Sitting in the Jet Blue terminal at JFK waiting for my flight to Rochester, I've now had a few hours to collect my thoughts.
American Jews have often been accused of having "divided loyalties," a charge which is often code for "you don't support the U.S. because you also support Israel." It's a tag I wholeheartedly reject. At the same time, my experience during the last two weeks has confirmed once again that if my loyalties are not divided, they are at least shared -- in a way that does not diminish my support for either the U.S. or Israel. Israel remains the only democracy in that part of the world (and I've got some of the campaign literature distributed last night at the Tel Aviv bus station in advance of the February 10 elections to prove it), and like any other sovereign country, she has the right to defend itself against attacks from outside its borders. I don't see any contradiction in being a good American and a supporter of Israel -- even if it means I have to brace myself whenever I watch CNN or listen to the BBC.
And so, when the plane touched down this morning after a very long 11-1/2 hour flight I was both happy and sad: very happy to be returning home, eager to see Ellen after too long away from her and glad to encounter familiar things (I couldn't find Dunkin' Donuts coffee anywhere in Israel); but sad to be leaving a place that also feels very much like "home."
The opportunity to help the Israel Defense Forces, even in a very limited way, was worthwhile on several levels. The work that had to done on the military bases was accomplished a bit more quickly because of the help from volunteers, both Jewish and non-Jewish, from around the world. Our presence was also proof to soldiers and ordinary citizens on the streets, on the trains and buses and in the stores that they are not completely alone in this ongoing battle against forces that are still trying to push the Jews into the sea. And the trip met my definition of a good volunteer experience because I got much more out of it than I put in.
So, while I spend the next few days getting back to "normal," I'll remind myself that there are lots of different "normals" in the world. I'll also hope that the uneasy truce in Gaza will lead to a more comprehensive solution.
That may be hopelessly naive when dealing with forces who remain committed to the destruction of the Jewish State. Then again, there's probably a reason the Israeli national anthem is entitled "Hatikvah," which means "the hope."
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Long Goodbye
Thursday, January 29, 2009
We finished packing this morning and cleaned our barracks (leaving it in much better condition than we found it). Then, it was back on the bus to visit the desert home of David Ben Gurion, one of the founders of the modern State of Israel.
The home is located in a former kibbutz called Sde Boker. Ben Gurion believed that the Negev desert, which covers more than one-half the land area of Israel, contained enormous untapped potential for the State of Israel. His dream was that five million people would settle in the desert and that science would provide answers to the challenge of “conquering” the desert.
While serving as prime minister, Ben Gurion stopped at Sde Boker on his way to a meeting in Eilat. The place was inhabited by a small group of settlers who rode horses and tended cattle and sheep. A short time later, Ben Gurion, already well into his 60’s, applied for membership in the Kibbutz, and moved there in 1953 after resigning from the government.
Ben Gurion insisted on doing all of the jobs on the kibbutz, and objected strongly when the work assignment notices referred to him as “Mr. Ben Gurion” rather than “David.”
While he returned to the government several times, Ben Gurion spent his final years at Sde Boker. If anyone wanted to see him, they had to go “up” to the Negev to visit. (The use of the preposition was intentional: since the Negev was in the south, it would be normal to go “down” to Sde Boker; however, Ben Gurion believed that traveling to the Negev had an element of spiritual elevation.)
We gathered under one of several pavilions to hear a talk about Ben Gurion’s life. Israeli soldiers gathered under several nearby pavilions to listen to similar lectures. Training for this army includes learning about the history of the country, and troops completing basic training often attend graduation exercises here.
Ben Gurion’s house has been preserved as it was while he lived there. There are hundreds and hundreds of books, as well as a small kitchen which Ben Gurion’s wife, Paula, insisted on having. (Kibbutz residences would not normally include kitchens because meals were eaten in a common hall.)
We then travelled a few kilometers to the gravesites of Ben Gurion and his wife. The spot overlooks the north end of the magnificent Ramon Crater and there is a breathtaking view of hills, mountains and dry river beds. Ben Gurion’s gravestone has three dates: the year of his birth, the year of his death and the year he emigrated to Israel. Ben Gurion considered the last date to be the beginning of his second life.
Ben Gurion’s dream of populating the Negev has not yet been realized. But this brilliant, stubborn and quirky man still occupies a major place in the Israeli psyche, representing a world view that asks “why not?” and a willingness to “walk the walk” instead of just “talking the talk.”
We then started the last leg of our journey, dropping some volunteers off in Beersheva and then continuing to the massive Central Bus Station in Tel Aviv. I had heard of a store in the station that sells Israeli army clothing and I thought I’d check it out. I bought several items and when the owner found out we were Sar-El volunteers, he insisted on giving me and three volunteers travelling with me Israeli flag pins with the word “Shalom.”
We took a public bus to the airport. The ride was much too long, and my friend Ellis was right to suggest that the train would have been a better idea. Since our flights do not leave until very late this evening (midnight and 1 a.m.), we certainly were not in a hurry. A good thing.
Check-in at Ben Gurion was uneventful, and I had a chance to spend some time in the new terminal. World class, with a wide variety of shops.
I was also sure to fulfill a promise to my son, David. Last Saturday, as we were descending the steps to the Western Wall in Jerusalem, David pointed out a 20-shekel note lying on the ground. Since it was the Sabbath, David wouldn’t pick it up. I did, and David immediately asked what I would do with it. I told him I would donate it to charity.
David may not have believed me, because he called me on my way to the airport to remind me to give the 20 shekels away. The Lubavitch movement still maintains a kiosk at the airport, and the charity box is now 20 additional shekels to the good.
Next stop: JFK.
We finished packing this morning and cleaned our barracks (leaving it in much better condition than we found it). Then, it was back on the bus to visit the desert home of David Ben Gurion, one of the founders of the modern State of Israel.
The home is located in a former kibbutz called Sde Boker. Ben Gurion believed that the Negev desert, which covers more than one-half the land area of Israel, contained enormous untapped potential for the State of Israel. His dream was that five million people would settle in the desert and that science would provide answers to the challenge of “conquering” the desert.
While serving as prime minister, Ben Gurion stopped at Sde Boker on his way to a meeting in Eilat. The place was inhabited by a small group of settlers who rode horses and tended cattle and sheep. A short time later, Ben Gurion, already well into his 60’s, applied for membership in the Kibbutz, and moved there in 1953 after resigning from the government.
Ben Gurion insisted on doing all of the jobs on the kibbutz, and objected strongly when the work assignment notices referred to him as “Mr. Ben Gurion” rather than “David.”
While he returned to the government several times, Ben Gurion spent his final years at Sde Boker. If anyone wanted to see him, they had to go “up” to the Negev to visit. (The use of the preposition was intentional: since the Negev was in the south, it would be normal to go “down” to Sde Boker; however, Ben Gurion believed that traveling to the Negev had an element of spiritual elevation.)
We gathered under one of several pavilions to hear a talk about Ben Gurion’s life. Israeli soldiers gathered under several nearby pavilions to listen to similar lectures. Training for this army includes learning about the history of the country, and troops completing basic training often attend graduation exercises here.
Ben Gurion’s house has been preserved as it was while he lived there. There are hundreds and hundreds of books, as well as a small kitchen which Ben Gurion’s wife, Paula, insisted on having. (Kibbutz residences would not normally include kitchens because meals were eaten in a common hall.)
We then travelled a few kilometers to the gravesites of Ben Gurion and his wife. The spot overlooks the north end of the magnificent Ramon Crater and there is a breathtaking view of hills, mountains and dry river beds. Ben Gurion’s gravestone has three dates: the year of his birth, the year of his death and the year he emigrated to Israel. Ben Gurion considered the last date to be the beginning of his second life.
Ben Gurion’s dream of populating the Negev has not yet been realized. But this brilliant, stubborn and quirky man still occupies a major place in the Israeli psyche, representing a world view that asks “why not?” and a willingness to “walk the walk” instead of just “talking the talk.”
We then started the last leg of our journey, dropping some volunteers off in Beersheva and then continuing to the massive Central Bus Station in Tel Aviv. I had heard of a store in the station that sells Israeli army clothing and I thought I’d check it out. I bought several items and when the owner found out we were Sar-El volunteers, he insisted on giving me and three volunteers travelling with me Israeli flag pins with the word “Shalom.”
We took a public bus to the airport. The ride was much too long, and my friend Ellis was right to suggest that the train would have been a better idea. Since our flights do not leave until very late this evening (midnight and 1 a.m.), we certainly were not in a hurry. A good thing.
Check-in at Ben Gurion was uneventful, and I had a chance to spend some time in the new terminal. World class, with a wide variety of shops.
I was also sure to fulfill a promise to my son, David. Last Saturday, as we were descending the steps to the Western Wall in Jerusalem, David pointed out a 20-shekel note lying on the ground. Since it was the Sabbath, David wouldn’t pick it up. I did, and David immediately asked what I would do with it. I told him I would donate it to charity.
David may not have believed me, because he called me on my way to the airport to remind me to give the 20 shekels away. The Lubavitch movement still maintains a kiosk at the airport, and the charity box is now 20 additional shekels to the good.
Next stop: JFK.
Wrapping Up
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
It figures. We finally get to the point where we know the soldiers we're working with by name; we know what to do; and how to do it. And it’s our last day.
After flag-raising we reported to the upper warehouse area and did our imitation of an open air labor market. A soldier named Yaacov, with whom I worked on Monday, came by and asked me to work with him today. Since “Frank” is a decidedly non-Hebrew name, I decided to make things easy and told him my name was “Shmuel,” which is my Hebrew name (and the translation of my middle name, Samuel). Yaacov immediately reduced “Shmuel” to “Shmulik,” the Hebrew equivalent of “Sammy.”
I recruited three companions (Barry, Mark and one of my roommates, Shelly Isenberg from Chicago) and we drove off to one of the most distant warehouses. There, we opened and re-folded large tents (large enough to hold dozens and dozens of people), strapped them with plastic bands and loaded them on pallets. Yaacov said the tents would be taken to Beersheva and then on to Tel Aviv where they would be washed. (I’m glad that’s not one of the jobs we had to do. I have enough difficulty washing my four-man camping tent at the end of each season.)
We also revisited the area we worked in on Monday to wrap up a number of items we had loaded on pallets. Since Yaacov did not have the key to the warehouse, he simply forced the padlock open with a large metal stake. Very resourceful, although it makes you wonder why anyone here would spend money on locks!
Just before noon, Peter, the captain we met on Sunday, came by in a jeep to shuttle us all back to the dining hall. Pretty nice of the "boss" to treat the workers to a ride, and indicative of the way these soldiers recognized, and appreciated, our efforts.
In the parking area in front of the upper warehouses, we saw a squad of soldiers from the Golani brigade getting off their bus and unloading a tractor-trailer containing their equipment. These soldiers saw action in Gaza, and were reporting to Ktziot after a training exercise nearby. The Golanis (together with the Givatis) are elite combat infantry soldiers, comparable to the Marines in the U.S. armed forces. (In fact, we were told last week that there was considerable discussion between the Golani and Givati commanders over who would be the first to enter Gaza. I’m sure that at this point they are both claiming credit.)
Once again, I marveled at the unique nature of the Israel Defense Forces: What other country sends its soldiers to and from the war zone in air-conditioned charter buses?
We returned to the tent-folding after lunch. Yaacov and his colleague, Itai, were extremely friendly and tried to joke with us in spite of the language barrier. They also pointed out the location of nearby tanks and armored personnel carriers so we could indulge in little-boy fantasies about playing soldier.
We took lots of photos of one another, and Itai was very interested in my I-phone. He couldn’t understand why I couldn’t send photos to his phone. He kept saying, “Bluetooth, Bluetooth,” and I tried to explain to him that I had shut down all of the phone’s communications before leaving the U.S. in order to avoid a crippling bill for data charges. Instead, Yaacov gave me his e-mail address (on g-mail, of course) and I promised to send the photos to him so he could pass them on to Itai.
At the end of the work day we returned to the warehouse area. The Golanis were still moving their equipment and supplies from the parking lot to one of the barracks buildings, and a number of the othr Sar-El volunteers and I pitched in to help. I loaded myself down with backpacks, dragged camouflage netting and lugged duffel bags, all the while thanking the soldiers for their efforts and speaking with those who understood English. One of the soldiers, Yoni (short for Yonatan), wore an orange New Balance tank top and spoke excellent English. He told me he came to Israel from Manhattan at age three with his parents. (His story reminded me of a tour guide years ago who explained that he decided to make aliyah (the word for emigrating to Israel, from the Hebrew term for “going up”) at age six when his parents in Chicago told him they were going to move to Israel and asked whether he wanted to come along.)
Yoni explained where the troops had been and what they were doing at Ktziot. He also invited us to take some of the cookies the troops had in great abundance – donated by overseas Jewish communities in response to the Gaza crisis. So, to all of you who made donations: Thank you! The cookies were delicious.
On the way to the evening presentation, we again passed the barracks in which the Golani soldiers were staying. The espirit de corps of these soldiers is amazing: while still in the process of moving all their equipment inside the barracks (they’ll be staying here about a month), they took the time to post their unit insignia on the outside wall, to erect signs in front of the building with unit mottos, and arrange rocks in front of the building in the design of a tree, the symbol of the Golani. While this was a temporary home, it was clear that it was their home.
In the parking lot I also met a group of three soldiers who asked me how long I have been in Israel and what I’ve been doing. They tried to thank me for coming so far to help out. I told them that compared to living here and serving in the army, my efforts were minor and that they were the ones who deserved thanks. We parted with smiles on all our faces.
This evening’s presentation should have been entitled “Timing is Everything.” We heard from soldiers who just took part in the Gaza operation. We began with Yara, a 20-year-old woman who served as one of four female paramedics with an armored division in Gaza. Yara is a very quiet, soft-spoken young lady who found nothing unusual about talking to us while sitting in a chair at the front of the room with her M-16 in her lap. She told us that while she received basic combat training and knew how to use her weapon, her real job was “to help save lives.” In order to qualify for service as a paramedic, Yara had to agree to serve for three years and four months instead of the usual two years of military service for women. After finishing the army, Yara said, she hopes to resume her studies and make a career in medicine.
She explained that her job is to supervise the medics and to provide medical care to injured soldiers. She spent most of the time during the Gaza operation inside an armored vehicle about three to four kilometers inside Gaza and went to the front as needed to help evacuate wounded soldiers back into Israel so they could be taken to the hospital.
She noted that the armored division was particularly motivated to succeed in the Gaza operation because Gilad Shalit, the young man captured by Hamas in 2006, is a soldier in the armored corps. “He is one of us and we want to bring him back,” she said.
