"I feel more like a gardener than a paratrooper"

And ain’t that the truth.  A buddy of mine from South Africa made that observant claim as we worked all day along the base’s fence, picking weeds and turning the ground into a sort of mini-deforestation plot.  Not exactly the most exciting work.

To start off, this was my first week as a tzanchan, a paratrooper.  For the next eight months or so, instead of going north as I’ve done for the past three months, I will be traveling south to Beersheva.  There, many soldiers from Tzanchanim, Nahal and other units gather in the last major city before the Negev Desert to be transported by bus to their respective training bases.  The place was a zoo, with hundreds of soldiers finding their units, being shepherded to buses, and then waiting in a queue to leave.  After a short wait, we drove the half hour or so to בא''ח צנחנים  Bach Tzanchanim, the training base.  Don’t bother looking for it or asking me where it is; it’s, rightly so, nestled amongst a landscape of hills, away from the civilian world.  The view certainly has changed since Mikveh.

I’ll speak more about daily life and the base in my next post.  This was an interesting week, one that stands by itself.  It was the first week of training for the IDF’s March draft.  The purpose of this week was to host gibbushim for Special Forces.  Each unit (Tzanchanim, Nahal, Golani, Givati, Totchanim, Sheriyon, etc.) has sayerot, or elite units.  The gibbush is an intense, multi-day tryout to be accepted into the sayeret.  Tzanchanim’s sayerot are Palsar (Reconnaisance), Pulchan (Engineering and Demolitions), and you can get into two very elite and secretive units from Tzanchanim’s sayeret gibbush: Maglan or Duvdevan.  For more information on these units, click here.

I elected not to do the gibbush.  Why?  For a number of reasons.  First, I would not do sayeret anyway; it requires a three year commitment, which is no issue for Israelis who serve three years anyway, but my service expires in a year from June and, as I stand right now, I do not intend to sign on for more time.  With that, the sole purpose of going through the hellish (and I do mean hellish) three-day physical battle would be for the experience, to challenge myself and test my limits.  Of course, I’ve heard of and now seen soldiers getting injured, limping, not being able to move, whole body parts scraped and bruised because of the gibbush.  It is a completely voluntary tryout.  About 450 to 500 people went the first day and between 170 and 180 soldiers survived.  In all, do I wish I did it, even despite the certain physical and mental exhaustion and pain I was sure to experience, without any goal at the end of it?  Yes.  Of course I say that now, when the option of another gibbush is out of the question.  But, if you’re reading this and are facing a gibbush sayeret and are not sure whether or not to do it, I say go for it.  What do you have to lose?  The angel on one shoulder told me to listen to my own advice of saying “why not?” when faced with a decision.  The devil on my other shoulder reminded me that this gibbush, much more so than the one to get into Tzanchanim, would require incredible mental fortitude and as I would just do the gibbush for the purpose of finishing it, it is likely that I would, in the word’s of my father, “crap out” before the end.  What a sinister thing to do, to plant an idea like that in my head and psyche myself out for something I’ve planned on doing for a few weeks.  Alas, such is life—live and learn!

With a lot of soldiers with nothing to do, the base quickly set us to doing work.  The gibbush started on Tuesday morning.  Those who were not in it (either from not starting or not completing), spent the entirety of the next three days doing maintenance work around the compound.  I fixed distance signs on the firing ranges, sorted all manners trash, chopped weeds and other brush, dug a cable trench, swept sidewalks, collected empty ammo caches, and other intensive work that truly put my Latin Honors education to its most rigorous test yet. 

Even as I bent down to swing my military shovel into the soft, damp earth, uprooting the two hundred and forty-eighth weed, I tried to envision myself as one of the early Jewish, Zionist settlers, building this country literally from the ground up; turning a sparsely populated and barren land into a fruitful place flowing with milk and honey.  I was a father, toiling amidst the difficult terrain of Gush Etzion, battling earthen mounds filled with rocks and boulders, intense winters and Arab bandits, willing and working for a future for my family.  I was a son, learning the principles of Judaism and the meaning of this land for my people, going outside to play during a break and wanting to get my hands dirty, to feel the ground, hold a fistful in my hand and let it sprinkle through my fingertips, creating a waterfall of holy soil, beginning to understand my people’s connection with this country.  I was a brother, defending this land that my family had worked for generations, feeling it incumbent upon myself to beat my sword into a plowshare, setting aside the arms of iron and steel for the arms of wood and human muscle and sinew, working by the sweat of my brow and not by the blood of my enemy.  I was….simply an untrained paratrooper killing time.

