to the next exercise location.

Every time we hiked, we relied on our MemPay to guide us to the destination.  He received orders from a commander higher up and the MemPay had to find our way to the target.  That required reading a map, which would often require stopping at different intersections, if only for a few minutes.  But each time we stopped, if we were allowed to sit or lay down in prone position, I was out like a light.  And then three, five or ten minutes later, "everyone on their feet!" and we would continue.  With all of this sleep included, I would say we averaged between four and five hours of sleep every twenty-four hours.

And towards the end of the week, sleeping almost became a burden.  How?  Because, for example, one evening, I remember having a dream so vivid that I thought it was reality.  I was in my bed at my home in Chicago, watching a movie or something on the computer.  Suddenly, I hear two sets of snoring on either side of me.  I think to myself, well the first can be my cat, but realize that he passed away a few months ago.  Then, in my dream, I frown and am confused.  The illusion begins to dissipate and I realize that I am not in my comfortable, big bed, with my beloved childhood pet sleeping at my side.  But rather, it's three in the morning, I am in the middle of the Judean desert in Israel, sitting, freezing, in my combat uniform and vest, my hand on the trigger of a machine gun, and Michael, snoring, resting his helmet on my leg, and another guy snoring on the other side.

I soon had a few other dreams that reminded me of home; what the plane ride back will be like, who will pick me up from the airport, who will I see first, what should my schedule be, etc.  While I used to go to sleep thinking about girls to help sooth me and put me in a comfortable, familiar state of mind, I now found myself being averse to those thoughts and would just pass out from pure exhaustion.

Sunday afternoon, as we waited for helicopters to again pick us up and transport us somewhere else, an incredible thing happened: it rained!  Ok, if you're in Chicago right now, I'm sure that it's rained once this week already.  But for summer/fall in Israel, it's incredible.  And that we were in the desert made it....what would you say....a miracle?  At first it was just a few drops, and I looked at the clouds in the distance and saw them moving towards us.  Within minutes, the place was pouring (by Israeli standards).  A bunch of guys tried to find shelter on the barren hill behind they bags or sleeping mats.  Most of us just enjoyed the surprise.  I saw my friend Shmuel being told by one of our commanders to practice handling jams on his Negev light machine gun.  I sprinted down the hill to join him and partake in something that in every other circumstance I hate.  I wanted to crawl, to roll in the mud, to get as dirty as possible from the rain.  But it was not to be.  The MemPay didn't want us behaving like, I don't know what, and soon the rain stopped and the helicopters came to take us away.

After our last targile on Monday morning, we slept for a few hours and awoke at noon to don our gas masks.  This was something I always dreaded.  For one thing, you are not allowed to wear contacts with the masks and you can't fit glasses inside the rubber hoods.  Hence, for me at least, you're left blind.  We had a three kilometer walk back to the base and it was start with these masks.  You can't breathe in them and they become very hot, especially with a helmet on your head.  I walked slowly, staring at the ground, measuring my steps with my breathes.  I heard shots in the distance and saw tear gas canisters come flying towards us, landing in the middle of the two lines, spewing white smoke.  A few of us steered clear of them but I could still feel the sting of smoke, the smell of the gas.  It reminded all too much of the day we ran into a tent filled with smoke.  Fortunately, this walk was just under a kilometer.  We took off our masks, but then loaded twelve people onto stretchers for the final journey to base and into our plugah.

So was this War Week really war-like?  In some ways yes and in many ways no.  We practiced attacking enemy positions with real ammunition, would hike to different locations for "battles," were constantly tired, had an irregular eating schedule and combined different military units such as helicopters and tanks.  But we also had a regular TarPal schedule and routine (day and night; dry and wet), with a briefing and debriefing before and after each exercise, we were never without food or water, once each exercise was completed, that was it until the following one that evening or next day, there was no advance or counter-attack.  You can decide.

Above all, in the end, it felt good to complete the last hard exercise of advanced training.  Now we just have two masas left until I'm done with training.  Yesterday was devoted to cleaning and returning equipment.  This morning, all three plugot had a mini ceremony where the head commander of the base said that we have turned from soldiers into warriors and are prepared for combat.  Today, there was a special event held for the lone soldiers of the base for Rosh Hashanah.  Much like the one right before Pesach/Passover, we received gifts, this time a toaster.  I'm currently on a Yom Siddurim, but have to return, not to base, but to Hebron tomorrow for guard duty for all of Rosh Hashanah!  It kinda sucks; I was looking forward to a relaxing New Year and four day break from the military, but it is not to be.  But now I am reminded of what the Sammal said to me yesterday as we were cleaning our weapons, "I like you, Daniel, because even though you are here for only a year and a half, you know why you are here.  Most of these guys [Israelis] spend their three years having no idea why they are here."  This weekend will be again the reason I am here.

How to paratroop from a plane

The entire plane shook and roared as the ground disappeared below us.  There were no accommodations on this aircraft; no stewardesses, no reclining seats, no peanuts.  I sat with my back to the wall, my knees touching my friends across from me as they faced me from the inside seats.  People started singing songs, cheering, clapping, smiling, not saying anything, looking around at everyone's faces, trying to peek through one of the small holes that make a window, saying a last-minute prayer, anything to hide the fear, trepidation and anticipation.  I suppose they forgot to install air conditioning on this military plane; everyone is sweating profusely, but it might not just be because of the heat.