I asked Yara what she would tell her children about her experience in Gaza. She said she wasn’t planning to have children any time soon, but that she would just tell them that she went there to help others, whether they were Israelis or civilian Palestinians. She also admitted that her children might view her experiences in a much more special way than she did. She also told us that while she felt she was just doing her job, her own mother has been quite “excited” about her activities, and is continually worried as only a mother could be.
As Yara was finishing her talk, a group of 30 Golani soldiers came into our meeting room. All the volunteers stood and applauded and congratulated the soldiers on a job well done. It was a very special moment.
We had the opportunity to hear from Yoni, the young man I met earlier in the day, and his platoon leader, Mordechai. These young men (Yoni is 20; Mordechai is 21) were also joined by their commanding officer, a second lieutenant named Ohad, the “old man” of the group at 24 years old.
Yoni, Mordechai and Ohad told us about the Golani soldiers. Unlike the armored corps or the paratroopers, Yoni said, “we are infantry. We walk.” And the term “elite” really fits these soldiers: only one in four applicants is accepted for the Golani. Yoni was asked why a soldier volunteered to become a member of the Golani. He said that it was often a matter of tradition, because many of the fathers, uncles and brothers of these soldiers also served in the Golani. Most of all, he said, “we want to defend our country.” It was as simple as that, and as profound as that.
The soldiers felt that their operation in Gaza was successful. “We hurt them (Hamas) badly,” Mordechai said. He also predicted that, in time, Hamas would have the ability to re-arm and resume attacks against Israel, but he made it clear that the IDF in general and the Golani in particular were ready to fight again.
Mordechai attributed the relatively low number of Israeli casualties to the fact that most of the Hamas fighters either ran away in the face of the Israeli advance, or melted away into the vast underground tunnel system throughout Gaza. We heard again that, unlike the Lebanon war in 2006, the intelligence about the situation in Gaza was “90 per cent accurate,” allowing the Israeli soldiers to locate and destroy many of the tunnels and the houses under which they were located.
Yoni was asked to recount the most memorable experience of his time in Gaza. Instead of telling us about some fierce battle, he told us about losing two of his comrades who were killed in a friendly fire incident. (Four of the nine Israeli casualties were victims of friendly fire.) Yoni told us that the building in which the soldiers were hit was mistakenly identified as a source of Hamas fire. "Mistakes will happen in war when you don't have enough time to think," Yoni said, "but it's hard to lose men who are members of your family."
Mordechai also made a point of telling us that he was a first-hand witness to the use of human shields by Hamas fighters. “They would take children to walk with them,” he said. “That meant that we couldn’t fire with tanks.” Yoni added that while he had several opportunities to use his rifle to shoot Hamas fighters with his rifle, but refused to do so when there was a risk of injuring the children nearby.
At the end of the presentation the soldiers left the meeting room and we stood and applauded once again. I had the opportunity to congratulate and shake hands with most of them. This was another special moment. It was also significant in light of the recent criticism of some of the less-motivated soldiers on the base. Tonight we had the opportunity to meet the young men who exemplify the best that Israel has to offer.
We ended the evening with a "graduation ceremony" for the five volunteers (including me) who are completing their "tours of duty." The madrichot gave us certificates and also presented us with copies of an essay entitled "This Is My Country." I think it's worth quoting in:
It figures. We finally get to the point where we know the soldiers we're working with by name; we know what to do; and how to do it. And it’s our last day.
After flag-raising we reported to the upper warehouse area and did our imitation of an open air labor market. A soldier named Yaacov, with whom I worked on Monday, came by and asked me to work with him today. Since “Frank” is a decidedly non-Hebrew name, I decided to make things easy and told him my name was “Shmuel,” which is my Hebrew name (and the translation of my middle name, Samuel). Yaacov immediately reduced “Shmuel” to “Shmulik,” the Hebrew equivalent of “Sammy.”
I recruited three companions (Barry, Mark and one of my roommates, Shelly Isenberg from Chicago) and we drove off to one of the most distant warehouses. There, we opened and re-folded large tents (large enough to hold dozens and dozens of people), strapped them with plastic bands and loaded them on pallets. Yaacov said the tents would be taken to Beersheva and then on to Tel Aviv where they would be washed. (I’m glad that’s not one of the jobs we had to do. I have enough difficulty washing my four-man camping tent at the end of each season.)
We also revisited the area we worked in on Monday to wrap up a number of items we had loaded on pallets. Since Yaacov did not have the key to the warehouse, he simply forced the padlock open with a large metal stake. Very resourceful, although it makes you wonder why anyone here would spend money on locks!
Just before noon, Peter, the captain we met on Sunday, came by in a jeep to shuttle us all back to the dining hall. Pretty nice of the "boss" to treat the workers to a ride, and indicative of the way these soldiers recognized, and appreciated, our efforts.
In the parking area in front of the upper warehouses, we saw a squad of soldiers from the Golani brigade getting off their bus and unloading a tractor-trailer containing their equipment. These soldiers saw action in Gaza, and were reporting to Ktziot after a training exercise nearby. The Golanis (together with the Givatis) are elite combat infantry soldiers, comparable to the Marines in the U.S. armed forces. (In fact, we were told last week that there was considerable discussion between the Golani and Givati commanders over who would be the first to enter Gaza. I’m sure that at this point they are both claiming credit.)
Once again, I marveled at the unique nature of the Israel Defense Forces: What other country sends its soldiers to and from the war zone in air-conditioned charter buses?
We returned to the tent-folding after lunch. Yaacov and his colleague, Itai, were extremely friendly and tried to joke with us in spite of the language barrier. They also pointed out the location of nearby tanks and armored personnel carriers so we could indulge in little-boy fantasies about playing soldier.
We took lots of photos of one another, and Itai was very interested in my I-phone. He couldn’t understand why I couldn’t send photos to his phone. He kept saying, “Bluetooth, Bluetooth,” and I tried to explain to him that I had shut down all of the phone’s communications before leaving the U.S. in order to avoid a crippling bill for data charges. Instead, Yaacov gave me his e-mail address (on g-mail, of course) and I promised to send the photos to him so he could pass them on to Itai.
At the end of the work day we returned to the warehouse area. The Golanis were still moving their equipment and supplies from the parking lot to one of the barracks buildings, and a number of the othr Sar-El volunteers and I pitched in to help. I loaded myself down with backpacks, dragged camouflage netting and lugged duffel bags, all the while thanking the soldiers for their efforts and speaking with those who understood English. One of the soldiers, Yoni (short for Yonatan), wore an orange New Balance tank top and spoke excellent English. He told me he came to Israel from Manhattan at age three with his parents. (His story reminded me of a tour guide years ago who explained that he decided to make aliyah (the word for emigrating to Israel, from the Hebrew term for “going up”) at age six when his parents in Chicago told him they were going to move to Israel and asked whether he wanted to come along.)
Yoni explained where the troops had been and what they were doing at Ktziot. He also invited us to take some of the cookies the troops had in great abundance – donated by overseas Jewish communities in response to the Gaza crisis. So, to all of you who made donations: Thank you! The cookies were delicious.
On the way to the evening presentation, we again passed the barracks in which the Golani soldiers were staying. The espirit de corps of these soldiers is amazing: while still in the process of moving all their equipment inside the barracks (they’ll be staying here about a month), they took the time to post their unit insignia on the outside wall, to erect signs in front of the building with unit mottos, and arrange rocks in front of the building in the design of a tree, the symbol of the Golani. While this was a temporary home, it was clear that it was their home.
In the parking lot I also met a group of three soldiers who asked me how long I have been in Israel and what I’ve been doing. They tried to thank me for coming so far to help out. I told them that compared to living here and serving in the army, my efforts were minor and that they were the ones who deserved thanks. We parted with smiles on all our faces.
This evening’s presentation should have been entitled “Timing is Everything.” We heard from soldiers who just took part in the Gaza operation. We began with Yara, a 20-year-old woman who served as one of four female paramedics with an armored division in Gaza. Yara is a very quiet, soft-spoken young lady who found nothing unusual about talking to us while sitting in a chair at the front of the room with her M-16 in her lap. She told us that while she received basic combat training and knew how to use her weapon, her real job was “to help save lives.” In order to qualify for service as a paramedic, Yara had to agree to serve for three years and four months instead of the usual two years of military service for women. After finishing the army, Yara said, she hopes to resume her studies and make a career in medicine.
She explained that her job is to supervise the medics and to provide medical care to injured soldiers. She spent most of the time during the Gaza operation inside an armored vehicle about three to four kilometers inside Gaza and went to the front as needed to help evacuate wounded soldiers back into Israel so they could be taken to the hospital.
She noted that the armored division was particularly motivated to succeed in the Gaza operation because Gilad Shalit, the young man captured by Hamas in 2006, is a soldier in the armored corps. “He is one of us and we want to bring him back,” she said.
I asked Yara what she would tell her children about her experience in Gaza. She said she wasn’t planning to have children any time soon, but that she would just tell them that she went there to help others, whether they were Israelis or civilian Palestinians. She also admitted that her children might view her experiences in a much more special way than she did. She also told us that while she felt she was just doing her job, her own mother has been quite “excited” about her activities, and is continually worried as only a mother could be.
As Yara was finishing her talk, a group of 30 Golani soldiers came into our meeting room. All the volunteers stood and applauded and congratulated the soldiers on a job well done. It was a very special moment.
We had the opportunity to hear from Yoni, the young man I met earlier in the day, and his platoon leader, Mordechai. These young men (Yoni is 20; Mordechai is 21) were also joined by their commanding officer, a second lieutenant named Ohad, the “old man” of the group at 24 years old.
Yoni, Mordechai and Ohad told us about the Golani soldiers. Unlike the armored corps or the paratroopers, Yoni said, “we are infantry. We walk.” And the term “elite” really fits these soldiers: only one in four applicants is accepted for the Golani. Yoni was asked why a soldier volunteered to become a member of the Golani. He said that it was often a matter of tradition, because many of the fathers, uncles and brothers of these soldiers also served in the Golani. Most of all, he said, “we want to defend our country.” It was as simple as that, and as profound as that.
The soldiers felt that their operation in Gaza was successful. “We hurt them (Hamas) badly,” Mordechai said. He also predicted that, in time, Hamas would have the ability to re-arm and resume attacks against Israel, but he made it clear that the IDF in general and the Golani in particular were ready to fight again.
Mordechai attributed the relatively low number of Israeli casualties to the fact that most of the Hamas fighters either ran away in the face of the Israeli advance, or melted away into the vast underground tunnel system throughout Gaza. We heard again that, unlike the Lebanon war in 2006, the intelligence about the situation in Gaza was “90 per cent accurate,” allowing the Israeli soldiers to locate and destroy many of the tunnels and the houses under which they were located.
Yoni was asked to recount the most memorable experience of his time in Gaza. Instead of telling us about some fierce battle, he told us about losing two of his comrades who were killed in a friendly fire incident. (Four of the nine Israeli casualties were victims of friendly fire.) Yoni told us that the building in which the soldiers were hit was mistakenly identified as a source of Hamas fire. "Mistakes will happen in war when you don't have enough time to think," Yoni said, "but it's hard to lose men who are members of your family."
Mordechai also made a point of telling us that he was a first-hand witness to the use of human shields by Hamas fighters. “They would take children to walk with them,” he said. “That meant that we couldn’t fire with tanks.” Yoni added that while he had several opportunities to use his rifle to shoot Hamas fighters with his rifle, but refused to do so when there was a risk of injuring the children nearby.
At the end of the presentation the soldiers left the meeting room and we stood and applauded once again. I had the opportunity to congratulate and shake hands with most of them. This was another special moment. It was also significant in light of the recent criticism of some of the less-motivated soldiers on the base. Tonight we had the opportunity to meet the young men who exemplify the best that Israel has to offer.
We ended the evening with a "graduation ceremony" for the five volunteers (including me) who are completing their "tours of duty." The madrichot gave us certificates and also presented us with copies of an essay entitled "This Is My Country." I think it's worth quoting in:
This is the only country where missiles from Iraq have exploded, suicide
bombers from Gaza have exploded, there have been five crucial wars in 56 years,
and yet a three-bedroom apartment costs more than it does in Paris.
This is the only country where the man wearing the stained open shirt is
the government minister and the one standing next to him wearing the black tie
is his driver.
This is the only country where the Muslims sell holy souvenirs to
Christians and give change in bills with the face of the Rambam [a 12th century
Jewish scholar] printed on them.
This is the only country where you can leave the house at the age of 18 [to
go into the army] and a the age of 24 you still live in it.
This is the only country where people come to your house for the first time
and have the guts to ask,"Can I grab something from your refrigerator?"
This is the only country where you can tell what the latest news is by what
kind of songs are on the radio.
This is the only country where you have to wait a week to get your washing
machine fixed and where there's a time called "I'll be there between 11 a.m. and
6 p.m."This is the only country where on the first date you ask the girl where she served in the army -- and the only country where you find out she had more combat experience than you did.
This is the only country where the time between the saddest day of the year [Remembrance Day] and the happiest day of the year [Independence Day, which follows immediately afterwards] is exactly 60 seconds.
This is the only country where most of the people can't explain why they live here, but have plenty of reasons why you can't live anywhere else.
This is the only country where if you hate politicians, clerks, the "situation," the taxes and the weather it means you love your country.
This is the only country I could live in.
Gaza On My Mind
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
We began the day at the warehouse unpacking duffel bags dropped off by the reservists who just returned from Gaza. Each bag contained clothing; a mess kit (including a coffee cup, a bandage and some silverware that may or may not have been washed at some point since the Six Day War); a sleeping bag; the occasional helmet; and M-16 clips, many of them still holding bullets. Our job was to separate the items so that they could be counted and returned to the warehouse in order.
Not fascinating work … and yet.
Each duffel bag represented a soldier. I wondered what each soldier had experienced in the last few weeks. What went through the mind of the man or woman who carried the duffel bag when the mobilization phone call came? How did it feel to cross the border into Gaza, land which Israel gave up a little more than two years ago, only to see it turn into “Hamasistan,” a launching site for a seemingly endless stream of rockets? Did the helmet protect against enemy bullets? Did the person inside the sleeping bag get much sleep? How many of the bullets in the clips were used, and how many of those found their mark? Did the boots walk on areas above tunnels that had been used to smuggle arms and ammunition into Gaza?
No answers were forthcoming, but I wished those jackets and hats and supply belts could talk.