So the introduction to Tzanchanim was a little less than glorious.  Well, actually the first day was exciting.  In the afternoon, all of the newly drafted soldiers met in the base’s basketball court and we heard from a number of the bigwigs on base.  The Hebrew was fast, inarticulate aaaaaaand put me to sleep.  But then we watched an awesome four-minute video about all the cool things Tzanchanim does during its training, so that made it all worthwhile, haha!

The next day we were again ushered into the basketball court, but this time to be “processed.”  We met with a Mishakit Tash, all of the lone soldiers received informational pamphlets about our rights and benefits (of course mine was in Hebrew, gonna have to get an English one this week), received vouchers for running shoes, met briefly with the base’s doctor, and received military tzit-tzit if we wanted.  What’s tzit-tzit?  It’s a four cornered garment or shirt with strings hanging off each corner.  It is a commandment to wear and if you see a Jew with two or four random strings hanging out of his suit jacket, then you know he’s wearing it to fulfill a commandment.  I am yet to wear one for personal reasons which I do not care to get into right now, but I will say that I was pleasantly surprised (and certainly a bit shocked) by how many kippahs I see on base.  At Mikveh, I’d say about 5% of the soldiers wore kippahs and about twice that many prayed.  At this Tzanchanim base, probably 25% wear kippahs and 30%-35% pray.  My numbers might be off a bit, but it certainly seems like a lot of people, including commanders, don a kippah and daven (Yiddish for ‘pray’).

Back home, even though I lived in a town and surrounding area that was heavily populated by Jews, it was certainly an identity crisis (although that might be too strong of a word) to be a Jew in a non-Jewish world.  Then when I started to become more observant, I felt like “that” Jew amongst my Jewish friends at school.  Then at Mikveh, I was the “religious one” in a Jewish army; an odd-thing I thought, to still feel self-conscious about wanting to wear a kippah and pray even in a Jewish army for the State of Israel.  Now, I certainly feel more at ease, finding myself among other kippah-wearing, schul-going (synagogue) Yids (again Yiddish, for Jew).  Can you tell by now that I’m Ashkenazi?

One thing I’ve noticed a lot about myself in the military is that I dream every night.  Well, after doing some research, I learned that everyone dreams every night.  But I also always seem to remember my dreams in the morning.  At no other point in my life have I experienced this.  I’m actually excited at times to go to sleep to see what I will dream about.  I know dreams are your mind’s way of helping sort through issues in your life.  But why do I suddenly always remember them—vividly?  I just spent the last ten minutes poring through endless pages on the best scholarly source I ever used during my four years at college: Google.  Want to know my expert conclusion?  If you read it enough times, the word ‘dream’ starts to look really weird.

But back to other, more serious, matters.  Tomorrow I go to check out a kibbutz with the intent to move in next weekend.  I’ll certainly miss Tel Aviv and David, Amy and the kids.  But I’ve wanted to have my own space for a while now.  I’ll talk more about the kibbutz once I’ve been there and made a decision.

Fifty rockets were fired from Gaza over the past week.  That’s more than a quarter that was fired all of last year.  In addition, a bomb exploded near the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem, wounding many and killing one British tourist.  If you read about these events in the news, you will undoubtedly see Beersheva be mentioned, as that is a favorite location for the militant jack@$$es that run the Gaza Strip like to fire their rockets: straight at the largest population center within range.  But please don’t worry about me, I’m safe on base.  Instead, worry (and/or pray) for the residents of Beeersheva, Ashdod, Ashkelon and Jerusalem.  They are the ones who had school canceled on Thursday and Friday for fear of continued rocket attacks.  They’re the ones who have thirty seconds to run to a bomb shelter.  They are the civilians whose lives are trivialized by the international community when the UN continues to lambaste Israel when it decides to defend its right to live in peace and security.  Did anyone even notice that Syrian leader Assad killed fifty-five of his own people over the past two days when they held peaceful anti-government demonstrations?  Such is the place we live and the times we live in.

Despite the terrorist attacks and the fear, Israel held the first Jerusalem marathon yesterday, with over 10,000 runners competing.  Go Israel.

