120 Hours of Darkness

I had just finished the last sip in my Goldstar beer bottle and extinguished the night's final Winston blue cigarette. I entered my room and locked up. The clock read 22:55. Not bad for a Saturday night (with work the following day at 5:00). My phone rang and the number was blocked. I was pretty sure that when I would answer I would hear the voice of my friend at his grandma's house who has a blocked phone number. Instead there was an automated voice message informing me that I had been summoned in accordance with "Order 8" (Tzav 8). Israel was pretty tense the days before 60,000 reserve soldiers were called up (myself included). I knew there was a chance that I would be called up but I didn't think that it would actually happen. Whatever buzz I may have gotten from the 3 beers that evening was immediately washed away when the robot's sobering voice on the other side of the conversation told me to arrive at my Miluim (Reserves) base at 10:00 am the next morning. I felt like I was levitating and I had trouble focusing as I rounded up clothes and supplies that I would need. The thought that "these could be the last items that I see on earth" resonated with me several times that night as I filled up my bag to its fullest. I got to bed around 3:00 am and woke up at 5:45 am. The Ben as of late would have been perturbed by this lack of sleep but I was in army mode again and on my toes. I got to the base and braced myself for the bureaucratic bullshit bound to entangle me many times that day. I did not have an immediate placement when I arrived; however, that got straightened out after a few hours. I was placed in an Evac. platoon and I knew a few of the guys from my enlisted service. After several hours of waiting in line we signed on to our weapons and equipment. The rumors were already whistling around like bullets through the air. One guy had heard that a rocket had landed in an area with children and that a few were hurt. The guy's friend waved it off as nonsense and everyone seemed pleased with this since a direct hit on children would mean that the infantry would definitely be sent in. And that meant us. And that meant that death was possibly closer than we had anticipated. It was kind of funny how during the entire week no one would admit that he was scared or hesitant to enter Gaza. Everyone was hoping out loud that we would be sent home but no would openly say that he was scared. The caliber of the men I was with was impressive overall. A lot came from special forces and many were commanders. The ages in my platoon ranged from 22-55. I was talking with a friendly, religious guy in my platoon that Sunday night before bed and it suddenly occurred to me that he was 30 with a family and a full-time job with heaps of responsibility. For me it was a paid-vacation from the Avocados but for others this was really difficult. What would you say to your 4-year-old daughter before you leave the house for reserve duty? The entire week was exhausting. Not so much physically (although there were some refresher drills) but more mentally and emotionally. It seemed that every night before we went to bed things were looking up and there would be a cease-fire the next day. Then the next day arrived and, voile, no cease-fire. By Tuesday, most of the guys had grown tired of this stressful yo-yo game the media was playing with the public and stopped talking about the situation. The situation escalated on Wednesday and everyone was noticeably more skiddish. We were heading back from urban-warfare drills and my friend sitting next to me on the bus said to me, "You know how we just went over the Matador and LAW Rocket weapons?" I responded in the affirmative. "Well, I heard that they always go over those things right before they send you in. You know what that means." I knew it sounded like rubbish but that's not something that you can shake so easily when your life may be on the line. My iPod battery died in the middle of "Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns n' Roses and I slept the rest of the way back to base. The rumor started as a one-sided cease-fire. Guys were saying that apparently the IDF would stop firing and Hamas would continue. People were cursing and pissed off. I didn't really know what to think at this point. I very badly wanted to go home and chill for a few days and watch movies in the solace and comfort of my humble apartment on Kibbutz