We saw and heard a number of jets overhead, and we soon learned of events along the Gaza border. An Israeli border patrol was attacked this morning, leaving one dead and three injured. The jets we saw and heard were likely engaged in counter-attacks against Hamas in Gaza. We are too far away to hear any shooting, but we knew it was going on. In Israel, news – especially bad news – travels fast.
The rest of the day was spent in the lower part of the base. Our first assignment was to open about 200 duffel bags, remove a sweater from each duffel, replace it with a plastic bag containing empty bullet clips, and close the duffel again. What was the purpose of this maneuver? As soon as I find out I’ll tell you. Happily, the concrete block warehouse was quite cool and the work moved along quickly with the help of two Israeli soldiers: a young woman of Ethiopian descent and a young man whose parents came here from Belarus in the former Soviet Union.
We were curious about one part of the building with shelves containing boxes marked “Kosher for Passover.” We couldn’t tell what kind of food was inside so we quietly opened one of the boxes and found cans of tuna fish, peanuts, halvah and a product that looked a lot like Spam. The peanuts quickly became our morning snack, and we put the rest of the box back … in the back. If you’re reading this, please don’t tell anyone.
By afternoon, the sun was high in the sky and it was just plain hot. It didn’t matter, however, because we were working inside a large covered warehouse area, sort of a garage open on one side. With the help of a half-dozen soldiers, we attacked enormous piles of boxes containing a wide variety of items. We separated everything from hazmat suits to wrenches to light bulbs, and I even found a carton of office supplies containing typewriter ribbons dating from 1981. (I’m not sure anyone in the IDF still uses typewriters or why typewriter ribbons were needed in Gaza. If I find the answer to that one, it will likely mean I’ve achieved a level of enlightenment that will also tell me why the bullet clips were substituted for the sweaters in the duffel bags earlier in the day.) Everything was boxed and carried away by a forklift driver who thought he was driving a Formula One race car. As long as you stayed well out of the way, it was interesting to watch heavy equipment doing wheelies.
Tonight’s “evening program” was scheduled to be Israeli singing. Instead, we had a very candid conversation about some of the soldiers working here and the frustrations of some of the volunteers. To put it as politely as possible, there is an enormous difference between the soldiers in Israel’s elite fighting units and the folks who get assigned to work in warehouses in the desert. The level of discipline among many of the soldiers here is low, the buildings and grounds on the base are in serious need of a cleaning, and some of the soldiers apparently think that the volunteers are here to work instead of them rather than with them. (A group of young ladies in the upper warehouse area came in for particular criticism because of their habit of resting on the piles of clothes while the volunteers sorted everything out.)
There’s no good answer to this problem. Among other things, it’s not likely we would be assigned to work with combat troops or jet pilots because there probably not much we could do to help them. ("Hi! Want us to take your tank out for a quick spin to make sure everything's o.k.?") We can do the most good in places like Netafim and Ktziot where, by definition, the work to be done doesn't take a lot of skill or training, and that means we’re not likely to be side by side with the cream of the crop. I’ve decided that the best way to approach the situation is to simply remember that we are here to help and that without us the work that needs to be done would take that much longer to accomplish. I also can’t expect that the eagerness and energy of volunteers spending a few weeks here can be matched by young men and women who may have to work here for the better part of two or three years.
I’m still with the cup-is-half-full camp and I’m happy I did this. At the same time, I try not to think about how much more productive we could be if the soldiers here had better leadership, better discipline and a better attitude.
Tomorrow is our last day of work. Early Thursday we’re “checking out” of "Hotel Ktziot" and heading for Sde Boker, the kibbutz in the Negev where David Ben Gurion spent his last years and where he and his wife are buried. I’ve visited Sde Boker twice before and still remember the remarkably vivid pastel colors of the desert. I’m looking forward to returning and enjoying the view again.
We began the day at the warehouse unpacking duffel bags dropped off by the reservists who just returned from Gaza. Each bag contained clothing; a mess kit (including a coffee cup, a bandage and some silverware that may or may not have been washed at some point since the Six Day War); a sleeping bag; the occasional helmet; and M-16 clips, many of them still holding bullets. Our job was to separate the items so that they could be counted and returned to the warehouse in order.
Not fascinating work … and yet.
Each duffel bag represented a soldier. I wondered what each soldier had experienced in the last few weeks. What went through the mind of the man or woman who carried the duffel bag when the mobilization phone call came? How did it feel to cross the border into Gaza, land which Israel gave up a little more than two years ago, only to see it turn into “Hamasistan,” a launching site for a seemingly endless stream of rockets? Did the helmet protect against enemy bullets? Did the person inside the sleeping bag get much sleep? How many of the bullets in the clips were used, and how many of those found their mark? Did the boots walk on areas above tunnels that had been used to smuggle arms and ammunition into Gaza?
No answers were forthcoming, but I wished those jackets and hats and supply belts could talk.
We saw and heard a number of jets overhead, and we soon learned of events along the Gaza border. An Israeli border patrol was attacked this morning, leaving one dead and three injured. The jets we saw and heard were likely engaged in counter-attacks against Hamas in Gaza. We are too far away to hear any shooting, but we knew it was going on. In Israel, news – especially bad news – travels fast.
The rest of the day was spent in the lower part of the base. Our first assignment was to open about 200 duffel bags, remove a sweater from each duffel, replace it with a plastic bag containing empty bullet clips, and close the duffel again. What was the purpose of this maneuver? As soon as I find out I’ll tell you. Happily, the concrete block warehouse was quite cool and the work moved along quickly with the help of two Israeli soldiers: a young woman of Ethiopian descent and a young man whose parents came here from Belarus in the former Soviet Union.
We were curious about one part of the building with shelves containing boxes marked “Kosher for Passover.” We couldn’t tell what kind of food was inside so we quietly opened one of the boxes and found cans of tuna fish, peanuts, halvah and a product that looked a lot like Spam. The peanuts quickly became our morning snack, and we put the rest of the box back … in the back. If you’re reading this, please don’t tell anyone.
By afternoon, the sun was high in the sky and it was just plain hot. It didn’t matter, however, because we were working inside a large covered warehouse area, sort of a garage open on one side. With the help of a half-dozen soldiers, we attacked enormous piles of boxes containing a wide variety of items. We separated everything from hazmat suits to wrenches to light bulbs, and I even found a carton of office supplies containing typewriter ribbons dating from 1981. (I’m not sure anyone in the IDF still uses typewriters or why typewriter ribbons were needed in Gaza. If I find the answer to that one, it will likely mean I’ve achieved a level of enlightenment that will also tell me why the bullet clips were substituted for the sweaters in the duffel bags earlier in the day.) Everything was boxed and carried away by a forklift driver who thought he was driving a Formula One race car. As long as you stayed well out of the way, it was interesting to watch heavy equipment doing wheelies.
Tonight’s “evening program” was scheduled to be Israeli singing. Instead, we had a very candid conversation about some of the soldiers working here and the frustrations of some of the volunteers. To put it as politely as possible, there is an enormous difference between the soldiers in Israel’s elite fighting units and the folks who get assigned to work in warehouses in the desert. The level of discipline among many of the soldiers here is low, the buildings and grounds on the base are in serious need of a cleaning, and some of the soldiers apparently think that the volunteers are here to work instead of them rather than with them. (A group of young ladies in the upper warehouse area came in for particular criticism because of their habit of resting on the piles of clothes while the volunteers sorted everything out.)
There’s no good answer to this problem. Among other things, it’s not likely we would be assigned to work with combat troops or jet pilots because there probably not much we could do to help them. ("Hi! Want us to take your tank out for a quick spin to make sure everything's o.k.?") We can do the most good in places like Netafim and Ktziot where, by definition, the work to be done doesn't take a lot of skill or training, and that means we’re not likely to be side by side with the cream of the crop. I’ve decided that the best way to approach the situation is to simply remember that we are here to help and that without us the work that needs to be done would take that much longer to accomplish. I also can’t expect that the eagerness and energy of volunteers spending a few weeks here can be matched by young men and women who may have to work here for the better part of two or three years.
I’m still with the cup-is-half-full camp and I’m happy I did this. At the same time, I try not to think about how much more productive we could be if the soldiers here had better leadership, better discipline and a better attitude.
Tomorrow is our last day of work. Early Thursday we’re “checking out” of "Hotel Ktziot" and heading for Sde Boker, the kibbutz in the Negev where David Ben Gurion spent his last years and where he and his wife are buried. I’ve visited Sde Boker twice before and still remember the remarkably vivid pastel colors of the desert. I’m looking forward to returning and enjoying the view again.
Back to Work
Monday, January 26, 2009
After breakfast and flag-raising (attended only by the volunteers – we were told that some of the soldiers attend flag-raising shortly after 6 a.m.), the base commander spoke to us and explained that reserve troops leaving Gaza left a substantial amount of equipment and supplies at Ktziot, and that there was plenty of work for us to do to sort it all out, organize it and get it ready for the next time it’s needed.
Work began at a warehouse in the same area we received our clothing yesterday. Think of the times you have come home from a long trip and dropped everything – suitcases, clothes, personal items – in one place. Now think of an army doing the same thing and you get the idea. The warehouse was stuffed to the brim with piles of every kind of clothing and equipment imaginable, including flak jackets, pants, shirts, shoes, hats, helmets, equipment belts, first aid supplies, canteens, blankets, sleeping bags and bullets. Lots and lots of M-16 clips and bullets.
We counted everything and spread it out in piles in the parking lot until the warehouse was empty. I spent some time unloading clips and handled more bullets than I’ve ever seen before. Then, everything was bundled and put back into the warehouse in order. The items will be cleaned and repaired as needed, and made ready for reissue.
At mid-morning, one of my fellow volunteers and I were reassigned to another larger warehouse in the lower area of the base where we sorted and packed bigger materials: cots, tents, stakes … and even more bullets. The warehouse also contained some RPGs and what looked like a land mine. I decided to keep my distance, remembering my promise to my friends that I would not point anything or shoot anything during my trip.
We were working outdoors and enjoyed the sun and the mid-70s temperatures of winter in the desert. The two soldiers in charge of our work spoke very little English, but were extremely friendly and were able to let us know what needed to be done.
The work was tiring, but we were constantly busy. While many of us had difficulty connecting last week’s assignments at the supply base in the north with the recent operation in Gaza, the link between this week’s work and the recent battles could not have been clearer. The withdrawal from Gaza and the demobilization of reservists was completed very quickly, leaving the full-time soldiers – and the volunteers – to organize everything that was used.
The evening presentation was abbreviated because of everyone’s desire to get some sleep. Our two madrichot, Liora and Michal, talked about their training in preparation for work with Sar-El volunteers. Like our madricha last week, Liora and Michal are bright and talented young women who enjoy the experience of meeting volunteers from around the world -- and of responding to the myriad of questions we pose, ranging from hotel and travel arrangements on the weekend to figuring out how to maintain a sufficient supply of toilet paper in the barracks.
Liora came to Israel from the former Soviet Union as a child, and lives in Jerusalem. Michal is a sabra (a native-born Israeli) whose parents emigrated from Peru. As the only Spanish speaker among the Sar-El guides, Michal regularly assists groups of volunteers from South America. Michal lives in Modi’in, a modern community located midway between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv that also happens to have a very close relationship with Rochester through a program known as Partnership 2000. There are ongoing exchanges of teachers, teens, musicians and artists between the two communities, and the best evidence of the success of the program was the way Michal’s face lit up when I told her I was from Rochester. We also successfully played the time-honored game known as "Jewish Geography," and Michal asked that send greetings to Tom Reinstein, a retired lawyer in Rochester who is a member of Temple Beth El.
There was a bit of excitement after dinner when we were told that the water supply to the base had been interrupted (according to Michal, "it blowed up"), meaning there were no toilets or showers. I quickly switched to the fall-back philosophy I learned during my bicycle rides across Iowa: “When things start to go wrong, lower your standards.” In this case, the thinking went: “I’m sure they’ll fix it by morning, and if I can’t shower until then, it will be o.k.” I didn’t spend too much time thinking about the lack of toilets, other than to reflect on how very different my life has become and how life in Israel, and particularly in the army, means never taking anything for granted.
Happily, we were back in business by the time the evening presentation ended. I was tempted to recite the prayer thanking God for miracles … but decided I’d save that one for something more important.
After breakfast and flag-raising (attended only by the volunteers – we were told that some of the soldiers attend flag-raising shortly after 6 a.m.), the base commander spoke to us and explained that reserve troops leaving Gaza left a substantial amount of equipment and supplies at Ktziot, and that there was plenty of work for us to do to sort it all out, organize it and get it ready for the next time it’s needed.
Work began at a warehouse in the same area we received our clothing yesterday. Think of the times you have come home from a long trip and dropped everything – suitcases, clothes, personal items – in one place. Now think of an army doing the same thing and you get the idea. The warehouse was stuffed to the brim with piles of every kind of clothing and equipment imaginable, including flak jackets, pants, shirts, shoes, hats, helmets, equipment belts, first aid supplies, canteens, blankets, sleeping bags and bullets. Lots and lots of M-16 clips and bullets.
We counted everything and spread it out in piles in the parking lot until the warehouse was empty. I spent some time unloading clips and handled more bullets than I’ve ever seen before. Then, everything was bundled and put back into the warehouse in order. The items will be cleaned and repaired as needed, and made ready for reissue.
At mid-morning, one of my fellow volunteers and I were reassigned to another larger warehouse in the lower area of the base where we sorted and packed bigger materials: cots, tents, stakes … and even more bullets. The warehouse also contained some RPGs and what looked like a land mine. I decided to keep my distance, remembering my promise to my friends that I would not point anything or shoot anything during my trip.
We were working outdoors and enjoyed the sun and the mid-70s temperatures of winter in the desert. The two soldiers in charge of our work spoke very little English, but were extremely friendly and were able to let us know what needed to be done.
The work was tiring, but we were constantly busy. While many of us had difficulty connecting last week’s assignments at the supply base in the north with the recent operation in Gaza, the link between this week’s work and the recent battles could not have been clearer. The withdrawal from Gaza and the demobilization of reservists was completed very quickly, leaving the full-time soldiers – and the volunteers – to organize everything that was used.
The evening presentation was abbreviated because of everyone’s desire to get some sleep. Our two madrichot, Liora and Michal, talked about their training in preparation for work with Sar-El volunteers. Like our madricha last week, Liora and Michal are bright and talented young women who enjoy the experience of meeting volunteers from around the world -- and of responding to the myriad of questions we pose, ranging from hotel and travel arrangements on the weekend to figuring out how to maintain a sufficient supply of toilet paper in the barracks.