(Check out my new Jerusalem Post blogs here or on the left below my information)

Purim within, Purim without

This has been, without a doubt, the most interesting week of my life.  I truly experienced the highest of highs and the lowest of lows.  Yes, even higher than receiving the Tanach at the Western Wall a few weeks ago.  That event was the culmination of something: the conclusion of Mikveh Alon.  Big whoop, right?  True, it was an incredible honor--as a soldier and as a Jew--to stand at that special and holy location and receive Judaism's Written Law.  However, this week brought me even higher because of its potential.  So what the heck am I talking about?  I'm talking about Tzanchanim!  I know, I'm starting to sound redundant starting to sound redundant sorry sorry; "hasn't he already mentioned the Paratroopers like a dozen times in each of his last posts?"  Yes, I think I have, haha.  But this time is so much different.

Before I explain, however, I want to mention a few new things about this blog.  First, I recognize that I use foreign military terms and whether this is your first time reading my blog or you are a faithful follower, it is unlikely you are familiar with all of the lingo.  As per my dad's suggestion, I created a link on the right that translates the terms into English.  In addition, on the left hand side I added ways to make it easier to keep updated on my blog.  The "Search this Blog" is also a way to find specific information in my writing.

Let me start from the beginning, from the hellish depths of the first few days of this week, to the top of the world and beyond (almost literally) at the end.

On Sunday, those of us from Mikveh reported to the Tel Hashomer base for our draft into the regular IDF units.  There are three draft dates in the IDF: March, August and November.  This week, all new soldiers would be sorted and sent to their units; needless to say, the place assumes a zoo-like atmosphere.  As dysfunctional (I say that with all my love) as the IDF is, this week brings it to an entirely new level.  In fact, at one point, my friend Michael commented that the base reminds him of a refugee camp.  You'll soon understand why.

To begin with, as we all sit on benches, waiting to see the ktsin miyun (officer who drafts us), my MemMem pulls me aside and, once again, brings up the issue of my 72 health profile!  He said he doesn't know for sure if I am in Tzanchanim and should prepare myself to join another unit.  What a great way to start the week!  Maybe I'm becoming one of those guys who really wants something once it's no longer available (girls, freedom, Tzanchanim...), because I felt my heart drop.  Suddenly I felt like an outsider looking in.  But when I went to see the officer, our conversation went like this (in Hebrew): "You want Tzanchanim?" "Yes."  "Best of luck."  "Thank you."  Bada bing bada boom.  Done.

But not for long.  That night we slept in tents, the same ones we slept in for the gibbush.  Or rather, I didn't sleep; no sleeping bag, frigid night, terrible.  In the morning, every soldier received a number, which indicated where he would serve.  While all the Tzanchanim guys received 601, I got 660.  They were all called off and I was left standing at the end with a dozen random guys.  No one from Mikveh.  Apparently, we all had profile issues and needed to be checked by a doctor before being sorted.  Not this issue again!  Back to feeling nervous.

Long story short (or rather, I can't exactly divulge all the details of what occurred that day), I went to see a few doctors about my profile and got it raised to an 82!  I can do infantry!  Tzanchanim here I come!  I went to see the ktsin miyun and (I think) he said I was in Tzanchanim, but the next day I needed to come back to see a Mishakit tash.

I returned to base the next day, not quite certain the purpose of needing to see the social worker.  A slightly irrational fear grew inside me that maybe I really wasn't going to Tzanchanim, that they needed someone who would tell me and figured a Mishakit tash could let me down easy.  But let me be clear: the sole purpose for me being on base that day was to see the Mishakit tash.  I sat around for hours in the morning and hours in the afternoon, just to have the Mishakit tash tell me in a ten minute meeting that my request to move to a kibbutz was on hold until I went to a new base.  Thank you very much for wasting my time!

Monday and Tuesday evenings I played the role of poor lone soldier, no one told him he would be on base for more than one night, he has issues to take care of at home, yada yada yada, bs bs bs....and I was able to go to Tel Aviv and sleep in a nice warm bed both nights!  I definitely worked some magic!

Also on Tuesday, the new Chief of Staff Benny Gantz (a Tzanchan) made a visit to Tel Hashomer.  Of all the days!  The few dozen of us still left from the previous day because we had one issue or another were in lockdown and stayed put in one corner of the base for three hours!  It just added to the tension, nerves and uncertainty I was experiencing, not truly knowing if I was going to be a tzanchan, not trusting what anyone said until I signed a contract.  But after the meeting with the Mishakit tash, I sprinted back to see the ktsin miyun, who said that I was for sure going to Tzanchanim!  I started to breathe easy.