but at the same time what does that mean for the future of the South of Israel? While the damage the IAF inflicted was gargantuan and crippling it was not even close to what would have happened had the ground forces moved in. I was talking with Elisha (my boss in the avocados) before the whole ordeal and he explained things to me this way: The IDF's advantage over its enemies is its technology and weapons and training. Hamas and Hezbollah's advantage over the IDF is their "absorption" capability. Hamas and Hezbollah can endure many more casualties than the IDF. If the IDF were to incur such losses on its side there would be mass public outcry and protests. Martyrdom is considered an honorable option in their societies. I think ultimately the solution to this whole ordeal lies not in more ground operations. If a more open-minded curriculum were introduced into these Martyr breeding grounds' systems then things may change. I recognize that Israel has to be on edge since madmen like Khaled Mashaal and Ismail Haniyeh still rule in Gaza. Especially when Mashaal yesterday was quoted as saying that, "We will not give up one inch of the land of Palestine. Palestine from the river to the sea, from the north to the south, is our land and we will never give up one inch or any part of it. Jihad and armed resistance are the right and real way to liberate Palestine and restore our rights." Well, at least we know what Hamas really brings to the negotiating table. My week of reserve duty was another stepping stone for me. I learned an important skill that is integral in Israeli society with men (and some women) after the army. It taught me that even as a citizen with an earring and long hair and a bit more of a belly, you are still only a few hours away from war at any given time. The Saturday night I was called up I logged onto Facebook several times. People's statuses seemed so shallow and inconsequential. Who cares about how bad Justin Bieber is? Is this research paper actually going to kill you? Then I realized that I'm exactly the same way. Getting called up was kind of like coming to a moral stoplight -- as Tom Waits once put it. You hit a red light and you're forced to stop and look around you. When the light turns green and you keep driving you might have a different perspective.

Waiting 1000 Sunsets for 1 Perfect Sunrise

It's hard to believe the day has come where I can call myself a "civilian" once again. It's been a distant dream, a platonic ideal, for two and a half years and it's finally here. I was honorably discharged (freed) from the army on August 8, 2012. The past six months (since the last time I've blogged) will be the topic of this entry. I had an extremely tough time being a commander of new recruits. It started in July 2011 and ended in March 2012. I completed the dreaded beret march for the second time with my soldiers toward the end of February 2012. As challenging as the journey was I remember feeling deep satisfaction when I glanced back at my soldiers during their beret ceremony as they each swapped their depressingly ordinary green berets for maroon-red ones. I imagine that it is the feeling that parents have when they finally see their children making decisions on their own and going out into the world. We finished the beret march and ceremony and the following week joined the rest of the 202nd battalion in the Golan Heights for training. At the time I was desperately trying to go to Course Nativ, a course for the "enrichment of Jewish Identity and Zionism". In short, I was looking for a break from the stresses of being a commander. As expected, my acceptance to the course was not being facilitated by anyone other than myself. Having learned this already through numerous trials and tribulations in the IDF, however, I knew what to do-- fight like hell at any cost to get in. I drove down to Jerusalem on the "absorbtion day" of the course and politely asked to get in, though I was not enlisted in the course's roster. The 20-year-old at the reception table told me that my name did not appear on the list and that I would not be able to take part in this course...I've heard this one before. These situations in the army remind me of a quote I once heard: "There are no rules...just guidelines." At this point I proceeded to make my way inside to speak with the "troubleshooting" officers. I was told to wait for an undisclosed period amount of time. After about 5 hours of inquiring and waiting, the powers that be called me over and asked for my information. I was written on "the list" and told to proceed to the stations on the other side of the campus. I guess that officer at the reception table was wrong. I distinctly remember