Liora came to Israel from the former Soviet Union as a child, and lives in Jerusalem. Michal is a sabra (a native-born Israeli) whose parents emigrated from Peru. As the only Spanish speaker among the Sar-El guides, Michal regularly assists groups of volunteers from South America. Michal lives in Modi’in, a modern community located midway between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv that also happens to have a very close relationship with Rochester through a program known as Partnership 2000. There are ongoing exchanges of teachers, teens, musicians and artists between the two communities, and the best evidence of the success of the program was the way Michal’s face lit up when I told her I was from Rochester. We also successfully played the time-honored game known as "Jewish Geography," and Michal asked that send greetings to Tom Reinstein, a retired lawyer in Rochester who is a member of Temple Beth El.
There was a bit of excitement after dinner when we were told that the water supply to the base had been interrupted (according to Michal, "it blowed up"), meaning there were no toilets or showers. I quickly switched to the fall-back philosophy I learned during my bicycle rides across Iowa: “When things start to go wrong, lower your standards.” In this case, the thinking went: “I’m sure they’ll fix it by morning, and if I can’t shower until then, it will be o.k.” I didn’t spend too much time thinking about the lack of toilets, other than to reflect on how very different my life has become and how life in Israel, and particularly in the army, means never taking anything for granted.
Happily, we were back in business by the time the evening presentation ended. I was tempted to recite the prayer thanking God for miracles … but decided I’d save that one for something more important.
Change of Scenery
Sunday, January 25, 2009
We gathered at the Tel Aviv train station this morning to receive our assignments. We’re heading to Ktziot, a tank and infantry support base in the Negev desert not far from the Egyptian border. The bus headed south out of Tel Aviv on multi-lane highways and past the cities of Ashdod and Ashkelon, two towns along the Mediterranean that took rocket fire from Gaza before and during Operation Cast Lead
After Ashkelon, we passed between the town of Sderot on the east and the northern end of Gaza on the west. That meant we were between Sderot and Gaza, and about ½ mile away from the border. All eyes on the bus turned to the right, but we were unable to see anything of Gaza through the haze. We were all very aware, however, of where we were and what had gone on there. (Sderot was a constant target for Hamas missiles during the last eight years, and several volunteers rented cars and visited the town over the weekend to spend some money and show their support.)
We stopped at a rest area along the way and were joined by several busloads of soldiers from the Givati brigade (identified by their purple berets) who saw action in Gaza. Many of the volunteers in our group thanked the soldiers for their work, and posed for pictures with these young warriors. Each of the soldiers carried an Israeli-made rifle which, they said, was a much improved version of the M-16. The difference, they explained, was that the barrel of the gun extended nearly the full length of the weapon, resulting in a shorter gun with equal firepower.
We then turned southeast toward Beersheva, the “capital of the Negev.” From a small desert outpost, Beersheva has become one of Israel’s largest cities, and is the home of Ben Gurion University of the Negev. Beersheva also is the home of the Israeli national bird – the construction crane – and we saw many tall apartment towers under construction.
We also passed the Bedouin market, and caught a glimpse of the fresh fruit and vegetables on sale. South of Beersheva, we began passing Bedouin tents and metal shacks … many sporting solar-powered water heaters and satellite dishes! What a perfect life: a tent, some sheep and a 500 television channels.
We were now in the desert. Last week the world in the north was green and filled with trees. Now the earth was brown, and the trees soon gave way to low bushes and then to little more than sand. The mountains of the north were replaced by the low hills of the Negev. In just a few days we’ve seen a wide variety of topography and climate.
After dropping off some volunteers at another base, we continued to Ktziot and followed the now-familiar routine of getting clothing (all new!), sleeping bags (instead of blankets) and sheets. The clothing process took an unusually long time, in part because the soldiers in the quartermaster area operated with the speed and energy of garden slugs. As a result, there was not enough time to start work this afternoon. (In other words, the post‑war supply and reorganization effort yielded to a higher priority: finding belts and hats that fit.)
In the midst of the confusion and inefficiency, I asked one of our madrichot how Israel managed to win any wars. One of my fellow volunteers heard my question and suggested that the outcomes spoke to the level of the competition. We may be tired but our sarcasm level remains high.
We are in a two-story barracks building and there are two other volunteers in my room: Oleg, the computer expert from the San Francisco area who was with us last week in Netavim, and Shelly, a clinical social worker from a suburb of Chicago who worked at another base last week.
The good news is that we have lots of room; the bad news is that we are on cots instead of beds, and that the level of cleanliness we encountered left a bit to be desired. Let me rephrase that: the place was filthy, and the bathrooms were unspeakable. We quickly commandeered some cleaning supplies and washed down the floors and bathrooms. The challenge now will be to keep the place clean in spite of the young “regular Army” soldiers on the floor below. Hopefully, “roughing it” won’t mean “living like animals.” (I would have said “living like pigs,” but kosher restrictions prevent me from doing that.)
The base captain, Peter, who serves as the volunteer liaison briefed us on the schedule and the rules. Among other things, the captain told us that the soldiers on the base live here (since it’s too far away from population centers for them to go home during the week), and that one of the buildings on the base serves as temporary housing for Sudanese refugees. These people have crossed the Sinai desert to (illegally) enter Israel along the Egyptian border. After a few days here, they will be taken to a prison and then either released in Israel or deported to Egypt. We were told that contact with soldiers on the base was permitted (even encouraged) but that we were not to have any contact with the Sudanese.
This evening, two Army medics gave a presentation on Advanced Trauma Life Support, and showed a variety of procedures for treating wounds in the field. We saw several forms of tourniquets, including one developed by the Israelis and being sold to the U.S. and several other countries around the world.
The two medics, natives of Azerbaijan and the Ukraine respectively, have been in the Army for 2½ years, and have served together since basic training. They are “combat medics,” which means they carry weapons and are, first and foremost, combat soldiers.
They began their army service – and their training – shortly before the 2006 war in Lebanon, and witnessed many of the operational mistakes that resulted in so many IDF casualties during that conflict. Many of those mistakes were outlined in the report of a study commission (known as the Winograd Report) and the relatively low number of casualties during the Gaza operation (160 wounded and nine dead, several as a result of “friendly fire”) was a direct result of the vastly improved levels of intelligence, preparedness and coordination of forces called for in that report.
One of the medics addressed the difficult choices that must be made on the battlefield. He said that if a terrorist and a civilian are each wounded, or if a terrorist and an Israeli soldier are each wounded, the terrorist will not be treated first, regardless of the severity of his injuries. However, if a civilian and an Israeli soldier are each wounded, the person with the more serious injuries will be treated first, even if it means that the Israeli soldier has to wait for treatment. In such a situation, the first priority is to save human life, whether the life is that of an Israeli or an innocent civilian.
He also talked about the negative publicity to which Israel has been subjected as a result of civilian deaths during the Gaza operation. To illustrate the complexity of the situation, he described one encounter in Gaza. While on patrol, he and his colleagues spotted a house in which a head bobbed up and down in a front window. They determined that the person in the window was a spotter for Hamas, and had both binoculars and a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) launcher. The Israeli troops fired several warning shots aimed at the vicinity of the house, to see if the spotter would stop his activities. When the person continued to appear in the window, tank fire was called in and the front of the house was blasted away, killing the spotter. When the troops checked the house, they found the spotter’s family, including two adult women and several children, all of whom were injured. They were all treated at the scene and, in coordination with the Red Crescent (the Arab equivalent of the Red Cross), were transferred to local hospitals.
The medic told us that while the Israeli troops had no intention of injuring civilians, the Hamas spotter's use of his own home while his family was in the house made such casualties unavoidable.
He also described the frustration he felt about the inability to “get the word out” about the way in which the efforts of Israeli soldiers are guided by ethics and values, and the contrast with the tactics of Hamas who use civilians, including children, as human shields. We told him that we shared that frustration, but that we would do what we could to tell this “side of the story” upon our return home.
We gathered at the Tel Aviv train station this morning to receive our assignments. We’re heading to Ktziot, a tank and infantry support base in the Negev desert not far from the Egyptian border. The bus headed south out of Tel Aviv on multi-lane highways and past the cities of Ashdod and Ashkelon, two towns along the Mediterranean that took rocket fire from Gaza before and during Operation Cast Lead
After Ashkelon, we passed between the town of Sderot on the east and the northern end of Gaza on the west. That meant we were between Sderot and Gaza, and about ½ mile away from the border. All eyes on the bus turned to the right, but we were unable to see anything of Gaza through the haze. We were all very aware, however, of where we were and what had gone on there. (Sderot was a constant target for Hamas missiles during the last eight years, and several volunteers rented cars and visited the town over the weekend to spend some money and show their support.)
We stopped at a rest area along the way and were joined by several busloads of soldiers from the Givati brigade (identified by their purple berets) who saw action in Gaza. Many of the volunteers in our group thanked the soldiers for their work, and posed for pictures with these young warriors. Each of the soldiers carried an Israeli-made rifle which, they said, was a much improved version of the M-16. The difference, they explained, was that the barrel of the gun extended nearly the full length of the weapon, resulting in a shorter gun with equal firepower.
We then turned southeast toward Beersheva, the “capital of the Negev.” From a small desert outpost, Beersheva has become one of Israel’s largest cities, and is the home of Ben Gurion University of the Negev. Beersheva also is the home of the Israeli national bird – the construction crane – and we saw many tall apartment towers under construction.
We also passed the Bedouin market, and caught a glimpse of the fresh fruit and vegetables on sale. South of Beersheva, we began passing Bedouin tents and metal shacks … many sporting solar-powered water heaters and satellite dishes! What a perfect life: a tent, some sheep and a 500 television channels.
We were now in the desert. Last week the world in the north was green and filled with trees. Now the earth was brown, and the trees soon gave way to low bushes and then to little more than sand. The mountains of the north were replaced by the low hills of the Negev. In just a few days we’ve seen a wide variety of topography and climate.
After dropping off some volunteers at another base, we continued to Ktziot and followed the now-familiar routine of getting clothing (all new!), sleeping bags (instead of blankets) and sheets. The clothing process took an unusually long time, in part because the soldiers in the quartermaster area operated with the speed and energy of garden slugs. As a result, there was not enough time to start work this afternoon. (In other words, the post‑war supply and reorganization effort yielded to a higher priority: finding belts and hats that fit.)
In the midst of the confusion and inefficiency, I asked one of our madrichot how Israel managed to win any wars. One of my fellow volunteers heard my question and suggested that the outcomes spoke to the level of the competition. We may be tired but our sarcasm level remains high.
We are in a two-story barracks building and there are two other volunteers in my room: Oleg, the computer expert from the San Francisco area who was with us last week in Netavim, and Shelly, a clinical social worker from a suburb of Chicago who worked at another base last week.
The good news is that we have lots of room; the bad news is that we are on cots instead of beds, and that the level of cleanliness we encountered left a bit to be desired. Let me rephrase that: the place was filthy, and the bathrooms were unspeakable. We quickly commandeered some cleaning supplies and washed down the floors and bathrooms. The challenge now will be to keep the place clean in spite of the young “regular Army” soldiers on the floor below. Hopefully, “roughing it” won’t mean “living like animals.” (I would have said “living like pigs,” but kosher restrictions prevent me from doing that.)
The base captain, Peter, who serves as the volunteer liaison briefed us on the schedule and the rules. Among other things, the captain told us that the soldiers on the base live here (since it’s too far away from population centers for them to go home during the week), and that one of the buildings on the base serves as temporary housing for Sudanese refugees. These people have crossed the Sinai desert to (illegally) enter Israel along the Egyptian border. After a few days here, they will be taken to a prison and then either released in Israel or deported to Egypt. We were told that contact with soldiers on the base was permitted (even encouraged) but that we were not to have any contact with the Sudanese.
This evening, two Army medics gave a presentation on Advanced Trauma Life Support, and showed a variety of procedures for treating wounds in the field. We saw several forms of tourniquets, including one developed by the Israelis and being sold to the U.S. and several other countries around the world.
The two medics, natives of Azerbaijan and the Ukraine respectively, have been in the Army for 2½ years, and have served together since basic training. They are “combat medics,” which means they carry weapons and are, first and foremost, combat soldiers.
They began their army service – and their training – shortly before the 2006 war in Lebanon, and witnessed many of the operational mistakes that resulted in so many IDF casualties during that conflict. Many of those mistakes were outlined in the report of a study commission (known as the Winograd Report) and the relatively low number of casualties during the Gaza operation (160 wounded and nine dead, several as a result of “friendly fire”) was a direct result of the vastly improved levels of intelligence, preparedness and coordination of forces called for in that report.
One of the medics addressed the difficult choices that must be made on the battlefield. He said that if a terrorist and a civilian are each wounded, or if a terrorist and an Israeli soldier are each wounded, the terrorist will not be treated first, regardless of the severity of his injuries. However, if a civilian and an Israeli soldier are each wounded, the person with the more serious injuries will be treated first, even if it means that the Israeli soldier has to wait for treatment. In such a situation, the first priority is to save human life, whether the life is that of an Israeli or an innocent civilian.
He also talked about the negative publicity to which Israel has been subjected as a result of civilian deaths during the Gaza operation. To illustrate the complexity of the situation, he described one encounter in Gaza. While on patrol, he and his colleagues spotted a house in which a head bobbed up and down in a front window. They determined that the person in the window was a spotter for Hamas, and had both binoculars and a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) launcher. The Israeli troops fired several warning shots aimed at the vicinity of the house, to see if the spotter would stop his activities. When the person continued to appear in the window, tank fire was called in and the front of the house was blasted away, killing the spotter. When the troops checked the house, they found the spotter’s family, including two adult women and several children, all of whom were injured. They were all treated at the scene and, in coordination with the Red Crescent (the Arab equivalent of the Red Cross), were transferred to local hospitals.
The medic told us that while the Israeli troops had no intention of injuring civilians, the Hamas spotter's use of his own home while his family was in the house made such casualties unavoidable.
He also described the frustration he felt about the inability to “get the word out” about the way in which the efforts of Israeli soldiers are guided by ethics and values, and the contrast with the tactics of Hamas who use civilians, including children, as human shields. We told him that we shared that frustration, but that we would do what we could to tell this “side of the story” upon our return home.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
More Surprises
Saturday, January 24, 2009
David and I walked from the hotel to the Jerusalem Great Synagogue for services, and to meet Rabbi Shaya Kilimnick from Congregation Beth Sholom in Rochester. Rabbi Kilimnick and his wife are vacationing in Israel and have just returned from a few days in Eilat at the southern tip of the country.
The atmosphere at the Great Synagogue is a wee bit different than the chaos last night at the Pinsk-Karliner service. The last time anyone yelled at the Great Synagogue was when one of the workers who built the place hit his thumb with a hammer. Instead, the focus here is on the hazzan (the cantor) and the accompanying men’s choir.