After twenty minutes, a bell rings and a commander jumps to the end of the line of us and takes the yellow cord from the packs on our back and hooks it up to a cable running the length of the plane.  He quickly checks our helmet and reserve chute, then moves on to the next one in line.  A few more minutes later and the side rear doors of the plane open, kicking up dust and leaves that were tracked into the plane.  The breeze cools us temporarily, but then another commander looks down the line and raises his arms for the first ten guys to stand up.

We shakily get to our feet; suddenly the rocking of the plane seems amplified, but it could be a lack of strength in our legs for what we are about to do.  I grab the yellow cord with my left hand as the commander shouts for us to check our equipment.  Left foot forward?  Check.  Right hand forty-five degrees down and to the side?  Check.  He then shouts to sign off.  I look at the guy in front of me, making sure the yellow cord is over his left shoulder and his feet are good.  I feel a slap on my shoulder: "shteim bseder/two ok!"  I slap the guy in front of me: "shalosh bseder/three ok!"  Then "arbah bseder/ four ok!" "chamesh bseder/five ok!"  "sheish bseder/six ok!" and so on until the guy standing at the door.  We wait for the light to turn from red to green, then to jump out of the plane...

It never really dawned on me exactly what it means to be a part of Tzanchanim until two weeks ago.  Tzanchanim translates into "Paratroopers" in English.  But what does it mean exactly to be a paratrooper?  Back in March, when I passed the gibbush and fought to get into Tzanchanim, I told my parents that it entails jumping out of a plane (obviously, right?).  I mentioned that I have more than a slight fear of heights.  "How will you deal with having to jump from a plane?" they rightly asked.  "I don't know.  But when the times comes, I'll figure it out.  I mean, its just two weeks of my life, so it can't be that bad, right?"  In truth, the two week jump course was so far away that Tzanchanim didn't mean being a paratrooper as it so much meant being a coveted unit in the IDF (coveted, of course, because they are paratroopers!).  I think my brother had the best reaction: "are you kidding me?  That's so not fair!  I have to pay to go skydiving but Daniel gets to jump out of a plane five times for free!"  Kimberly, my sister, probably the leading daredevil among the Flesch children, was impressed and excited for me.

Fast forward to September.  We had finished a few hard weeks and were ready to go to jump school.  It's a great two-week break from our usual routine of days in the field and the hard life of being a foot soldier.  That Sunday, we didn't go to Tel Aviv or Beersheva to go back to base.  Instead, I took a short bus ride to Rehovot and then another bus ride to the paratrooping base.  Life on the base was different.  For one thing, our commanders were not with us; instead, the madrichim (leaders) are all men and women fulfilling their reserve duty.  They are my age or older and come for two weeks at a time to teach soldiers how to jump.  Simple jobnik reserve duty, if you ask me.

Life was pretty chill but also very serious.  We needed to learn how to properly jump out of a plane and land safely.  It's serious work.  That entire first week was spent practicing jumping and landing.  We would stand in a field of sand (Shmuel noticed it looked a lot like a large sandbox said he wanted to bring shovels the next day and build sand castles), helmets on our heads, and fall forward, backward, to each side, and roll properly.  Then we would run up a short ramp and jump off.  Joseph Cooper, a lone soldier from California, commented that we look like toad from Mario, with our green uniform and extra large looking heads, stupidly running up ramps and falling down.

Then there were other machines to learn how to jump.  I would stand on a platform seven feet off the ground, wearing a harness hooked up to cables from above and jump the few foot drop.  I would hang and the madrich would have me practice pulling the reserve chute, what to do if I have a problem, and so on.  Then there's another machine where you're fifteen feet off the ground and jump in a similar manner, but machine has a spring connected at the top so you swing back and forth and when your momentum slows, the commander will drop you the last three feet and you practice rolling.  Then there's one that has you thirty feet off the ground, four guys in a row, and it mimics jumping out the door of a plane in order. Your harness is connected to a zip line and you free fall about half the distance and swing to the end of the cable.  My biggest thing with all of these machines was to condition myself not to hesitate when the commander shouted "cfotz/jump!"  I got pretty good at that.  But that week was brutal to my body.  I got such bad bruises on my upper arms from the straps violently rubbing against them.  It's not the soreness you feel from normal military life; that gets you stronger.  This week broke down your body, with only the hope to recover, not strengthen.

We practiced how to sit in the plane, the procedure and routine, and also learned how to properly wear the jumping harness, attach your combat equipment, fold your parachute at the end, everything you need to know.  We went back to the Tzanchanim base for Shabbat and then returned to the jumping base on Sunday, hopefully feeling ready for five jumps.

Tzanchanim is not the only unit that jumps.  Sayerot (special forces) do it to; Nahal, Golani, Givati, etc., their special forces learn to parachute as well.  But they only jump twice; we jump five times.  At the end of your jumps, you receive the coveted "confats", the parachute and wings pin that you display on your uniform.  As I've been told, it's the sexiest thing you can wear on your chest.  Damn I want it!