Again I went home that night and returned the following morning.  This time, I was 601!  Finally!  But my excitement, once again, was dulled as the two dozen of us going to either Tzanchanim or Nahal were put to doing clean up around the base all morning.  All the other Tzanchanim guys (from Mikveh) had gone to the base on Monday.  We were still left, uncertain of our future, and the last thing we needed were stupid officers not telling us what was going on and making us run in circles around the base doing a lot of nothing.  We know we needed to get our uniforms and gear (I just needed a new uniform top) and wanted to get it as soon as possible so it would be official.  After lunch, I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I stole away from my group and met up with a friend who knew how to get a uniform.

All the soldiers who were waiting for something were penned up in this one area of the base.  There were benches with a tv, but really a lot of people just milled about, waiting, not knowing, frustrated.  There was one window where jobniks handled our cases, and the line took forever.  I went to this window, explained what was going on, and that I needed a uniform, who sent me (mostly lies), etc.  I then waited an hour for my name to be called.  A soldier from Kfir (an infantry unit in the West Bank that specializes in urban combat) told me to sit down, that I had a problem.  Not again!  I'm not sitting down.  Listen buddy, a ktsin miyun had told me three times that I was going to Tzanchanim.  He told me to wait, checked out my profile or whatever, then returned and told me to follow him.

As we walked, I angrily asked him where I was going.  "Golani."  "No.  Hell no, I am not going to Golani."  "Yes you are.  What's wrong with Golani?"  "Nothing's wrong with it, but I want Tzanchanim.  What does that paper say."  "Nothing, it's not for you to see."  "You better show me that paper."  "No, but you're going to Golani."  "You better not be fucking with me.  I swear, you better load some bullets into your gun because if you tell me I'm going to Golani, I'm coming after you."  "Haha, it's all good.  You're going to Givati."  "Still no.  It's Tzanchanim or nothing."

 He looked at me and laughed.  We reached a building where I saw a bunch of soldiers from my group that day huddled outside.  We walked in and the Kfir soldier handed the paper to one of the jobniks there: "this guy's going to Tzanchanim."  YES!!!  I shared a quick laugh with the Kfir soldier who I think appreciated the anxiety I felt.  He first said I was in shock--Israeli military slang for someone who, just as in English, is in shock by being in the army and his new life.  I told him I wasn't in shock, I was just angry, frustrated and fed up with being in limbo for the last three days.

Side note: randomly, I thought a lot this week about the Greek myths of Prometheus and Sisyphus.  Prometheus is chained to a mountain and every day an eagle eats his liver, which regrows each night.  Sisyphus is made to roll an immense boulder up a hill, just to have it roll back down, for eternity.  The point here is that they are both in limbo (or maybe their form of a Hell) and destined to do nothing for an unforeseen amount of time.  And now I return to my friend's comment that life was like a refugee camp: uncertainty, frustration, anxiety.  It made me want to pull at my own skin.  What made it worse is that the place has a carnival atmosphere, like Purim, but not in the good way.  There is so much miscommunication.  You go to one place and they send you to another and the next place doesn't know who you are or why you're there.  There is overlapping and underlapping.  Incompetence and incredible incompetence.  I spoke a lot of Hebrew, but also went to English when it became too frustrating.  And that was often the case.

In order to receive anything in the army, you have to return something.  In this case, Paratroopers have a special uniform top, so the guy needed my two Aleph uniforms.  I gave him the one I had on and wove some story about not having a second because I never needed one, knowing the whole time that it sits neatly folded, still in its packaging, in Tel Aviv!  A Paratrooper's uniform is different than the rest of the army's.  The material is slightly thicker and somewhat glossy.  It has four pockets: the breast pockets and one more below each.  In addition, and this makes it awesome, the uniform is fitted, which makes me look extremely sexy and bad@$$ if I may say so myself.  Finally, out of tradition, Tzanchans don't tuck their uniforms into their pants.  Instead, you leave it hanging out and tie the belt around the outside.  The "skirt" is something to be proud of.