Everything is extremely rigid (no talking during services; pay attention; try not to walk around and visit your friends) but the voices and the tunes are as beautiful as I have ever heard.
The gabbai (a congregant who helps arrange the service) came over to greet Rabbi Kilimnick, who in turn introduced David and me. The gabbai offered me an aliyah, or honor, of lifting the Torah scroll following the reading. This honor, known as hagba, is a pretty big deal: the Torah is lifted and the columns of text are displayed for the entire congregation. It takes strength, leverage, and a bit of nerve. It's not something you want to do wrong.
Since I have never lifted a Torah, I suggested to the gabbai that this was no time to start practicing. So he offered the honor to David, who accepted immediately … and then worked up a first class case of stagefright. I tried to comfort him, telling him that there was nothing to worry about: he was simply going to lift the Torah in one of the world’s most famous synagogues in front of a congregation of hundreds and hundreds of people. I’m sure he felt a lot better.
Not only did David do a good job, but he stayed on the bimah (the elevated platform in the middle of the sanctuary) holding the Torah during the blessing of the new month, and then followed the procession to the front of the sanctuary to return the Torah scroll to the ark. I haven't been as proud of him in this context since his bar mitzvah. (Rabbi Kilimnick took full credit for David getting the honor of hagba. On the other hand, I think perhaps my friend the Pinsk-Karliner rebbe may have called ahead to make the arrangement.) In any event, David has now also become a Big Shot.
We then joined Rabbi Kilimnick and his wife and their other guests for lunch in the Kilimnick apartment in “David’s Village.” This neighborhood, located steps from the walls of the Old City in the Mamilla district, is the epitome of “location, location, location.” The views from the apartment are breathtaking. The Kilimnicks are planning to return to Rochester next week, and are not looking forward to leaving Jerusalem. I don’t blame them.
David and I returned to the Old City after lunch to visit the “Hurva Synagogue.” During previous visits I visited the Hurva – or what was left of it after the Jordanians destroyed it prior to 1967 -- many times. The only part of the structure remaining after Israel recaptured the Old City was a large stone arch. Today, the shape of that arch is the defining feature of a new Hurva Synagogue which is nearing completion. It was very exciting to see the structure being rebuilt, and I look forward to seeing the finished product.
We continued through the Jewish Quarter to pay another visit to the Kotel. Since I won’t be returning to Jerusalem this trip, it was an opportunity to say “goodbye” and to say a prayer of thanks for the opportunity to be here again. David wanted to recite afternoon prayers and we quickly found a prayer group inside the tunnel adjacent to the main Kotel plaza. The Saturday afternoon service is particularly interesting because it features “coming attractions” in the form of passages from next week’s Torah portion.
From there it was back to the hotel to collect the luggage and as soon as Shabbat was over (at 5:43 p.m. for those of you playing at home) we set off for the Central Bus Station so I could once again catch a bus to Tel Aviv, check into my hotel, and get ready to resume my second week of Army service.
The word from the other volunteers staying at the hotel is that our group from last week will stay together … but we won’t know where that will be until tomorrow morning.
Once again, I don’t know when or where I’ll have Internet connectivity, so stay tuned!
David and I walked from the hotel to the Jerusalem Great Synagogue for services, and to meet Rabbi Shaya Kilimnick from Congregation Beth Sholom in Rochester. Rabbi Kilimnick and his wife are vacationing in Israel and have just returned from a few days in Eilat at the southern tip of the country.
The atmosphere at the Great Synagogue is a wee bit different than the chaos last night at the Pinsk-Karliner service. The last time anyone yelled at the Great Synagogue was when one of the workers who built the place hit his thumb with a hammer. Instead, the focus here is on the hazzan (the cantor) and the accompanying men’s choir.
Everything is extremely rigid (no talking during services; pay attention; try not to walk around and visit your friends) but the voices and the tunes are as beautiful as I have ever heard.
The gabbai (a congregant who helps arrange the service) came over to greet Rabbi Kilimnick, who in turn introduced David and me. The gabbai offered me an aliyah, or honor, of lifting the Torah scroll following the reading. This honor, known as hagba, is a pretty big deal: the Torah is lifted and the columns of text are displayed for the entire congregation. It takes strength, leverage, and a bit of nerve. It's not something you want to do wrong.
Since I have never lifted a Torah, I suggested to the gabbai that this was no time to start practicing. So he offered the honor to David, who accepted immediately … and then worked up a first class case of stagefright. I tried to comfort him, telling him that there was nothing to worry about: he was simply going to lift the Torah in one of the world’s most famous synagogues in front of a congregation of hundreds and hundreds of people. I’m sure he felt a lot better.
Not only did David do a good job, but he stayed on the bimah (the elevated platform in the middle of the sanctuary) holding the Torah during the blessing of the new month, and then followed the procession to the front of the sanctuary to return the Torah scroll to the ark. I haven't been as proud of him in this context since his bar mitzvah. (Rabbi Kilimnick took full credit for David getting the honor of hagba. On the other hand, I think perhaps my friend the Pinsk-Karliner rebbe may have called ahead to make the arrangement.) In any event, David has now also become a Big Shot.
We then joined Rabbi Kilimnick and his wife and their other guests for lunch in the Kilimnick apartment in “David’s Village.” This neighborhood, located steps from the walls of the Old City in the Mamilla district, is the epitome of “location, location, location.” The views from the apartment are breathtaking. The Kilimnicks are planning to return to Rochester next week, and are not looking forward to leaving Jerusalem. I don’t blame them.
David and I returned to the Old City after lunch to visit the “Hurva Synagogue.” During previous visits I visited the Hurva – or what was left of it after the Jordanians destroyed it prior to 1967 -- many times. The only part of the structure remaining after Israel recaptured the Old City was a large stone arch. Today, the shape of that arch is the defining feature of a new Hurva Synagogue which is nearing completion. It was very exciting to see the structure being rebuilt, and I look forward to seeing the finished product.
We continued through the Jewish Quarter to pay another visit to the Kotel. Since I won’t be returning to Jerusalem this trip, it was an opportunity to say “goodbye” and to say a prayer of thanks for the opportunity to be here again. David wanted to recite afternoon prayers and we quickly found a prayer group inside the tunnel adjacent to the main Kotel plaza. The Saturday afternoon service is particularly interesting because it features “coming attractions” in the form of passages from next week’s Torah portion.
From there it was back to the hotel to collect the luggage and as soon as Shabbat was over (at 5:43 p.m. for those of you playing at home) we set off for the Central Bus Station so I could once again catch a bus to Tel Aviv, check into my hotel, and get ready to resume my second week of Army service.
The word from the other volunteers staying at the hotel is that our group from last week will stay together … but we won’t know where that will be until tomorrow morning.
Once again, I don’t know when or where I’ll have Internet connectivity, so stay tuned!
O, Jerusalem
Friday, January 23, 2009
David arrived at my hotel bright and early (for him) at about 9:30 a.m., and we took a cab to the “City of David.” This area, located south of the Temple Mount, is the site of the fortified Jebusite city conquered by King David. According to the City of David website (www.cityofdavid.org.il):
David arrived at my hotel bright and early (for him) at about 9:30 a.m., and we took a cab to the “City of David.” This area, located south of the Temple Mount, is the site of the fortified Jebusite city conquered by King David. According to the City of David website (www.cityofdavid.org.il):
In approximately 1000 B.C.E., King David arrived in the city. David, who
had previously ruled in Hebron for seven years, conquered the Fortress of Zion
and turned the "Jebusite City" into his religious and national capital: "David
occupied the fortress and called it the City of David" (Samuel II, 5:9).
Then David fortified the city: "He built up the surrounding area, from the Millo
inward" (ibid) and built his palace here.
Jews again began living in the area, now located in the Arab village of Silwan, in the late 19th century. The City of David came under Israeli rule following the Six Day War in 1967. The site became an active archaeological site in the 1970s, and in the early1990s, Jews began living in the area on a larger scale.
The tour includes the site of what is believed to be King David’s palace; the remains of houses dating back to the Second Temple Period (8th to 6th century B.C.E.); the Gihon spring, the water source that was key to the survival, and later conquest, of the city and the place where King Solomon was anointed to succeed his father, David; and Hezekiah’s Tunnel, an 8th century B.C.E. engineering feat that channeled the waters of the Gihon Spring inward toward the city and to a reservoir known as the Shiloach Pool.
Lots of climbing up and down and lots of history, all crammed into two hours.
From the south end of the City of David, we went up … literally … to the walls of the Old City and visited the Western Wall, known as the Kotel. The area in front of the Wall is a perpetual center of activity, filled with tourists and men and women at prayer at all hours of the day and night. It is always a “must” during my visits to Jerusalem, and I was able to spend a few quiet moments touching the stones and reflecting on what brought me here once again.
We then walked into the Jewish Quarter of the Old City and visited the Cardo, an excavated “Main Street” from 6th century Jerusalem which now, as then, is filled with shops. I did some “damage” at a shop Ellen and I first visited in 1982, and I can’t wait to have my purchase delivered in Rochester in a few weeks. I’ve already picked out a spot in the house, and I think it will look great. (No more details … Ellen hasn’t seen it yet.)
In years past, I would have left the Old City by walking through the shuk, the market in the Arab Quarter. These days, that’s not such a good idea, and David and I took the long way around past Zion Gate and through the Armenian Quarter. Political conditions may have changed, but the freshly-baked bread available in the Old City and in the plaza just inside the Jaffa Gate is still wonderful. An oblong-shaped bagel topped with sesame seeds makes a perfect snack.
David and I returned to the hotel via Ben Yehuda Street, a pedestrian mall located on a hill between King George Street and Jaffa Road. We stopped for shwarma, a sandwich filled with roasted meat, hummus, salad and French fries. Not on my diet, but pretty darn good. We then returned to the hotel for a quick nap, got dressed for Shabbat, and set out to visit Rabbi Yom Tov Glaser. Rabbi Glaser (“call me Yom Tov”) is a 40-ish California native who moved to Israel in 1991. Rabbi Glaser lives in the nearby Nahalot neighborhood with his wife, Leah, and seven children. A “multi-tasker” of the first order, Rabbi Glaser is a teacher at Aish HaTorah, a well-respected Jerusalem educational institution; plays guitar and sings professionally and for groups of young adults visiting Israel with the “birthright israel” program; conducts self-improvement seminars; and is an expert mountain-biker and surfer.
Rabbi Glaser is also a member of a Hassidic sect known as Pinsk-Karlin, a group with its roots in the Ukraine. The Pinsk-Karliners have had a presence in Jerusalem since the late 19th century and have a synagogue in the ultra-Orthodox section of Jerusalem known as Meah Shearim.
As we walked from Rabbi Glaser’s house to the synagogue, he briefed me on what to expect at this Kabbalat Shabbat service welcoming the Sabbath. The Pinsk-Karliners have one other characteristic that separates them from other sects: they scream the prayers at the top of their lungs. Multiply that by several hundred voices and the result is that if you didn’t have a headache at the beginning of the service, you may well have one by the end.
I’ve never seen – or heard – anything like it. The leader chants the first few words of each prayer, and each member of the congregation – all men because the women are at home preparing the Sabbath dinner – shouts the rest of the prayer. There is no singing, and no speaking; just yelling. (Rabbi Glaser turned to me after a few minutes and asked for my reaction. I told him it was pretty much like a normal synagogue Board meeting.)
But the best was yet to come. At the end of the service, the men lined up to greet the Pinsk Karliner rebbe, the leader of the sect. The rebbe is an older fellow with a big white beard and bright, friendly eyes. Each person on line nodded to the rebbe and wished him a "good Shabbes." No one shook his hand. No one spoke with him. Those are the rules.
When Rabbi Glaser and I got to the front of the line, the rebbe asked Rabbi Glaser who I was. (His curiosity may have been aroused by the fact that I was the only adult male in the building without a beard.) Rabbi Glaser told him I was a visitor from New York who had come to Israel to volunteer with the Army. The rebbe then reached out to shake my hand, and asked me if I spoke either Hebrew or Yiddish. I shook his hand, told him I understood a little Hebrew and a little German, and answered his questions about where my parents were from. He then patted me on the shoulder several times and congratulated me for coming to Israel to help out. A warm, friendly encounter indeed.
When I turned to Rabbi Glaser and David, they were in shock. The rebbe speaks to no one after Friday night services, but just had a discussion with me, shook my hand and patted me on the shoulder. “That just doesn’t happen,” Rabbi Glaser said. “We’ve got third‑generation members of this congregation who have never done that. He must have thought something special was going on with you.” All of a sudden, I was a big shot, and I still don’t know why.
We returned to Rabbi Glaser’s house for an extended Shabbat dinner with 20 people in attendance, including Israelis and other Americans. The Rabbi delivered a talk about the week’s Torah portion and there was a lively discussion of several religious issues. And all the while the Rabbi’s children were running around, eating and spilling things.
It was a lovely dinner, and I was able to witness a very beautiful custom. Rabbi Glaser explained that at his Shabbat table, people don’t serve themselves from the plates of food passed around the table. Instead, each person serves the person next to him or her. In that way, everyone is a guest for dinner.
And then, around 10 p.m., I ran out of gas. David and I returned to the hotel, and I think it took me at least 30 seconds to fall to sleep.
The tour includes the site of what is believed to be King David’s palace; the remains of houses dating back to the Second Temple Period (8th to 6th century B.C.E.); the Gihon spring, the water source that was key to the survival, and later conquest, of the city and the place where King Solomon was anointed to succeed his father, David; and Hezekiah’s Tunnel, an 8th century B.C.E. engineering feat that channeled the waters of the Gihon Spring inward toward the city and to a reservoir known as the Shiloach Pool.
Lots of climbing up and down and lots of history, all crammed into two hours.
From the south end of the City of David, we went up … literally … to the walls of the Old City and visited the Western Wall, known as the Kotel. The area in front of the Wall is a perpetual center of activity, filled with tourists and men and women at prayer at all hours of the day and night. It is always a “must” during my visits to Jerusalem, and I was able to spend a few quiet moments touching the stones and reflecting on what brought me here once again.
We then walked into the Jewish Quarter of the Old City and visited the Cardo, an excavated “Main Street” from 6th century Jerusalem which now, as then, is filled with shops. I did some “damage” at a shop Ellen and I first visited in 1982, and I can’t wait to have my purchase delivered in Rochester in a few weeks. I’ve already picked out a spot in the house, and I think it will look great. (No more details … Ellen hasn’t seen it yet.)