We trained a little bit on Sunday, then were split into our jump groups for Monday.  Unfortunately, my citah (squad) was split up, with me and three other guys joining a jump group from 890.  It's not really a big deal, just more fun to be with your friends.

On Monday, my jump group met at its assigned time and we walked to a building where we picked up a harness and parachute and a reserve chute.  It all weighs about twenty kilograms.  Then we boarded a bus that took us to the adjacent air force base and we unloaded at the end of an airstrip.  Other groups were already there; we were to be the third group to jump.  Long story short, we had our equipment on, sitting down waiting for the planes, when we were told they weren't going to come; no jump for that day.  It sucked after waiting in anticipation for more than an hour.

The next day, we again went to the airstrip, waited, and a plane came to take the first group, then returned for the second group, then we saw it on the horizon as it flew back, but never landed.  There was a problem with the plane.  We got screwed again!

(This kind of reminded me of Operation Overlord during World War II, or better known as D-Day.  The original mission was supposed to be conducted on June 5, 1944 but bad weather postponed the operation.  Eisenhower knew that he could not keep putting the mission off because the men would lose hope and morale would quickly slip.  So, despite less-than-favorable weather, he decided to initiate the biggest operation to date the following day.  Ok, so maybe we weren't exactly in the same situation (but it's fun to talk about history, right?), but having to be told twice that we our first jump was not to be that day didn't leave us feeling all peachy inside.)

Finally, Wednesday, was to be our first jump.  We drive out to the airfield and stand in two lines for our jump order.  We lay out our equipment then the commander gives us a last lesson on everything to know and remember when jumping.  We return to our harnesses and put them one, clipping the reserve chute to hooks on the front.  Our commander checks everyone and tells us to sit and wait.

The C-130 Hercules lumbers towards us.  If I was a few feet taller, I could touch the tip of its wing, that's how close we were.  It stops in front of our group and we enter through the back, the first guy in being the last guy out.  We're packed in like sardines, sitting on red cargo nets that form seats.  There's about thirty of us for the left door and the same number for the right door.  Each door is split into three groups, with one group jumping each time the plane passes over the drop area.  I was second to last in the last group.

The rear ramp closes and we're off.  I can't even believe what I'm about to do, trying to remember what I'm supposed to do when I jump, praying I don't have any problems.  As we get closer, the doors open and the first group stands up, then jumps.  You can feel the tug of the yellow cords on the cable as it follows them out of the plane.  After the last guy has gone, the commanders pull in all the cords and tell us to stand.  We do and slowly inch our way towards the back of the plane, signing off that we're ready and ok.

The first guy stands at the edge of the door, waiting for the light to turn green, signaling the ok to jump.  We wait, and wait, and wait.  Then bam!  Green light and the first guy jumps and disappears.  Then the next guy jump and disappears.  And the next.  As they jump we walk forward, as if being pulled by some force that you can't and won't break free from.  I look at the walls of the plane, reading the English signs, feeling comforted by something familiar, until Shimon, from my citah, is ahead of me, in the doorway, then disappears.  I'm next.

I throw my yellow cord past the commander at the door and enter the doorway, putting my hands on the outside of the plane.  We practiced jumping when you feel the commander shouts "cfotz" and slaps you on the shoulder.  For the real thing, I don't remember if he shouted.  I do remember not receiving a slap; instead, I was literally pushed towards the open air.  Either I jumped, walked, stumbled or fell, but somehow I was outside the plane.

Immediately you become disoriented, with your body being twisted around and your legs flying even with your head.  A tug lets you know the chute has opened and you look up and see the absolute most beautiful thing in the world: an open parachute.  I stared at it for a good twenty seconds, making sure it was real and didn't fold in on itself.  I could feel my body weight pulling down on the harness.  I looked straight ahead and found myself staring at the horizon instead of the ground.  I was paratrooping!

You jump from the plane at an altitude of 1200 feet.  Really, it's supposed to be 400 meters, but because the plane was American, all of the instruments are in feet.  So, what does that mean to jump from such a low/high altitude?  For one thing, you instantly realize that you're not so far off the ground and feel comforted.  You don't have that far to go and it'll be over soon.  But then you realize that you're not so far off the ground and you don't feel so comforted.  You don't have that far to go and it could all be over soon!  What do I mean?  Well, a paratrooper's worst nightmare is getting a "neir/candle."  It's when your chute opens (as it naturally will when the yellow cord pulls on it) but doesn't expand.  In essence, you free fall.  If that happens you have one Mississippi....two Mississippi....three Mississippi....four Mississippi....five Mississippi....six Mississippi....seven Mississippi....eight Mississippi....nine Mississippi....ten Mississippi....eleven Mississippi....twelve Mississippi....dead.  Twelve seconds before you hit the ground!  It's really even less, because the first three seconds out of the plane you're supposed to count and then look up.  If you see that you're chute didn't open, you need to pull the reserve chute, which is at least another second.  Then just under two seconds for the chute to open and catch the wind.  That's already about six seconds gone by.  So if you hesitate....just don't hesitate.