sighing a deep sign of relief after I found out that I would be accepted to the course for the simple reason that if I had to return to battalion training, I would endure more carrying, sleepless nights, and other army treasures that I had grown so accustomed to over the past 2 years. Course Nativ was nice, to say the least, with benefits such as good meals 3 times a day, at least 7 hours of sleep, and regular weekend leaves. The ironic part is that I managed to get into shape while I was in the course due to the extensive free time, food, and sleep. It was a great opportunity to brush up on Judaism, the ultimate reason for my being here in the first place, and to make use of my cranial region once again. When the course ended I was once again left with the unsettling feeling of, "what will the IDF do with me now?" With only approximately 2 months until my discharge vacation and having just finished a relaxing course with excellent conditions, I wasn't exactly in the mindset of sleeping 2 hours a night, eating crap, and dealing with unruly soldiers whose main goal in life is presently to NOT do guard duty. When I got back to the battalion I put in my request to return home to the States for my allotted 1-month vacation abroad as is granted to every lone soldier. I was in my car on my way to get allergy shots when one of the social workers of the battalion called me to deliver the good news that my request had been approved. Typically I'm not an overly emotional person and my responses are usually thought-out and relatively tame. I started shrieking in the car - yelling like a crazed banshee. For the first time in my service I felt as if things were going my way. I was "falling in between the chairs" in all the right situations and nobody really needed me. Being obsolete had never felt so good - Catch 22? I returned to the States for a respite of television, movies, sleep, food and literally nothing else. It was heavenly. My parents even honored my request to turn down the air conditioning to 55 degrees so that I could light a fire in the fireplace (unnecessary in Maryland during the month of May but nonetheless soothing). After my month in paradise, I came back in mid-June to the army to finish out my last month. I came back to my soldiers' platoon where I would spend my last few weeks as a "plant" or a fill-in job that doesn't bear too much importance. When my soldiers had their sof maslul ceremony (end of training) in Beit Lid near Netanya I had positive butterflies in my stomach. I could feel the last days, hours, minutes of my service sliding away from me. My last Tuesday, My last weekend, my last dinner, my last breakfast, my last time holding a gun (until reserve duty). The feeling was euphoric. When it came time at the end of the ceremony the Brigade's Master Sargeant signaled the soldiers to count down: 10, 9, 8...3, 2, 1. My soldiers threw their berets in the air. When they caught their red berets, they were officially members of the Paratroopers' brigade and I was officially making my way out. I spent the following weeks mainly sleeping, watching TV, and sleeping some more at my kibbutz. I went to "Civilians' Course" in Ramat Gan in order to more or less learn how to be a human being again and to learn about the benefits I would be receiving as a discharged combat soldier. On August 8 I drove up to my battalion's main base in the North in order to fill out my last "Tofes Tiulim" or entrance/exit form. I'm happy to say I was not afflicted by the slightest feeling of nostalgia. Lots of people start to wonder about their future, consider signing on extra time, and seem confused by the notion of being free. Not me. I was licking my lips in anticipation of being free of my soldier status -- a free man not bound by any system and able to come and go as he pleases. To celebrate my discharge I attended numerous parties and consumed a hefty amount of alcohol. I've also been making up my significant sleep debt that I have acquired over the past 30 months. I am surprised every morning when I wake up between 10:30 am and 12:00 pm and am still exhausted. In about 2 weeks I will be heading back to the States for approximately 6 weeks for the holidays and to look at potential schools for next year. I made the decision to return to States for school about a week ago. I'm really not sure what will happen afterwards vis-a-vis returning to Israel or staying in the States but I'm not too concerned as everyone else seems to be. There's a million ways to say "one step at a time" in Hebrew and that's one of the best lessons that I've learned and I believe have taken to heart. So, to conclude, for the time being, "I'm taking things one step at a time."