In years past, I would have left the Old City by walking through the shuk, the market in the Arab Quarter. These days, that’s not such a good idea, and David and I took the long way around past Zion Gate and through the Armenian Quarter. Political conditions may have changed, but the freshly-baked bread available in the Old City and in the plaza just inside the Jaffa Gate is still wonderful. An oblong-shaped bagel topped with sesame seeds makes a perfect snack.
David and I returned to the hotel via Ben Yehuda Street, a pedestrian mall located on a hill between King George Street and Jaffa Road. We stopped for shwarma, a sandwich filled with roasted meat, hummus, salad and French fries. Not on my diet, but pretty darn good. We then returned to the hotel for a quick nap, got dressed for Shabbat, and set out to visit Rabbi Yom Tov Glaser. Rabbi Glaser (“call me Yom Tov”) is a 40-ish California native who moved to Israel in 1991. Rabbi Glaser lives in the nearby Nahalot neighborhood with his wife, Leah, and seven children. A “multi-tasker” of the first order, Rabbi Glaser is a teacher at Aish HaTorah, a well-respected Jerusalem educational institution; plays guitar and sings professionally and for groups of young adults visiting Israel with the “birthright israel” program; conducts self-improvement seminars; and is an expert mountain-biker and surfer.
Rabbi Glaser is also a member of a Hassidic sect known as Pinsk-Karlin, a group with its roots in the Ukraine. The Pinsk-Karliners have had a presence in Jerusalem since the late 19th century and have a synagogue in the ultra-Orthodox section of Jerusalem known as Meah Shearim.
As we walked from Rabbi Glaser’s house to the synagogue, he briefed me on what to expect at this Kabbalat Shabbat service welcoming the Sabbath. The Pinsk-Karliners have one other characteristic that separates them from other sects: they scream the prayers at the top of their lungs. Multiply that by several hundred voices and the result is that if you didn’t have a headache at the beginning of the service, you may well have one by the end.
I’ve never seen – or heard – anything like it. The leader chants the first few words of each prayer, and each member of the congregation – all men because the women are at home preparing the Sabbath dinner – shouts the rest of the prayer. There is no singing, and no speaking; just yelling. (Rabbi Glaser turned to me after a few minutes and asked for my reaction. I told him it was pretty much like a normal synagogue Board meeting.)
But the best was yet to come. At the end of the service, the men lined up to greet the Pinsk Karliner rebbe, the leader of the sect. The rebbe is an older fellow with a big white beard and bright, friendly eyes. Each person on line nodded to the rebbe and wished him a "good Shabbes." No one shook his hand. No one spoke with him. Those are the rules.
When Rabbi Glaser and I got to the front of the line, the rebbe asked Rabbi Glaser who I was. (His curiosity may have been aroused by the fact that I was the only adult male in the building without a beard.) Rabbi Glaser told him I was a visitor from New York who had come to Israel to volunteer with the Army. The rebbe then reached out to shake my hand, and asked me if I spoke either Hebrew or Yiddish. I shook his hand, told him I understood a little Hebrew and a little German, and answered his questions about where my parents were from. He then patted me on the shoulder several times and congratulated me for coming to Israel to help out. A warm, friendly encounter indeed.
When I turned to Rabbi Glaser and David, they were in shock. The rebbe speaks to no one after Friday night services, but just had a discussion with me, shook my hand and patted me on the shoulder. “That just doesn’t happen,” Rabbi Glaser said. “We’ve got third‑generation members of this congregation who have never done that. He must have thought something special was going on with you.” All of a sudden, I was a big shot, and I still don’t know why.
We returned to Rabbi Glaser’s house for an extended Shabbat dinner with 20 people in attendance, including Israelis and other Americans. The Rabbi delivered a talk about the week’s Torah portion and there was a lively discussion of several religious issues. And all the while the Rabbi’s children were running around, eating and spilling things.
It was a lovely dinner, and I was able to witness a very beautiful custom. Rabbi Glaser explained that at his Shabbat table, people don’t serve themselves from the plates of food passed around the table. Instead, each person serves the person next to him or her. In that way, everyone is a guest for dinner.
And then, around 10 p.m., I ran out of gas. David and I returned to the hotel, and I think it took me at least 30 seconds to fall to sleep.
Transition
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The final day at Netavim started in a quintessentially Israeli manner: we lined up for the morning flag raising, only to find out that “the flagpole is broken.” There was no explanation, even though the flagpole looked pretty good from my vantage point. In any case, we were sent from our formation directly to the warehouses.
My colleague, Russell (the orthopedic surgeon from Massachusetts) and I continued painting yellow lines on the warehouse floor, and were able to finish our assigned duties before lunchtime (and before we ran out of paint) with only moments to spare. It’s amazing how your standards can change: two American professionals were really proud of the way the painted lines looked!
After lunch we returned our army clothes, blankets, sheets and boots to the quartermaster and then cleaned the barracks for inspection. Happily, most of the items were returned properly (although one of the volunteers seems to have made off with a hat), and the deputy commander was pleased at how clean the rooms were. (Success!)
We then boarded a chartered bus for Tel Aviv, and timed it perfectly in order to hit amazing rush hour traffic. (I choose to view it as an example of how well Israel fits into the modern world: how many countries can boast of bumper-to-bumper expressways?).
From Tel Aviv we arranged a sherut, a shared taxi that took us to the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem. Continuing our “planes, trains and automobiles” adventure, we then got a cab – and a chance to bargain with that unique band of thieves known as Jerusalem cab drivers:
“Palatin Hotel.”
“Thirty shekels.”
“Put on the taxi meter.”
“No. Twenty-five shekels.”
“Put on the taxi meter.”
“No. Twenty shekels.”
“OK.”
Once inside the cab, the driver wanted more money to carry the luggage. Then he decided he wanted to turn on the meter after all. I declined both invitations, and he was not a happy camper. He continued to complain bitterly about the amount of traffic he had to negotiate, and then stopped at a building on Agrippas Street which, he claimed, was the address I had given him for the hotel.
I got out of the cab but couldn’t see a sign for the hotel. After repeated protests, the driver asked someone for directions and learned that, in fact, we were nowhere near the hotel. I was happy I stood my ground.
About a mile later, we reached the hotel and I gave the driver 20 shekels. I’m not sure whether he was unhappy about having to go further than he thought or about having gotten outbargained. Probably a bit of both. My companion, Ellis, told me he was proud of the way I dealt with the driver. I let him know that this was not my first time at the rodeo, and that dealing with cabbies in Jerusalem is something of an art. (I didn’t tell him that my lifetime winning percentage in this arena is still well below .500.)
The Palatin Hotel is a small operation in a 19th century building about two blocks from Ben Yehuda Street, a large pedestrian mall in downtown Jerusalem. After dumping the luggage and changing into “acceptable” clothing, I found a much more accommodating cab driver to take me to visit my first cousin, Alan, who lives in a Jerusalem suburb.
Some background: Alan is my mother’s nephew, and was raised in Paris. (My mother’s family returned to France after spending World War II in Cuba; my mother, who married my father in Cuba, went to the U.S.) Alan became very religious and moved to Israel to raise a v-e-r-y,
v-e-r-y l-a-r-g-e family. In total, there are 15 children, including three sons and 12 daughters. There are 20 grandchildren right now, but that number is probably rising as quickly as the national debt.
When Ellen and I first met Alan in 1982, the family was living in a two-bedroom apartment in the Old City of Jerusalem. The children were stacked up like chickens, and the place reminded me of the stateroom scene in Night at the Opera in which Groucho keeps inviting more people into the room until it bursts.
Things have changed considerably. Alan and his family now live in a spacious 10-bedroom apartment in Ramat Shlomo, a neighborhood of religious families. The neighborhood even features an exact replica of the world Lubavitch headquarters building at 770 Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn. Even though it was nearly 8:30 p.m. and dark, the neighborhood was bustling with people, including hundreds of kids running around and riding bicycles. The community was apparently built for the specific purpose of housing large religious families, and seems to work very well.
Alan is a member of the Breslov sect of Hasidic Jews, followers of Rabbi Nachman of Breslov. (The Breslov Hassidim were traditionally known as the “Totenrebbe Hassidim” (the “dead Rabbi Hassidim”) because they never appointed a new leader following the death of Rabbi Nachman, an 18th century scholar. That distinction has become somewhat blurred because the Lubavitch Hassidim did not appoint a new leader following the death of Rabbi Schneerson in 1994.) Alan continues to make his living translating religious texts from Hebrew into French, and appears to live quite comfortably.
Several of the children have moved away from home, but the apartment continued to be abuzz with Shimon, one of the sons, and at least a half-dozen of the daughters. Next time I visit I’m bringing a scorecard.
Alan and I had a wonderful discussion, ranging from the trials and tribulations of our respective families to whether President Obama is really a Muslim. (Many Israelis and, I suspect, quite a few Americans, still have difficulty getting over his middle name. When I remind Israelis that the Obama’s first name is the same as the last name of Israel’s defense minister, things get a little better … but not much.) The attitude reflects a genuine concern over whether Obama will prove to be “good for Israel” or not. I prefer to believe that yesterday’s speech, and the appointment of Senator Mitchell, are both hopeful and positive signs.
My relationship with Alan remains very special, and it’s the kind of friendship that we can pick up exactly where we left off in spite of the passage of years in between. We exchanged e-mail addresses and I hope to maintain regular contact, albeit electronically.
David is scheduled to pick me up tomorrow to tour the City of David excavations south of the Old City, and then I’ll have the privilege of spending Shabbat in Jerusalem before returning to the Army.
The final day at Netavim started in a quintessentially Israeli manner: we lined up for the morning flag raising, only to find out that “the flagpole is broken.” There was no explanation, even though the flagpole looked pretty good from my vantage point. In any case, we were sent from our formation directly to the warehouses.
My colleague, Russell (the orthopedic surgeon from Massachusetts) and I continued painting yellow lines on the warehouse floor, and were able to finish our assigned duties before lunchtime (and before we ran out of paint) with only moments to spare. It’s amazing how your standards can change: two American professionals were really proud of the way the painted lines looked!
After lunch we returned our army clothes, blankets, sheets and boots to the quartermaster and then cleaned the barracks for inspection. Happily, most of the items were returned properly (although one of the volunteers seems to have made off with a hat), and the deputy commander was pleased at how clean the rooms were. (Success!)
We then boarded a chartered bus for Tel Aviv, and timed it perfectly in order to hit amazing rush hour traffic. (I choose to view it as an example of how well Israel fits into the modern world: how many countries can boast of bumper-to-bumper expressways?).
From Tel Aviv we arranged a sherut, a shared taxi that took us to the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem. Continuing our “planes, trains and automobiles” adventure, we then got a cab – and a chance to bargain with that unique band of thieves known as Jerusalem cab drivers:
“Palatin Hotel.”
“Thirty shekels.”
“Put on the taxi meter.”
“No. Twenty-five shekels.”
“Put on the taxi meter.”
“No. Twenty shekels.”
“OK.”
Once inside the cab, the driver wanted more money to carry the luggage. Then he decided he wanted to turn on the meter after all. I declined both invitations, and he was not a happy camper. He continued to complain bitterly about the amount of traffic he had to negotiate, and then stopped at a building on Agrippas Street which, he claimed, was the address I had given him for the hotel.
I got out of the cab but couldn’t see a sign for the hotel. After repeated protests, the driver asked someone for directions and learned that, in fact, we were nowhere near the hotel. I was happy I stood my ground.
About a mile later, we reached the hotel and I gave the driver 20 shekels. I’m not sure whether he was unhappy about having to go further than he thought or about having gotten outbargained. Probably a bit of both. My companion, Ellis, told me he was proud of the way I dealt with the driver. I let him know that this was not my first time at the rodeo, and that dealing with cabbies in Jerusalem is something of an art. (I didn’t tell him that my lifetime winning percentage in this arena is still well below .500.)
The Palatin Hotel is a small operation in a 19th century building about two blocks from Ben Yehuda Street, a large pedestrian mall in downtown Jerusalem. After dumping the luggage and changing into “acceptable” clothing, I found a much more accommodating cab driver to take me to visit my first cousin, Alan, who lives in a Jerusalem suburb.
Some background: Alan is my mother’s nephew, and was raised in Paris. (My mother’s family returned to France after spending World War II in Cuba; my mother, who married my father in Cuba, went to the U.S.) Alan became very religious and moved to Israel to raise a v-e-r-y,
v-e-r-y l-a-r-g-e family. In total, there are 15 children, including three sons and 12 daughters. There are 20 grandchildren right now, but that number is probably rising as quickly as the national debt.
When Ellen and I first met Alan in 1982, the family was living in a two-bedroom apartment in the Old City of Jerusalem. The children were stacked up like chickens, and the place reminded me of the stateroom scene in Night at the Opera in which Groucho keeps inviting more people into the room until it bursts.
Things have changed considerably. Alan and his family now live in a spacious 10-bedroom apartment in Ramat Shlomo, a neighborhood of religious families. The neighborhood even features an exact replica of the world Lubavitch headquarters building at 770 Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn. Even though it was nearly 8:30 p.m. and dark, the neighborhood was bustling with people, including hundreds of kids running around and riding bicycles. The community was apparently built for the specific purpose of housing large religious families, and seems to work very well.
Alan is a member of the Breslov sect of Hasidic Jews, followers of Rabbi Nachman of Breslov. (The Breslov Hassidim were traditionally known as the “Totenrebbe Hassidim” (the “dead Rabbi Hassidim”) because they never appointed a new leader following the death of Rabbi Nachman, an 18th century scholar. That distinction has become somewhat blurred because the Lubavitch Hassidim did not appoint a new leader following the death of Rabbi Schneerson in 1994.) Alan continues to make his living translating religious texts from Hebrew into French, and appears to live quite comfortably.
Several of the children have moved away from home, but the apartment continued to be abuzz with Shimon, one of the sons, and at least a half-dozen of the daughters. Next time I visit I’m bringing a scorecard.
Alan and I had a wonderful discussion, ranging from the trials and tribulations of our respective families to whether President Obama is really a Muslim. (Many Israelis and, I suspect, quite a few Americans, still have difficulty getting over his middle name. When I remind Israelis that the Obama’s first name is the same as the last name of Israel’s defense minister, things get a little better … but not much.) The attitude reflects a genuine concern over whether Obama will prove to be “good for Israel” or not. I prefer to believe that yesterday’s speech, and the appointment of Senator Mitchell, are both hopeful and positive signs.
My relationship with Alan remains very special, and it’s the kind of friendship that we can pick up exactly where we left off in spite of the passage of years in between. We exchanged e-mail addresses and I hope to maintain regular contact, albeit electronically.