Other problems can be holes in the parachute, a cable wrapped around the top or twisted straps.  In these cases, you're falling faster but have plenty of time to open your reserve chute and land safely.  If everything is ok, you float down to the ground in about thirty-five to forty seconds.  In all, you go from the plane to the ground in less than a minute.  You hit the ground and try to roll as you were taught, then lay on the sand for a few seconds, not believing that a few seconds ago you were on a plane flying through the air.

We jumped again later that day, but this time with our equipment on us.  We wrap our combat vest and gun in a special bag that hangs from two clips on our harness.  It also weighs about twenty kilograms.  When you're floating down, you release the clips and the bag falls four meters, held on by a strap so you don't land on it.

The next evening we had a night jump.  This was something else.  For one thing, as we near the drop zone, the inside of the plane is light by only red lights, definitely amplifying the military feel of the whole operation.  Then when you're in the doorway, you can't see the ground of anything.  Thankfully we had a full moon that evening, so after jumping, being twisted around, reoriented and checking the parachute, I could see that I had no problems.  The lights of the cities in the distance remind me at the same time that I am well off the ground, but not all that high up; the stars still seem to be closer at hand.  The sand below shines white.  I know it's getting closer but can't exactly tell how fast.  All of a sudden, the weight of the equipment bag disappears, my feet hit the ground with a thud and I fall backwards, my helmet hitting the sand.  I stare up as my parachute falls gracefully around me, the last, slow dance after such a violent beginning.  The soft fabric glides down and envelops me.  My heart and mind race, but the peaceful stillness of the night is complete and absolute.  I slowly calm down and take a few moments for myself before standing up and refolding my parachute.

It takes a long time for everyone to gather at the rendez-vous point, check our parachutes and walk out of the area to the buses.  The planes continue to fly overhead, dropping soldiers every pass.  It's an incredible sight seeing little figures exit the rear of the plane.  I pray every time for everyone's chute to open safely without problems.  As they descend slowly, you can hear people shouting in excitement or warning, as they may crash into each other.  As they near the ground, you remind people to keep their feet together, "you're thirty meters away.  Ten meters!  Feet together, feet together!  Nice landing, you alright?"

After the entire group has gathered and been checked, we put the forty plus kilograms of weight on our back and tramp off to the buses.  As we get closer, we see parents and family members waiting for us at the gate, shouting in excitement.  Mothers running up to kiss their sons on the cheeks, fathers slapping them on the back, asking about this or that.  We're given a few minutes break and I was able to meet Shimon's family and other friends.  The lone soldiers kind of stayed together, not sure of what to do, waiting for someone to tell us to eat some of this or some of that.

And that was the week.  I jumped a total of three times so far.  Everyone is returning tomorrow for one more jump before starting the most difficult week of training, Shavuah Milchemah/War Week.  Eight straight days in the field, mimicking actual combat and war conditions.  Don't know when I'll do my final jump, but hopefully I'll get the confats pin after tomorrow.

So, at the (almost) end of jumping, how was I able to do it, given my fear of heights and extreme trepidation?  You just do it.  That's how I love roller coasters; I know that I'm strapped in and nothing could happen, so just do it.  Yes, this is much different.  But hundreds of soldiers do it every year without complication.  And when you're in the plane and the guys in front of you are being shoved out the door, you have literally no time to think.  One second you're safely inside and the next you're being hurled through the air.  In reality, you have no control over what happens.  You try to jump strong and far, but that may or may not happen.  Your chute opens and if it has problems, deal with it.  If not, enjoy.  You can do this.

I want to end with this.  A few weeks ago, I read "Blink" by Malcolm Gladwell.  It's a decent book, you can skim a bunch.  But he includes the following quote from Sigmund Freud:

"When making a decision of minor importance, I have always found it advantageous to consider all the pros and cons.  In vital matters, however, such as the choice of a mate or a professions, the decision should come from the unconscious, from somewhere within ourselves.  In the important decisions of personal life, we should be governed, I think, by the deep inner needs of our nature."

In many ways, that's how I made the decision to come to Israel to join the IDF.  It didn't require a lot of thought or weighing of the pros and cons.  It's just something I needed to do.  And in Tzanchanim, sometimes you have to go outside your comfort zone to be a part of something bigger and better than yourself.  You do it for others, not for yourself.  The decisions of "the deep inner needs of our nature" may not always lead us to a safe or comfortable place.  But it'll certainly lead you to a better place.

If you have Facebook, check out this link for lots of photos (but I'm not in any of them, sorry).

If not, you should check out this website, Mako, they had photographers.

I'll hopefully get some of my own photos up for my next post.

September

My week in a picture, compliments of Gidon (Florida).

...is a month that usually fills me with so many different images, emotions and feelings.  It is the beginning of school and the excitement of seeing friends and taking new classes; it is the cooling of temperatures and the renewed energy that comes after the sweltering heat of August; it is the month of my birthday and always a great way to kick off the fall season.  And now, it is the month of anticipation: of the end of my training, of the fervor of social change thats been sweeping the streets of Tel Aviv, Jerusalem and other Israeli cities all summer, and of a political climax at the UN after months of expectation.  With the last comes perhaps the most tumultuous and violent month since the Second Intifadah.  I'll explain more at the end of this post, where I'll flex my rusty political muscles and explain what is going on in the region.