Wilderness

It's hard to accurately describe a challenging situation to the point where the listener can feel the hardships that the storyteller is trying to convey. This can oftentimes be frustrating, isolating, and nerve-wracking -- like trying to describe what the color turquoise looks like to a blind person. In this entry I will do my best to pinpoint the difficulties of Shetach, or wilderness, and why it is so many soldiers' nightmare.

The tension usually starts several hours or even a day before going down to the wilderness. Last minute preparations, equipment checks, and fixing malfunctioning weapons or sights. We know the approximate hour that we are supposed to leave the comfortable confines of the base but things never seem to go according to plan. The Tiyullit, or makeshift bus that can endure the rugged terrain of the wilderness, slowly backs up into the company barracks' parking lot. Everybody remains seated but blood pressures rise and a feeling of dread overtakes you. The doors in the passenger compartment in the back slide open and emit the familiar horrid sound similar to a space shuttle getting ready to take off. The soldiers form a chain and pile up all the equipment onto the back of the bus -- green bags with lots of pockets, green vests, slick black machine guns, ammunition, worn-out stretchers and jerrycans of water, AN/PRC-77 radios from the Vietnam era, and other treasures. It's cold outside and you think how it will be significantly more frigid at night time. This doesn't comfort you. You dive further down the rabbit hole of the thought and think about the 6 km walk that awaits you starting at 23:20 (11:15 pm). You'll be carrying somewhere between 80-100 pounds of equipment and your bag will favor your right side causing you to pause every 70 or so meters to adjust the heavy pack on your back. You reach your objective and start digging a foxhole to sleep in for the night. Just minutes before during the walk you were sweating profusely and very hot and sticky. Now your bag is set down next to where you are burrowing and although you still have your combat vest and weapon on you, just below the nape of your neck you feel ice. Your whole back is freezing cold and the terrifying thought strikes you that during the night your shirt will not dry. You'll be forced to sleep with a sheet of ice (your shirt) pressed against your back. When your foxhole is finished, you spread out your paltziv, or sleeping mat, and lie down. You throw the diseased-looking scratchy blanket on top of yourself and try to figure out how to cover your entire self. If you rotate the blanket 45 degrees so that it forms a diamond shape on top of you and then crawl up into a ball you might succeed. This is difficult however because your knees knock into your magazines in the front pouch of your vest and your weapon obstructs your thigh. You reach down to move your weapon forgetting that metal is a very effective cold conductor. As you grip the barrel of your gun you're not sure if the sensation is hot or cold. Giving up on this idea you try countless of other positions before passing out. Over the course of the night you wake up several times, unable to overcome the desert's cold. You have nothing in your reach to comfort or warm you. In the morning when the last man on guard duty wakes everyone up, it is still pitch black outside. Everyone is woken up and assembled for orders. 10 minutes to shave and polish your shoes. Much to your dismay the contents (water) of your 1.5 liter Nestea bottle is freezing cold. Being faced with no other option you splash the frigid liquid onto your face and proceed to shave. You have a horrible taste in your mouth, somewhere between liver and cigarettes, from not brushing your teeth for nearly a day and a half. You've been awake for nearly a half-hour completing your morning tasks, switching to day scopes, shaving, cleaning your weapon, and it's still pitch black and freezing outside. The thought strikes you that you won't go back to sleep for at least 19 or 20 hours. Your feet are still freezing cold and you start to think that maybe you got frostbite but there's no time to take off your boots and check. Keep moving. You take off your gloves to shave and clean your weapon and you wonder if you would have more mobility in your fingers with or without the gloves. An hour and a half pass and you have already eaten and arrived at your next objective. The sun should be shining brightly by now but there is inclement weather in the area. It should be self-explanatory by now why soldiers around the world despise winter. Your company conquers a set of hills in the company drill. The first drill without shooting and the second one with live rounds. At 16:40 (4:40 pm) you are walking and it starts to drizzle. 100 people are thinking the same thing -- NO NO NO! On the third "no" to yourself you hear thunder. It starts raining harder and you look at your dirty sleeve. It has dark spots on it from the rain. A drop hits your index finger and your neck simultaneously and they are cold. You grip your gun, once again forgetting that it is comprised primarily of metal, and once again it feels very hot or cold. By the end of the walk you are quite wet and everybody sits down on the muddy ground. It is still raining and you peek around. Every body is hunched over and squinting their eyes so that the rain doesn't get in their eyes or nose. 8 people out of the platoon must guard while the rest eat so you all take turns. You open up your field rations and take out the canned preserves. As you sink the can-opener into the tuna the oil spurt onto your vest and your pants. The process does not get any neater. 30 minutes is allotted for meal time, which includes opening all the canned goods at the beginning and stomping on them at the end so that the trash takes up less room in your bag. The hour is now 18:45 (6:45 pm). It is pitch black once again and freezing. The rain has let up but it is still drizzling. Approximately 5-6 hours until sleep. You toss the bag over your head and onto your back once again and you feel the damage it's done to your spine. The way you imagine it is like crushing the can of tuna. One blow from your foot causes an indentation, another blow a deeper indentation, and so on until the can implodes on itself. You leave the thought alone and start walking once again adjusting the bag to the left every 70 meters or so. You have been in the Shetach for about 48 hours. You have 120 hours left. Welcome to War Week.

I distinctly remember during my advanced training as a new recruit thinking to myself, "Thank God I won't ever have to do wilderness training in the training base again." Little did I know that a year and a half later I would be doing the same thing (and even a little more) with my soldiers. The things I described above have a different effect on different people. Some miss their bed, some miss their girlfriend, some miss Mom's cooking, some just want to smoke a cigarette with a coke, and some just plain want to get the hell out of the wilderness. I think the best way to go about all this wilderness business is to simply maintain an attitude of indifference. I spoke about this in my blog when I was a new recruit and I'm happy to say that I agree with everything I said back then. Everything is a mission; everything is a fact. It's cold outside. I'm hungry. My legs hurt. They are all facts and nothing more. If you don't assign to them a connotation they can't hurt you. With this attitude, the rain being wet and cold has no more significance than the sky being blue or the hill being steep. There is no question that the shetach is a humbling place -- some would even say holy. It's not a place for glory or for fun, but rather a place for learning about yourself and how you stand in the face of adversity.