And proud I am.  Damn proud!!!  Even more so than on December 15th, I feel like an Israeli soldier.  Although I haven't done anything yet, I feel such a sense of accomplishment.  Just wearing the uniform is intoxicating.  I am so happy to be in Tzanchanim now.  It is the highest I think I have ever felt in my life.  It is because of the potential of what wearing the uniform means that makes it even more fulfilling than receiving the Tanach.  The uncertainty of the past few days made me realize how badly I wanted Tzanchanim.  I would not have been satisfied with any other unit.  I am a Tzanchan!

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

To make this week even better, I recently gained additional employment: I am now a blogger for the Jerusalem Post (click)!!!  This occurred only in the last week and is a true testament to how this country functions; people knowing people who are more than willing to help others.  My blog on JPost will focus more on being a lone soldier and less on my daily activities.  I will try to contribute a post about as often as I do here.  But realize that as I am beginning basic training, my postings will become less frequent as I will not be home every weekend.  I have a link on the left for my JPost blog.  Thanks for reading and the comments, emails and Facebook messages I receive.  I'm glad my experiences and writings are helping others find information, comfort, excitement, or simply ways to kill time, haha!

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

This weekend is the holiday of Purim, a remembrance when the Jewish people were miraculously saved from liquidation at the hands of the Persian Empire.  It was perhaps even a darker time in Jewish history than the Holocaust; the entirety of the Jewish people were at risk of being massacred by King Ahaseurus's chief advisor, Haman, only to be saved by Queen Esther, a Jew, at the urging of her cousin, Mordechai (for more specifics, see Wikipedia, click here, or type "Purim" into Google).  It is a carnival atmosphere (cruelly akin to Tel Hashomer), and walking around Tel Aviv yesterday reminded me of my college campus on Halloween.  It is the day Israelis dress in costumes and get drunk.  Yes, even religious Jews are actually supposed to drink in excess.

But this holiday, tragically, comes in the wake of two very distressful events in the past week.  First, a Jewish family in the town of Itamar were brutally killed by terrorists (click).  The two parents were slain, as were three of their children, one a three month old girl.  The Fogel family's slaying again brings to the fore for me the tenuous situation that exists between those who wish to live in peace and those who want to prevent it.  (Although I am generally not a fan and can't bring myself to link it here, I do suggest you find Glenn Beck's comments about the Itamar Massacre on YouTube.  His words echo Israeli sentiment.)

The second event was the stopping of the cargo ship the "Victoria" (click).  The IDF peacefully boarded this ship the other day and in the crates protected by a lock unusually strong for the supposedly benign contents of lentils and cotton, found about 50 tons of munitions, including a new missile system that can destroy ships.  It is said that this new weapon, known in Iran as the Nasr-1 and in China as the C-704, has the potential to have the same effect as Surface-to-Air Missiles (SAMs) had when they were first launched forty years ago: they can alter the strategic balance in any conflict.

And then just this morning, Hamas fired forty-nine mortars into Israel.  If Mexico or Canada did that to the US, it would be considered an act of war.  But here, Israel lives with it every day.  Reality bites.

!!!צנחנים

I'm in Tzanchanim!!! Paratroopers, here I come! (victory cigars) Starting tomorrow, Sunday, I report back to Tel Hashomer, that black hole of a base near Tel Aviv where time seems to stand still as getting anything done, from my Tzav Rishon to sitting around for hours on my first day of enlistment on December 15th, eludes everyone there. Once again I go to the Bakkum, the supply base at Tel Hashomer, will be issued (or reissued) military gear and apparel. It will, hopefully, be an opportunity for me to scavenge more things. I hear a major rule of thumb among soldiers in the IDF is that if you have the opportunity to gather extra gear, do it!

This was a short, final week at Mikveh. After our tekkes last Wednesday, we all left on Thursday, but the kravi (combat) soldiers had to report back on Sunday. Why? For forty-eight hours of shmirah, guard duty. Probably one of the stupidest uses of our time. Because Mikveh legally owned us for the entire week, they decided to stick us on guard duty, to protect the extremely secretive and strategically important goings-on at Mikveh Alon.