For now, let me start with the last Shabbat I had off base.  As I mentioned last time, we were kept later on base on Friday because there was the possibility that we would have to be on call if we were needed to guard somewhere in the country following the attacks in Eilat.  In truth, we all just wanted to go home.  But the situation is becoming more real with the realization that our training does have a purpose, that it isn't all punishment and hell.

I stopped in Tel Aviv to pick up some clothes from my cousin's place and then took a bus to Jerusalem, where I spent Shabbat with Shmuel (New York) and Effy (Australia) in their apartment.  We also met up with other friends in Tzanchanim, including Shmaya (New York) and Eliyahu (New Jersey).  Most of these guys are Chabad, an outreach organization based in Brooklyn, that sends people all over the world to connect with Jews in different countries.  Bottom line, though, is that Saturday reminded me of Unofficial, a very holy holiday at the University of Illinois where students wake up very early, don green outfits, and proceed to drink all day in honor of it being unofficially St. Patrick's Day.  It was a great Shabbat with the boys.

Then I received a call Saturday evening from my commander, telling me that instead of going to Machanah Natan in Beersheva the following morning, my unit was to meet in the Tel Aviv central bus station.  And it wasn't just my unit; there were hundreds, if not thousands, of soldiers packed into the lowest level of the building, convening for the week(s) ahead, then getting on buses to head off to our bases.  Why did we meet here?  Because rockets were falling on Beersheva and the surrounding area.  I suppose the IDF thought, wisely, that it wasn't exactly safe for most of its southern-based combat forces to convene in an open area so close to where missiles from Gaza were striking.  Thank you Hamas.

We had another surprise that Sunday: riot training.  Never a part of basic or advanced training, I hear that all of Tzanchanim (both those in training and operational) took a day to learn how to deal with a riot.  It was a chill day.  We learned the thinking behind how to confront, oppose and contain a riot; the different, non-lethal weapons that are used to scare and intimidate rioters; the equipment soldiers wear if they are on the front lines against the rioters; and we even had a mock drill.  One machlekah (platoon) pretended to be a crazed group of Palestinian supporters advancing down a hill while the other two machlekot, in full military gear, advanced to confront them.  Even though this was a drill, and my Jewish friends were the ones waving the Palestinian flag and shouting all sorts of things (mainly in Hebrew), it was still quite an unnerving sight to see.  You can watch videos of riots or large groups of people demonstrating, but let me tell you: it can be frightening.  The amount of energy that is contained in a large group of people is nothing less than explosive, and the smallest, tiniest, most seemingly insignificant trigger can set the whole situation on fire.  I now empathize tremendously with the IDF and police forces who faced down groups of rock-throwing Palestinians during the two intifadahs.

My day was marred by the stupidest of things: I slipped on some unsteady concrete, fell and cut my knee open.  (I think this story is getting old.)  I went back to base a little earlier than the rest of my friends and was told by the doctor that I was unfit to go into the shetach (field) for the hardest week of our training: Machlekah Mitkadem, Advanced Platoon.  While it is certainly preferable to stay at the base instead of going for a week in the shetach, my friends were all going while I wasn't and I was to miss out on the experience and sense of accomplishment that comes with each hard week that passes.  Every day I went to a medic to have him check my knee to see if it was ok to go down to the shetach.  Finally on Wednesday, I received permission and was driven out that evening.

Woke up early with my unit and we had a TarPal, a Targile Plugah, company drill.  This was another thing to make us more combat-ready at an earlier stage in our training.  Supposedly, once you do a TarPal, you're considered a warrior and can engage in combat.  And after a week of not sleeping much, walking a lot, and eating a little, it was a hard morning for my friends.  And also for me.  As the Magist, I sat back on a hill and provided covering fire to the successive hill that we were to attack.  As my company advanced further up the hill, I had to pack up, run down my hill, across the field to the next, and up, up, up past the most advanced units.  All with over 40% body weight between the Mag itself and all its ammo.  It was hard.

But that was the extent of my week in the field.  Or so I thought.  The day before, a few guys had come back from the shetach and I joined them to learn about our new positions in an attack: provide covering fire from the rear.  Thursday evening, this new citah (squad) went back into the shetach for the evening to practice demolishing a hill.  It was fun to shoot the Mag at a distance of 300-400 meters, to set the gun up on the stand and get into place in less than three minutes.  My partner, Michael, and I have great chemistry and can set up, take down, aim and fire the weapon with great fluidity that we make a great pair.  I watched the other Magist and his partner shout with each other and become frustrated; made me thankful to have a partner like mine.  Although he's a small guy (my previous Mag partner got moved to a heavier weapon), Michael is strong and can carry a lot of weight.  He's one of my best friends in the military and his English makes it easier to communicate with me, although we still focus on doing everything in Hebrew.