David is scheduled to pick me up tomorrow to tour the City of David excavations south of the Old City, and then I’ll have the privilege of spending Shabbat in Jerusalem before returning to the Army.
If It Moves, Salute It…
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Time moves along quickly. After flag-raising this morning, we gathered for the obligatory “group photo” before moving off to our assigned warehouses. The message about finding enough work for us apparently got through, and the warehouse manager was ready for us: with paint and brushes. We painted the bumpers at the end of the warehouse rows (which prevent things – and forklifts – from going bump in the night) and then painted wide yellow lines on the floor of the receiving area. By the end of the day we created what looked like two basketball courts. Unfortunately, we didn’t have enough colors so we couldn’t follow through with our plan to paint a big Obama logo in the middle of the floor. I’m sure that would have been very popular.
So, we were able to fulfill the two rules of the Army, as told to me by my friend Doug, the retired career officer in the Canadian Armed Forces: “If it moves, salute it. If it doesn’t move, paint it.”
After lunch, we had the opportunity to visit with Israel Geva, the director-general of Sar-El. He spent the day visiting the three bases in the north where volunteers were located (Netafim, Naftali and Amos) and told us how significant our presence was. Our group is part of 292 volunteers in Israel this week alone. Over 4,000 volunteers come here every year from countries all around the world. He assured us that each of our jobs (even painting yellow lines on warehouse floors) was important because it meant that “real” soldiers could focus on the task at hand and because we were helping get the base ready for the next emergency. He also said that our interaction with soldiers and civilians was a real boost for morale because our presence demonstrated solidarity with Israel.
During a side conversation, I told him that many of my friends at home think that I’m a bit crazy to take time from work and come over here during a time of trouble. He told me that many Israelis also have trouble believing that Americans would pay their way over here to volunteer. It’s nice to know that the opinion that we’re nuts is nearly unanimous!
Geva confirmed that all personnel and equipment have now been withdrawn from Gaza, but that the bases in the south were now in need of our help in order to help “reorganize” equipment and materials
We shared dinner with the acting base commander, a 41-year-old major from the Tel Aviv area. He echoed Geva’s remarks, and told us that getting the base cleaned up and ready for the next operation (wherever and whenever that turns out to be) is very important. He stressed that this level of readiness was in sharp contrast to the war against Hezbollah in Lebanon in 2006 and was a primary reason why the Israeli forces were able to operate in Gaza with relatively few casualties and injuries. It was good to hear that from an “unbiased” source.
After dinner our madricha held a “graduation” ceremony, and we received certificates, Sar-El pins and a very interesting “coffee table book” about Israel. As nice as that was, the attempt to replicate summer camp failed miserably as we all discovered we couldn’t sing many Hebrew songs. Just as well.
Tomorrow, we’re scheduled to work in the morning, and then it’s time to pack, catch a bus to Tel Aviv (and then on the Jerusalem to visit my cousin, Alain) and spend Shabbat away from the Army … until Sunday morning when we meet again in Tel Aviv and head off for our next assignment. We’ve been told we’re still scheduled to go south, but that could change four times between now and then.
Time moves along quickly. After flag-raising this morning, we gathered for the obligatory “group photo” before moving off to our assigned warehouses. The message about finding enough work for us apparently got through, and the warehouse manager was ready for us: with paint and brushes. We painted the bumpers at the end of the warehouse rows (which prevent things – and forklifts – from going bump in the night) and then painted wide yellow lines on the floor of the receiving area. By the end of the day we created what looked like two basketball courts. Unfortunately, we didn’t have enough colors so we couldn’t follow through with our plan to paint a big Obama logo in the middle of the floor. I’m sure that would have been very popular.
So, we were able to fulfill the two rules of the Army, as told to me by my friend Doug, the retired career officer in the Canadian Armed Forces: “If it moves, salute it. If it doesn’t move, paint it.”
After lunch, we had the opportunity to visit with Israel Geva, the director-general of Sar-El. He spent the day visiting the three bases in the north where volunteers were located (Netafim, Naftali and Amos) and told us how significant our presence was. Our group is part of 292 volunteers in Israel this week alone. Over 4,000 volunteers come here every year from countries all around the world. He assured us that each of our jobs (even painting yellow lines on warehouse floors) was important because it meant that “real” soldiers could focus on the task at hand and because we were helping get the base ready for the next emergency. He also said that our interaction with soldiers and civilians was a real boost for morale because our presence demonstrated solidarity with Israel.
During a side conversation, I told him that many of my friends at home think that I’m a bit crazy to take time from work and come over here during a time of trouble. He told me that many Israelis also have trouble believing that Americans would pay their way over here to volunteer. It’s nice to know that the opinion that we’re nuts is nearly unanimous!
Geva confirmed that all personnel and equipment have now been withdrawn from Gaza, but that the bases in the south were now in need of our help in order to help “reorganize” equipment and materials
We shared dinner with the acting base commander, a 41-year-old major from the Tel Aviv area. He echoed Geva’s remarks, and told us that getting the base cleaned up and ready for the next operation (wherever and whenever that turns out to be) is very important. He stressed that this level of readiness was in sharp contrast to the war against Hezbollah in Lebanon in 2006 and was a primary reason why the Israeli forces were able to operate in Gaza with relatively few casualties and injuries. It was good to hear that from an “unbiased” source.
After dinner our madricha held a “graduation” ceremony, and we received certificates, Sar-El pins and a very interesting “coffee table book” about Israel. As nice as that was, the attempt to replicate summer camp failed miserably as we all discovered we couldn’t sing many Hebrew songs. Just as well.
Tomorrow, we’re scheduled to work in the morning, and then it’s time to pack, catch a bus to Tel Aviv (and then on the Jerusalem to visit my cousin, Alain) and spend Shabbat away from the Army … until Sunday morning when we meet again in Tel Aviv and head off for our next assignment. We’ve been told we’re still scheduled to go south, but that could change four times between now and then.
Slowly, Slowly
Tuesday January 20, 2009
We’re beginning to settle into a routine, with everyone reporting to their particular warehouse (and two of the women helping out in the dining hall). Finding enough to do in Warehouse No. 4 remains a challenge. Late in the morning, Lior had an animated discussion with the two men in charge, David and Eli. They insisted they had lots and lots of work for us to do.
With some prompting, they pointed us to a pile of pallets containing more truck tire rims, and we unpacked them and re-loaded them for storage. The good news was that we stayed busy most of the rest of the morning and finished the load of truck rims. The bad news was that we apparently worked “too fast,” and failed to pay sufficient attention to the repeated admonition, “le-hat, le-hat,” “slowly, slowly.” As a result, we probably finished most of the afternoon’s work as well!
After lunch, we did a bit more rearranging and cleaned the receiving area. I suspect the place hasn’t looked this good since the day it opened.
Everyone – and I mean everyone – was keenly aware of the inauguration of President Obama, which took place at 7 p.m. Israel time. The radio played American songs all day (“Oklahoma,” “This Land is Your Land,” “America” from West Side Story and the like) and the civilian workers kept asking us: “Obama. Good?”
Our madricha somehow managed to commandeer a new television set for the soldier’s lounge, and after dinner we call gathered to watch the ceremony. It was a heavily pro-Obama crowd, but even the non-Americans and the three Israelis watched intently. (Our madricha was accompanied by two soldiers who were assigned to warehouse work for three months as punishment for infractions. An artillery soldier smuggled a smoke grenade from his base and was caught at the bus station, and an air force soldier was caught driving a tractor without a license. Nice to know that we were assigned to the place they send soldiers for punishment!)
As someone who watched 9/11 from a hotel room in Jerusalem, it was very special to watch these happier proceedings from afar. We all felt very good about being Americans today, even including those who suggested that giving Vice President Cheney a push down the stairs on his wheelchair might be a good idea.
After the speech, more good news. Instead of having to negotiate our way from the nearby Golani Junction, Sar-El has arranged a bus to take us to Tel Aviv on Thursday afternoon. Even better, we are apparently being sent to bases in the south on Sunday morning to help with arrangements for the withdrawing troops next week … so long as the cease‑fire holds. We are told that the need for volunteers is greater there than here, and most of us are entirely in favor of the relocation.
We’re beginning to settle into a routine, with everyone reporting to their particular warehouse (and two of the women helping out in the dining hall). Finding enough to do in Warehouse No. 4 remains a challenge. Late in the morning, Lior had an animated discussion with the two men in charge, David and Eli. They insisted they had lots and lots of work for us to do.
With some prompting, they pointed us to a pile of pallets containing more truck tire rims, and we unpacked them and re-loaded them for storage. The good news was that we stayed busy most of the rest of the morning and finished the load of truck rims. The bad news was that we apparently worked “too fast,” and failed to pay sufficient attention to the repeated admonition, “le-hat, le-hat,” “slowly, slowly.” As a result, we probably finished most of the afternoon’s work as well!
After lunch, we did a bit more rearranging and cleaned the receiving area. I suspect the place hasn’t looked this good since the day it opened.
Everyone – and I mean everyone – was keenly aware of the inauguration of President Obama, which took place at 7 p.m. Israel time. The radio played American songs all day (“Oklahoma,” “This Land is Your Land,” “America” from West Side Story and the like) and the civilian workers kept asking us: “Obama. Good?”
Our madricha somehow managed to commandeer a new television set for the soldier’s lounge, and after dinner we call gathered to watch the ceremony. It was a heavily pro-Obama crowd, but even the non-Americans and the three Israelis watched intently. (Our madricha was accompanied by two soldiers who were assigned to warehouse work for three months as punishment for infractions. An artillery soldier smuggled a smoke grenade from his base and was caught at the bus station, and an air force soldier was caught driving a tractor without a license. Nice to know that we were assigned to the place they send soldiers for punishment!)
As someone who watched 9/11 from a hotel room in Jerusalem, it was very special to watch these happier proceedings from afar. We all felt very good about being Americans today, even including those who suggested that giving Vice President Cheney a push down the stairs on his wheelchair might be a good idea.
After the speech, more good news. Instead of having to negotiate our way from the nearby Golani Junction, Sar-El has arranged a bus to take us to Tel Aviv on Thursday afternoon. Even better, we are apparently being sent to bases in the south on Sunday morning to help with arrangements for the withdrawing troops next week … so long as the cease‑fire holds. We are told that the need for volunteers is greater there than here, and most of us are entirely in favor of the relocation.
My Graduate Degree
Monday January 19, 2009
Our first full day at Netafim began with flag-raising at 7:10 a.m. (Not 7:09, and not 7:11.) Our group of 18 volunteers stood in formation next to two dozen young soldiers assigned to the base. One volunteer and one soldier raised the Israeli flag. Very light on ceremony, but very full of meaning.
Our madricha, Lior, then gave us a “news report.” The cease-fire remains in effect, a few rockets are still falling, and the Cardinals beat the Eagles and are on the way to the Super Bowl. (That last bulletin was supplied by Jerry Bernstein, a judge from Phoenix.)
We then assembled for greetings from the Deputy Commander of the base, a young man named Moshe who made all the women in the group swoon. If you look up “tall, dark and handsome" in a Hebrew dictionary, his picture is there. He explained that the base is primarily responsible for supplying other units in the north, although there have been many shipments to the south before and during the Gaza operation.
After breakfast, we received our work assignments. Along with an orthopedic surgeon from Massachusetts, I reported to a warehouse to meet Eli and his boss, David. For the next few hours (interrupted only by the mandatory coffee break for Turkish coffee), we unpacked truck rims and loaded them onto pallets. Every piece also received two stickers called, in Hebrew, “bar-code.” My vocabulary is expanding by the moment.
The pace of work was not exactly frantic, with long breaks while David and Eli figured out what else there was for us to do. After lunch, we returned to the warehouse for a few more odd jobs until, at 2:45, they told us we were done for the day.
I’m a bit frustrated at not having enough to do, but Lior promised that would change tomorrow. We’ll see. In any case, I have now earned my “MSA” degree for “Moving Stuff Around.”
This evening, Lior gave a presentation about the various units in the IDF, including the Golani, the paratroopers, the Givati, the artillery, etc. We also learned a bit about the ranks and insignia. The “leaf” insignia which designates officers in the U.S. and Canadian forces is referred to in Israel as a “falafel.” The base deputy commander has one falafel, his boss has two falafels, etc. I haven’t yet seen anyone with hummus on their uniform, but I’m ready for it.
At the end of the presentation, we each received our own insignia: blue ribbons for our shoulders with the words “Sar-El Volunteer” in Hebrew.
So now we’re official.
Our first full day at Netafim began with flag-raising at 7:10 a.m. (Not 7:09, and not 7:11.) Our group of 18 volunteers stood in formation next to two dozen young soldiers assigned to the base. One volunteer and one soldier raised the Israeli flag. Very light on ceremony, but very full of meaning.
Our madricha, Lior, then gave us a “news report.” The cease-fire remains in effect, a few rockets are still falling, and the Cardinals beat the Eagles and are on the way to the Super Bowl. (That last bulletin was supplied by Jerry Bernstein, a judge from Phoenix.)
We then assembled for greetings from the Deputy Commander of the base, a young man named Moshe who made all the women in the group swoon. If you look up “tall, dark and handsome" in a Hebrew dictionary, his picture is there. He explained that the base is primarily responsible for supplying other units in the north, although there have been many shipments to the south before and during the Gaza operation.
After breakfast, we received our work assignments. Along with an orthopedic surgeon from Massachusetts, I reported to a warehouse to meet Eli and his boss, David. For the next few hours (interrupted only by the mandatory coffee break for Turkish coffee), we unpacked truck rims and loaded them onto pallets. Every piece also received two stickers called, in Hebrew, “bar-code.” My vocabulary is expanding by the moment.
The pace of work was not exactly frantic, with long breaks while David and Eli figured out what else there was for us to do. After lunch, we returned to the warehouse for a few more odd jobs until, at 2:45, they told us we were done for the day.
I’m a bit frustrated at not having enough to do, but Lior promised that would change tomorrow. We’ll see. In any case, I have now earned my “MSA” degree for “Moving Stuff Around.”
This evening, Lior gave a presentation about the various units in the IDF, including the Golani, the paratroopers, the Givati, the artillery, etc. We also learned a bit about the ranks and insignia. The “leaf” insignia which designates officers in the U.S. and Canadian forces is referred to in Israel as a “falafel.” The base deputy commander has one falafel, his boss has two falafels, etc. I haven’t yet seen anyone with hummus on their uniform, but I’m ready for it.
At the end of the presentation, we each received our own insignia: blue ribbons for our shoulders with the words “Sar-El Volunteer” in Hebrew.
So now we’re official.