For me, my week started off with a visit to a moshav in the north. A moshav is like a more privatized kibbutz. If you want a full history on the socio-political workings of a kibbutz or a moshav, just go to Wikipedia. As I mentioned in my last post, I've been wanting to get out of Tel Aviv to live on my own for some time now, but the process can take a long time. The first thing to do is broach the idea of moving to your Mishakit Tash. What's that? The Mishakit Tash is essentially the social worker of the military. She's generally a young, very cute girl, assigned to a machlekah, whose job it is to make sure each soldier's needs are met...I'm talking about living arrangements, financial issues, personal things, etc. So I told my Mishakit Tash that I want to move to a kibbutz, and I mentioned a few specific places to her where some of my friends are staying. She got back to me at the end of the week and told me that the following Sunday, instead of returning to base, I would meet another Mishakit Tash at Afula bus station. That morning, we met in the bus station and waited for a man named Tsvika to pick us up and take us to the moshav. If you're a lone soldier coming to Israel, get to know Tsvika. He is unofficially the official "father" of lone soldiers. This man has so many connections throughout the country that it is often faster to get things done through him rather than the military (but no big surprise there, right?).

We went to a moshav, looked around, and met some of the people who make that place happen. I would be given my own apartment, with one bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. The moshav is located in a quiet low-lying area of the Galilee with a beautiful view of the surrounding hills and mountains. At the end of the visit, however, I decided the place wasn't for me. It was far removed from traffic hubs, which make it difficult to travel to Tel Aviv (where I still have lots of friends) or elsewhere. I went back to the Mishakit Tash that night and told her my thoughts. An hour before we left Mikveh for good on Tuesday, she came to me and said that I have the next available spot at one of two kibbutzim. Now I'm just waiting.

On the way back to base, the Mishakit Tash and I were waiting by the bus stop at Summit Golani when a car pulled up alongside us. The passenger window rolled down and who was the driver? The head of the entire freakin' base! He asked us if we wanted a lift back to Mikveh! We're always told before we leave for the weekends that we are not allowed to hitchhike (called tramping, in Israel). But I figured it was safe getting into his car, haha. It was nice to ride in a car and not an overcrowded bus. What a great (interesting) way to start the week!

I got back to base that afternoon and met up with the rest of my tzevet. The atmosphere was really relaxed for the two days we were there. Distance was broken between us and our commanders, we didn't have to run around places, we just had to go to our guard duty and report to different "classes" or for sports. For example, one day the MemMem of another machlekah taught our plugat how to read a map. The next day we watched an Israeli movie. Another time we had a few hours of Hebrew "class" where we just sat around and talked, in Hebrew, in English, it didn't really matter.

Monday night was a treat. I was one of a few English-speaking soldiers (but the only American) who were asked to say a few words before a group from Cleveland who came to Mikveh as they were interested in doing some English-tutoring volunteer work in the future. It was funny to hear everyone else introduce themselves in their heavily-accented English, say they're from this or that place in Israel, yada yada yada. "Hi, my name's Daniel, and I'm from Chicago." A few laughs followed as clearly they were not expecting an American, and we made short small talk about the Cubs, the snow, etc. It was fun. And it was funny that at the end my Hebrew learning, I spoke in English to a visiting group. Back in December, I did a similar thing, where I explained who I am, where I'm from, what I'm doing here, etc., but in Hebrew. Ironic. This also followed another "speaking appearance" I made a day before my tekkes to a group of Israeli boys studying in a yeshiva (a Jewish religious school). I was asked to say a few words about being religious in the army. It was fun and a great way for me to practice my Hebrew.

Sunday afternoon, before dinner, we were allowed to use the workout room! About time! It is a privilege reserved just for the commanders and officers. It felt real good to get back into a weight room; I haven't been in one since I left the US, instead I had been using the resistance bands I brought, doing pushups, sit-ups, and when in Tel Aviv, making use of their outdoor exercise areas along running paths. Monday afternoon we played soccer on one of the courts. Life was good.

It was during one of these Hebrew classes that my Mefakedet came up to me and told me to meet her outside for a minute. I had actually just discovered perhaps the most complex pen in the world. I was using my time to disassemble it, understand why it needed so many parts, and then reassemble it. I felt my time on this project was limited and extremely valuable, so I asked her if it could wait. 'No, come outside.' Of course, the pen then exploded and I, with ink all over my fingertips, went outside.