Anyway, the citah also includes other, heavier weapons, such as an automatic grenade launcher, mortar and .50 caliber Browning.  It's a relatively easy citah to be a part of, and fun to boot.  After we were done, we hiked the four or five kilometers back to base.  Now, I happen to be the only lone soldier in this citah.  My Hebrew isn't the best, but, as Shmaya observes, he's impressed that I'm not afraid or hesitant to flex my linguistic muscles.  I'll speak in front of large groups of people; I'll try to express myself without feeling insecure about my Hebrew level, etc.  It is with this that the Sammal (Sergeant), usually the guy who kicks our ass with discipline, would turn to me with a huge, laughing smile on his face and ask me to give a word or two of inspiration to the group.  I had extended myself earlier in the evening by shouting and expressing a lot of "rabak," or spirit/craziness.  He loved this crazy American, while a child at speaking Hebrew, is nuts and crazed when it comes to fighting.  Now everyone in the plugah knows about that evening when I shouted random things during our hike back.

Shabbat was chill, with no guard or kitchen duty to perform.  And the next week turned out to be one of the fastest in the army.

Kliah Mitkadem, Advanced Shooting, was a week spent all day on the firing range.  I turned in my Mag for the M16 for the week.  We practiced shooting in all three positions (prone, kneeling, standing), and learned some new ones.  We fired using tables and benches.  We fired during the day and at night.  From twenty-five meters to two hundred meters.  With jammed magazines and without.  Shooting on command at an assigned target at the shout of a number.  Running two hundred meters, crawling ten, then running the rest of the way and shooting at a target in less than three minutes.  Against stationary and moving targets.

Yes, moving targets, Israeli-style.  At the two-hundred meter line on some of the ranges is a concrete walkway, fifteen feet below ground-level that is accessible by ladder.  We staple the cardboard targets onto two wooden sticks tied together, and then we manually raise and lower them, run from the left to the right.  It is, honestly, a ridiculous scene.  And the walls of the trench are graffitied with all sorts of sayings, most in Hebrew, but also some in English.  I made my contribution: "Welcome to Tzahal, paid for by American taxpayer dollars."  If you see "DF, March '11," holla'!

This was a great week to improve our shooting.  I hadn't shot consistently and often with the M16 since becoming a Magist.  I had to have fired well over two hundred bullets each day, Sunday to Wednesday.  But the week was tiring.  Not hard, but exhausting.  Constantly running from the firing line out to the targets and back, to check how I shot, to set up targets, to take them down, constantly on the firing ranges, eating military rations, except for lunch where we went back to base, waking up early and getting to bed late.  But the week went by fast.

And the last evening, I was able to shoot a Micro Tavor!  It's the new Israeli-made gun of the IDF.  The Tavor has been used by Golani, Givati, and most recently Nahal.  The Micro Tavor is a tiny version of the standard Tavor.  It's gradually being introduced to all the combat units; the M16 and M4 are being phased out.  So the last evening, our shooting instructor let us shoot her Micro Tavor.  What's the difference?  Mainly it's a different style of gun, where the magazine is behind the trigger, as opposed to in front of it.  This condenses the entire weapon and also brings the weight and center of gravity closer to your shoulder, which makes it easier to maneuver.  (It's like a device I used when I was younger to train for baseball.  I attached a weight to the end of the handle that would bring my hands in closer to my body and force the barrel of the bat through the hitting zone in a more direct path to making contact with the ball.  When I took the weight off, my hands were quick to the baseball and the barrel exploded through the zone.)  The one immediate drawback to this weapon design is that the stock/butt of the gun is non-adjustable.

On Thursday I was given a day to finally get new shoe-inserts for my somewhat-flat feet.  I got back that evening during the middle of our free hour at night.  We went to bed early because we woke up at 3:30 the next morning to go to the paratrooping base!  Near Rehovot, I will be at this base for the next two weeks; this week learning how to jump and the following week jumping out of a plane five times!  I'm psyched, excited, nervous, and pumped all at once.  And this weekend I'm staying in Tel Aviv with David and Amy and the kids, who just got back from a few months in the States.

If everything goes according to the schedule, I have a month and a half left in my training.  My masa kumta is October 17th.  But there is the potential for things to change.  It's been a while since I flexed my political muscles.  What follows is my take on the politics of the region.  My account of my army experience is over for this post.  The rest is my analysis as a political science major on the different storms that have gathered in and around Israel.  If you're interested, please read on.  I've tried to keep things simple and not sound academic.  Enjoy!

(Please note that all of the information is what I have gathered over the past few weeks reading news articles on my Blackberry from base.  I don't have citations [it's not exactly a college paper] or quotes.  The facts are, to the best of my intentions and ability, accurate and the analysis is a combination of mine and others.  But I have neither the time nor will to properly cite everything.  This is as much an exercise for me to fulfill my enjoyment of talking politics as it is to help explain what is going on and also to look back in a few years and understand what was developing at this point.  Disclaimer over.)

The attacks in Eilat the other week indicate a number of things.  First off, while the Palestinian Resistance Committees (PRC) claims responsibility, they could not have acted in violence against Israel without the consent of Hamas.  For one thing, the terrorists originated from the Gaza Strip, went through the vast Sinai Peninsula, and crossed Israel's permeable border with Egypt to attack and kill civilians.  Hamas claims to govern Gaza and is consequently held responsible for everything that happens in its territory.  (If, for example, they had no knowledge of PRC's intentions, then that raises a whole other set of questions about who is in fact in charge of Gaza.)  The Israeli Air Force attacked military and PRC targets in response.  Hamas asked for a cease-fire, which was respected for all of a few hours until rockets began again to rain down on southern Israel.  Although the casualty numbers are very minimal (thanks in part to the primitive technology of the rockets and the surprising and welcome effectiveness of Israel's new defense technology, Iron Dome), hospitals are reporting a significant increase in the amount of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) cases.  The most damaging effect of these rockets is psychological.

But I want to go back to the larger picture.  Hamas is likely giving tacit consent to attack Israel because of what I can only think to describe as the build-up over the past half year of a political hurricane or vortex.  Currently, there are many forces within Israel and the Palestinian territories, as well as the Arab world, that are gaining momentum and force.  Unless you've been living under a rock since the beginning of the year (or in the Israeli army), you're more than aware of the "Arab Spring."  Leaders have been overthrown and regimes threatened in Tunisia, Egypt and most recently Libya.  The Gulf states have also not been spared.  In Syria, a blood bath continues to unfold as Bashar Assad has clearly made it his intent to kill every Syrian before relinquishing power.

The Arab Spring has been a reversal of what engulfed the Arab world in the 1960s and 70s.  The rise of the Mubarak (Egypt), Qaddafi (Libya) and Assad regimes represented the desire for pan-Arabism to be the dominant force across the region; an ideal that the societies strewn across the states could unify behind an Arab identity.  Needless to say, these were secular forces.  Today, the march of militant Islam (perhaps beginning with the 1979 Islamic Revolution in Iran) has turned into a sprint.

For years, Mubarak was the strongest force in the Arab world for the US against radical religious elements coming to power.  Although his regime still remains in place via the military, it is threatened by the Muslim Brotherhood, al-Qaeda, and even Hamas.  Among the Palestinians, Hamas represents this militant Islam.  Fatah (the governing power in the West Bank) represents the more secularly-inclined brand of Arab politics.  Fatah is the old and Hamas is the new.  In the current whirlwind of the region, Hamas is much more likely to curry favor than Fatah, especially since Fatah has shown an inclination (and history) of relative willingness to negotiate with Israel.

And that is something that should not be understated: no matter the differences across the Arab world, the constant unifying factor is animosity and hatred of Israel.  It is an interesting "rally 'round the flag" effect.  This term refers to the idea that a nation comes together when faced with an external threat; remember how everyone was suddenly so patriotic after 9/11?  In the Middle East, conflict with Israel is to be supported no matter who is doing the fighting.  If you're an Arab and against any conflict with the Jewish state, then surely you are for the Jews and against the Arabs.  Consequently, on the flip side, if you negotiate with Israel, who's to say you're not in bed with them or, God forbid, the US and the West?  Negotiation is paramount to treason.  And especially if negotiations continue to fail (as they have between Fatah and Israel), then the legitimacy of the call for peaceful talks weakens and people begin to turn to more radical elements who offer a solution.  Fatah recognizes this and, after years of a blood-stained rivalry, signed a unity agreement with Hamas.  Hamas is the vanguard, Fatah is the old guard.

What, then, is all the hype about September 20th?  It is the date of the opening session of the UN.  Mahmoud Abbas, chairman of the Palestinian Authority (essentially, Fatah), has created a stir for the better part of a year from when he first announced his intention to go the the General Assembly or the Security Council (no one is exactly sure which one) and have that body vote in favor of the creation of a Palestinian state.  If he goes to the GA, he will have the votes.  If he goes to the SC, he will not, as the US is expected (hoped [we really never know with the dynamic duo of Obama and Susan Rice, the US envoy to the UN]) to exercise its veto.

So let's say that by September 21st, the UN has in fact granted the Palestinians a state.  What does that mean?  In reality, absolutely nothing.  For one thing, sometime in the 1980s a similar resolution was brought to the UN, and I believed it passed.  To my knowledge, the resolution that Abbas is intending to bring to the UN is just for the organization to recognize the Palestinians as a state, but will not actually declare the creation of one, like they did with Kosovo in 2008.  In fact, I've read at different points throughout the spring and summer that this entire UN-ploy was initially a diplomatic maneuver by Abbas to strong-arm Israel and cajole the US into negotiations once again.  Abbas, I've read, really wants to climb down from the tree he finds himself in.  At this point, however, it is too late.  There is too much hype and expectation, and if he backs down, then he is lost for sure.  What do I mean by lost?  While the "situation on the ground" will not change come Sept. 21st, the politics within the Palestinian leadership certainly will.  If the UN does support Abbas, then his leadership is buoyed and renewed and we'll see where it goes from there.  If the UN does not support Abbas, then he is almost certainly finished as the leader of the Palestinians.

Which is now why the unity agreement with Hamas is so critical.  Who will fill the leadership void?  Well, the people will see Fatah going to the UN and failing.  So now they seek a solution in different channels.  And that is Hamas.  And that is the PRC.   And that is the Eilat attack.  Hamas knows it is in a relative position of power because Mubarak has fallen, the Rafah crossing into Egypt is open, radical elements akin to its own agenda are rising and threatening the powers that be across the region.  If Abbas fails, it is perfectly timed with a Hamas that, after a few years of quiet following Operation Caste Lead, has again begun to attack Israel as it claims to speak for the Palestinians.