Now I'm not gonna lie: even after a few months of Hebrew, I really had no idea what my Mefakedet said. This could have been because I am nowhere near proficient, or it could have been that I stopped paying attention after she said that I passed Tzanchanim gibbush, and they want me in Paratroopers. B'hatzlachah! Hell YES! I didn't really know how to respond I was so pumped! She gave me an awkward high five and then told me who else got in. Of the eight guys in my machlekah who tried out, only four made it, all from my tzevet. In total, eleven soldiers from my plugat are invited into Tzanchanim. About eight guys from the other plugat (which speaks better Hebrew) passed the gibbush as well. I think about a third of those who tried out were invited into Tzanchanim.

So where did this desire to do Tzanchanim come from? I think it started last year on Birthright, when Ben, a former soldier and one of my friends here, told me that if I were to join the IDF, I should do Paratroopers. But that's probably not the serious beginning. When I signed with Mahal back in November, I was told that Tzanchanim is available for soldiers in Mahal, but that we'd have to sign on for more time than the eighteen month commitment I have right now. I was told I'd need to serve for two years. That time restraint dissuaded me from Paratroopers. During the last few months, both in and out of the army, I've thought about what life will be like for me if I do or don't join Tzanchanim. I initially signed up for the gibbush as a way to challenge myself. After completing the gibbush, and all the hurdles that came before it, becoming a part of Tzanchanim became much more real. In addition, a soldier in my tzevet commented that he had a buddy in Tzanchanim who was committed to only eighteen months. With that possibility now open, I went into the gibbush thinking that if I passed, then joining the unit would become a much more real possibility.

So why do I want Tzanchanim over the other options: Nahal, Givati or Golani? I'll first just say that I want it over Totchanim because I've always wanted to be in infantry. But I prefer it over the other three infantry divisions, and may be willing to spend more time in the IDF, because of Tzanchanim's history and prestige, even to this day. It is true that all four divisions pretty much do the same thing, just in different parts of the country (and they rotate territory every few years). The main differences between Paratroopers and the rest is that they have a gibbush (tryout) and they jump out of planes. Personally, I really want to join Tzanchanim for the masa koompta, literally "beret hike." At the end of the their training, every infantry division has a hike as a sort of culmination of their months of hard work. At the end, they are given their berets and have a tekkes as a formal acceptance into that particular infantry unit. For Tzanchanim, their masa koompta is well-known throughout the country. Because they were the ones who recaptured Jerusalem and the Old City from the Jordanians in 1967, Tzanchanim hike 75km (by far longer than any other unit's masa) and end up at the Western Wall, with all of the city out to welcome the conquering heroes.

There are other fashionable differences between Tzanchanim and other units, but I'll save that for later. One last thing that I want to mention is the photo of the Paratroopers at the Western Wall in 1967. For Israel, it is like the photo of the Marines hoisting the American flag over Iwo Jima during World War II. This photo, for me, captures a lot about why I am here. I have to do Tzanchanim.

After leaving Mikveh on Tuesday, I've had a few days off until I need to go to Tel Hashomer tomorrow morning. I've used this time to relax, watch some movies, have drinks with friends, meet up with old buddies. But I am really excited (even more so than in December) to start my service. I'm also excited to be going into Tzanchanim with some good buddies from Mikveh, although it is doubtful they will put English-speakers in the same tzevets. I'll just have to see. The weather was terrible since Tuesday; it was raining, cloud and cold. Today, however, is beautiful. One thing that I miss about this time in America is spring. David scoffed when I mentioned that earlier: "what are you talking about? Of course we get spring here!" To which I replied, "yeah, but with the heat today, for me it's like it's already summer." My point with spring is that after a (long) cold Chicago (or Champaign) winter, that first breeze from the south always brings tidings of good things to come. I would get excited about the possibilities for the summer. After months of applying to internships in Washington, D.C., with the idea of working there being nothing more than an abstract thought, the warmth in the atmosphere that accompanies the arrival of spring turns summer plans into a reality. Life is just better.

While I miss that breeze, I am warmed by finally becoming a (legitimate) part of the force that defends Israel. With Egypt down, Libya in flames, Iran on the rise, Lebanon teetering, and the Palestinian Authority more emboldened, Israel finds itself in a very precarious security situation. Did I come at the right time? I guess that depends on who's asking, haha! But I will say that--especially as a political science major, Arabic speaker, and Israeli advocate--I signed up without any disillusions about what Israel may be forced to do over the next few years. Damn, it feels good to be going to Tzanchanim!

(Some pretty cool news: my blog is now included on the Lone Soldier Center's forum [click]!)