Shifting our focus to Israel's northern borders, with Lebanon and Syria, a much more uncertain reality could unfold.  Hezbollah gained a huge victory in its 2006 war with Israel.  It didn't necessarily win the war, but by standing up to the IDF and withstanding three weeks of combat, it came out the victor certainly in the eyes of the Arab world, as well as others internationally, including many Israelis.  As the primary conduit between Iran and Hezbollah, Syria is seen as the only nation supporting effective resistance against Israel vis a vis Hezbollah.  Assad could push Hezbollah to war with Israel to ease pressure off his regime, much like the marches on the borders a few months ago were as much about reclaiming the Golan Heights and remembering the "Naksa" as they were to distract from domestic turmoil.  If Assad falls, Iran loses its most important asset and the ability to transfer arms and equipment to Hezbollah.  Tehran could push Damascus who in turn would push Hezbollah to begin firing rockets into the Galilee in northern Israel, test Jerusalem's resolve, and possibly initiate a conflict.  In the eyes of Assad and the Arab world, any of the Syrian demonstrators who continue to assemble against his regime while he is engaged in conflict with Israel via Hezbollah are traitors.

A combined escalation in tension between Hamas and Israel and Hezbollah and Israel would also put great pressure on the secular, military-led regime in Cairo.  The peace with Israel since 1979 would be in jeopardy.  Israel has enjoyed an unprecedented thirty years of peace with the most powerful Arab state.  But that peace was maintained because of Mubarak and his regime.  It was conditional on many things, including a demilitarized Sinai peninsula and assurance of US qualitative military aid equal to what Israel received.  The Egyptian population, meanwhile, was and still is very anti-Israel and anti-Semitic.  The demonstrations that led to Mubarak stepping down had a lot to do with them seeing their leader as in bed with the West and stepping on his own country's values, mainly Islam.  Two weeks before the Eilat attacks, Cairo asked for and Jerusalem granted permission for 1,000 Egyptian soldiers to patrol the Sinai as intel of increased terrorist activity between the Palestinians and the Beduins threatened to escalate into an imminent attack (as it eventually did).  But what were 1,000 soldiers to do in an area over 60,000 square kilometers?  It is a drop in the ocean.

While I believe a military presence is now certainly needed in the Sinai (although Egyptian soldiers may not be the best, as there are countless accounts of them using refugees from Africa as target practice), it is a tricky balance because it could lead to the slow chipping away of the once stable peace and security enjoyed between the Egypt and Israel.  And that is what Hamas wants and needs.  In order for them to truly flex their muscles, they need to operate from a position of security, and what is more secure if they have the full support of Cairo?  As the only Arab political body currently engaged in conflict with Israel, Hamas can become the leader and example of what all Arab bodies should be doing.  The generals in Cairo are soon to be in a very difficult position: how can they resist their population's growing resentment and anger of their power without cracking down hard on the population, especially following the relatively peaceful rebellion that toppled Mubarak and now that Assad has soured the international community's view of Arab leaders tactics in the face of demonstrations, all without losing valuable US foreign aid?  Withstanding these forces will be difficult, to say the least.

Quickly, I am reminded of a political cartoon from my AP European history class my senior year in high school.  It depicted Martin Luther at the top of a dam.  On the dam was written "the Church" (or something to that effect) and the water above the dam was filled with words such as social, religious, economic, and so on.  The dam has a slight crack in it and Luther tosses a small stone in the air.  The idea is that it was his 95 Theses that he posted on a wall in a German city in 1517 that released all these forces.  To apply it here, Hamas is Luther, the waters are the Egyptian people, and the dam is the military government in Cairo.

Now is the importance September 20th a little clearer?  Given a vote in affirmation or negation of a Palestinian state, I believe there could be, to put it modestly, unrest.  In this part of the world, that means an "intifadah," the Arabic word for "uprising."  As history demonstrates, the Palestinian people (whether justified or not) are prone to violence.  The first intifadah in the late 1980s attests to this.  The second intifadah in 2000 does as well.  What's more is that Yassir Arafat (quick story: Arafat calls Bill Clinton a few days before the end of his presidency to congratulate him on the past eight years.  Clinton responds, "if it weren't for you, we would have peace between Israel and the Palestinians.") instigated this second round violence.  (It was not, as is widely believed, Ariel Sharon's visit to the Temple Mount.  Arafat admitted in an interview at some point that he had planned the intifadah in advance; the visit was just the justification.)  Already, Abbas announced his intention to hold rallies throughout September in different Palestinian cities.  He wants them to be peaceful and away from Israeli settlers and Israel-proper.  As Hassan Nasrallah, the leader of Hamas, has said, "we love death as much as the Jews love life."  With sentiment like that, how can anyone possibly hope for peaceful rallies and for this month not to spiral into a new intifadah or some new round of violence?  On September 21st, the Palestinians will feel either snubbed or legitimized by the UN, and they may expect the instantaneous creation of a state, and when that fails to materialize, they will channel their anger and frustration into their favorite past-time: throwing rocks.