Hurry Up and Wait
Sunday January 18, 2009
I awoke this morning to news that Israel has declared a cease-fire in Gaza, and I’m taking full credit for this. The only thing I’m not sure of is whether the Israelis or the Palestinians are more afraid of the fact that I’m in the country.
I had to “report for duty” back at Ben Gurion Airport, and elected to take the train in order to avoid Sunday morning traffic. (The work week in Israel starts on Sunday, so everything is very crowded.) The train station was filled with soldiers, sailors and air force personnel, and I found a young soldier who confirmed that I was at the right place at the right time.
Once at Ben Gurion, I located the coordinator for Sar-El (the Israeli arm of Volunteers for Israel), checked in, and waited for the other volunteers to arrive. And did they ever! Within an hour, at least 100 volunteers from all over the world showed up: Americans, Dutch, British, Swiss, Scottish and South Africans, among others. Some of the volunteers were of college age, having just completed the “Taglit” program for first-time visitors to Israel (known in the U.S. as “birthright Israel”). There were many veterans of previous Volunteers programs who, like me, decided to come back during the present crisis.
After a fair amount of standing around and repeated roll calls, we were divided into groups arranged by the bases to which we were assigned. Looking around at the rest of my group, I also realized that we had been divided by age as well, since most of my colleagues were, shall we say, “of a certain age.”
Like the beginning of so many other trips to Israel, we then got on the bus. Two hours later, it was time for lunch, so we stopped at a rest area featuring classic Israeli fare: McDonalds, Sbarro and a Chinese restaurant. Instead of a grilled chicken wrap, Mickey D featured a “kebab wrap” with pickles, onions and what I guess passes for “special sauce.” Mmmm. Mmmm.
At 2 p.m. we arrived at Netafim, a logistics and supply base in the Galilee in the northern part of Israel. (For those of you with maps, draw one line west from Tiberias and a second line north from Afula. The two lines will meet at the Golani Junction, and Netafim is nearby.) The base appears to consist of a series of warehouses and storage areas. (It looks like we won’t be packing medical supplies, but I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see exactly what I’ll be doing.)
After waiting for someone to show up with a key to our barracks, we had a chance to get a close look at our “home” for the next two weeks. I was pleasantly surprised. Four people to a room, adequate bathroom and shower facilities and toilet paper! (This already represented a substantial improvement over the situation in 1991, when there was an abundant supply of … old newspapers!)
We then reported to the Quartermaster to get outfitted with pants, shirts, sweaters, coats and some of the silliest hats you’ve ever seen. If I become anywhere near as stupid as I look, I’m in serious trouble.
At 4:00 p.m. a large group of civilian workers left the warehouse buildings, got into cars and buses, and went home. We later learned that Netafim is a “9 to 5” operation (actually 7 to 4, with breaks for breakfast and lunch) and that there are relatively few soldiers here. As a result, the place is fairly deserted at night. However, the need to support the soldiers in the south of the country remains real.
And then, finally, our first assignment: Dinner at 5:00 p.m.! Again, I was pleasantly surprised by abundant amounts of salad, rice, chicken cutlets, hummus and “all the fixings.”
After another break, we reassembled for our “evening program.” Our madricha (Hebrew for a female teacher, or leader) is an impossibly cute 18-year-old named Lior whose assignment in the army is to take care of Sar-El volunteers. She clearly enjoys her job, and explained what was in store for us. Tomorrow’s schedule starts with “flag raising” at 7:10, followed by work until 8:30 and then breakfast. (That order of events freaked out several of the New Yorkers who immediately confessed that they don’t know how to start the day without having coffee first. One of the women also asked whether a bagel would be available. Oy.) The morning work session ends at noon and, after lunch, we’ll work from 1 to 4. Another “evening program” will follow dinner.
So far, pretty much like summer camp.
We then took part in several “ice-breaker” exercises which gave us an opportunity to learn about one other. Members of the group include two non-Jewish female truck drivers from Brantford, Ontario; a Russian émigré working in California as a computer specialist; a marketing manager from California; an IBM executive; an orthopedic surgeon; a judge from Phoenix; a retired couple from the Albany, NY area and a fellow from Birmingham, Alabama who, like me, spent the better part of high school at Madison Square Garden cheering for the New York Rangers. Quite a bunch.
Day One? Not entirely productive but hey, there’s a war on. Everyone feels good about being here and is looking forward to getting to work in the morning.
I awoke this morning to news that Israel has declared a cease-fire in Gaza, and I’m taking full credit for this. The only thing I’m not sure of is whether the Israelis or the Palestinians are more afraid of the fact that I’m in the country.
I had to “report for duty” back at Ben Gurion Airport, and elected to take the train in order to avoid Sunday morning traffic. (The work week in Israel starts on Sunday, so everything is very crowded.) The train station was filled with soldiers, sailors and air force personnel, and I found a young soldier who confirmed that I was at the right place at the right time.
Once at Ben Gurion, I located the coordinator for Sar-El (the Israeli arm of Volunteers for Israel), checked in, and waited for the other volunteers to arrive. And did they ever! Within an hour, at least 100 volunteers from all over the world showed up: Americans, Dutch, British, Swiss, Scottish and South Africans, among others. Some of the volunteers were of college age, having just completed the “Taglit” program for first-time visitors to Israel (known in the U.S. as “birthright Israel”). There were many veterans of previous Volunteers programs who, like me, decided to come back during the present crisis.
After a fair amount of standing around and repeated roll calls, we were divided into groups arranged by the bases to which we were assigned. Looking around at the rest of my group, I also realized that we had been divided by age as well, since most of my colleagues were, shall we say, “of a certain age.”
Like the beginning of so many other trips to Israel, we then got on the bus. Two hours later, it was time for lunch, so we stopped at a rest area featuring classic Israeli fare: McDonalds, Sbarro and a Chinese restaurant. Instead of a grilled chicken wrap, Mickey D featured a “kebab wrap” with pickles, onions and what I guess passes for “special sauce.” Mmmm. Mmmm.
At 2 p.m. we arrived at Netafim, a logistics and supply base in the Galilee in the northern part of Israel. (For those of you with maps, draw one line west from Tiberias and a second line north from Afula. The two lines will meet at the Golani Junction, and Netafim is nearby.) The base appears to consist of a series of warehouses and storage areas. (It looks like we won’t be packing medical supplies, but I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see exactly what I’ll be doing.)
After waiting for someone to show up with a key to our barracks, we had a chance to get a close look at our “home” for the next two weeks. I was pleasantly surprised. Four people to a room, adequate bathroom and shower facilities and toilet paper! (This already represented a substantial improvement over the situation in 1991, when there was an abundant supply of … old newspapers!)
We then reported to the Quartermaster to get outfitted with pants, shirts, sweaters, coats and some of the silliest hats you’ve ever seen. If I become anywhere near as stupid as I look, I’m in serious trouble.
At 4:00 p.m. a large group of civilian workers left the warehouse buildings, got into cars and buses, and went home. We later learned that Netafim is a “9 to 5” operation (actually 7 to 4, with breaks for breakfast and lunch) and that there are relatively few soldiers here. As a result, the place is fairly deserted at night. However, the need to support the soldiers in the south of the country remains real.
And then, finally, our first assignment: Dinner at 5:00 p.m.! Again, I was pleasantly surprised by abundant amounts of salad, rice, chicken cutlets, hummus and “all the fixings.”
After another break, we reassembled for our “evening program.” Our madricha (Hebrew for a female teacher, or leader) is an impossibly cute 18-year-old named Lior whose assignment in the army is to take care of Sar-El volunteers. She clearly enjoys her job, and explained what was in store for us. Tomorrow’s schedule starts with “flag raising” at 7:10, followed by work until 8:30 and then breakfast. (That order of events freaked out several of the New Yorkers who immediately confessed that they don’t know how to start the day without having coffee first. One of the women also asked whether a bagel would be available. Oy.) The morning work session ends at noon and, after lunch, we’ll work from 1 to 4. Another “evening program” will follow dinner.
So far, pretty much like summer camp.
We then took part in several “ice-breaker” exercises which gave us an opportunity to learn about one other. Members of the group include two non-Jewish female truck drivers from Brantford, Ontario; a Russian émigré working in California as a computer specialist; a marketing manager from California; an IBM executive; an orthopedic surgeon; a judge from Phoenix; a retired couple from the Albany, NY area and a fellow from Birmingham, Alabama who, like me, spent the better part of high school at Madison Square Garden cheering for the New York Rangers. Quite a bunch.
Day One? Not entirely productive but hey, there’s a war on. Everyone feels good about being here and is looking forward to getting to work in the morning.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Names
The portion of the Torah read in synagogues around the world this morning is “Shmot,” which means “Names.” The portion, which opens the book of Exodus, begins by naming Jacob and his eleven sons who went to Egypt to meet Joseph, who had already established himself there.
Fittingly, this was a weekend featuring many names: My son David and I were guests of Rabbi Aaron and Miiko Shaffier and their family in Tekoa for the Sabbath. Aaron is a Lubavitch-trained Chassidic rabbi who works as a scribe (hand writing religious texts) and has part of an Internet business selling Jewish religious items. A California native, Rabbi Shaeffer and his family emigrated to Israel approximately 18 months ago. Miiko was raised in Ottawa, Ontario and met Aaron through mutual friends in Toronto. The Shaffiers have five children: two girls, Menucha and Freyda, and three boys, Mendel, Dov Baer and Yisroel. (A sixth is on the way, and Miiko was very pleased that my suitcase included a substantial supply of Ibuprofen to help her through her pregnancy.) Each child is more engaging than the other, although the “baby,” Freyda, is clearly the star of the show and is adored by both her parents and siblings.
As you might imagine, the house is a busy place, particularly with two additional guests. Picture controlled chaos and constant activity, with a constant focus on love and learning what it means to live an observant Jewish life.
We went to one of several synagogues in the town for the services welcoming the Sabbath on Friday night, and then returned to the house for a multi-course (and delicious) dinner. Try as I might, I bailed out at about 8:00 p.m., suffering from a bit of jet lag.
But not before getting a clear picture of what motivates Rabbi Shaffier. Tekoa is located in a very busy neighborhood: the intersection of Geography, Politics, Religion and History. The area is part of the ancient land of Judea, after which the Jews are named. It is where the prophet Amos once lived. Most important, according to those who live there, it is part of the Jewish people’s patrimony. A town of approximately 2,000 people, it boasts an active community, a full array of schools … and a common commitment to the land.
For a number of reasons, I didn’t raise some of the misgivings I couldn’t help feeling. First and foremost, I was a guest. Second, unless and until I make the choice to live in Israel, I don’t feel I have the “right” to make a judgment. And third, even if I did live in Israel, I wouldn’t have the wisdom to know whether “settlements” like Tekoa will help or hurt the quest for peace.
This morning, we returned to the Synagogue and read about Jacob, Joseph, his brothers and the hero of the story: Moses. I was honored to be called to the Torah, and also said the traditional prayer for surviving a perilous journey. (I was too polite to ask whether one has to say the prayer after flying Delta or Continental, or whether it only applies to El Al.)
While my Hebrew leaves a lot to be desired, I am able to follow what goes on, and my ears perked up during the recitation of the usual blessings for the sick, for the State of Israel and for the Israel Defense Forces. These were followed by an additional blessing for the people in the south of Israel who remain under rocket attack, as well as a blessing for the “captives.” The two captives mentioned by name were Gilad Shalit, the young soldier kidnapped by Hamas 2-1/2 years ago from the area near the Gaza border … and Jonathan Pollard, the American jailed for violation of U.S. espionage laws.
The joinder of Shalit and Pollard was stunning to me, and taugt me much about the world view of those in attendance. I allowed that I needed some time to process the balance between the two figures, and was met with similar astonishment. In essence, the response was, “What’s the difference between the two?” (Memo to self: keep reiminding yourself you're a guest.)
Services were followed by snacks and lots to drink (mostly vodka) and discussion of the morning’s Torah reading. We then returned home for another meal, which convinced me that I miss my spinning classes more than ever.
After the obligatory afternoon nap, I packed my bag, said goodbye and thank you, and started the next leg of my journey. David and I rode by bus to the central bus station in Jerusalem. Once again, security intruded on what should be a “normal” experience, as everyone was screened before being allowed inside the station. We found my bus to Tel Aviv, and I took the last available seat in the front of the bus next to a soldier.
Ron is a 28-year old reservist who was raised on a kibbutz, now lives in Tel Aviv, and is completing his undergraduate degree in history and philosophy. We had a delightful conversation, and he thanked me for coming to Israel to volunteer. He also told me I was on the wrong bus: I wanted to go to the central bus station in Tel Aviv and, instead, had boarded a bus to the train station. But, after giving me instructions on how to reach my hotel, he told me that friends were picking him up and offered me a ride to the hotel. Amazing what that Army jacket can do for you!
Tomorrow morning, it’s off to Ben Gurion Airport again to learn of my assignment. I may – or may not – have free wi-fi when I get there. If so, there’ll be more to follow shortly. If not, I’ll keep writing and upload a batch when I return to “civilization” next week.
Isaac, Joseph, Moses, Aaron, Miiko, Menucha, Freyda, Mendel, Dov Baer, Yisroel, David and Ron. Quite a collection. And I haven’t been here for 36 hours yet.
Fittingly, this was a weekend featuring many names: My son David and I were guests of Rabbi Aaron and Miiko Shaffier and their family in Tekoa for the Sabbath. Aaron is a Lubavitch-trained Chassidic rabbi who works as a scribe (hand writing religious texts) and has part of an Internet business selling Jewish religious items. A California native, Rabbi Shaeffer and his family emigrated to Israel approximately 18 months ago. Miiko was raised in Ottawa, Ontario and met Aaron through mutual friends in Toronto. The Shaffiers have five children: two girls, Menucha and Freyda, and three boys, Mendel, Dov Baer and Yisroel. (A sixth is on the way, and Miiko was very pleased that my suitcase included a substantial supply of Ibuprofen to help her through her pregnancy.) Each child is more engaging than the other, although the “baby,” Freyda, is clearly the star of the show and is adored by both her parents and siblings.
As you might imagine, the house is a busy place, particularly with two additional guests. Picture controlled chaos and constant activity, with a constant focus on love and learning what it means to live an observant Jewish life.
We went to one of several synagogues in the town for the services welcoming the Sabbath on Friday night, and then returned to the house for a multi-course (and delicious) dinner. Try as I might, I bailed out at about 8:00 p.m., suffering from a bit of jet lag.
But not before getting a clear picture of what motivates Rabbi Shaffier. Tekoa is located in a very busy neighborhood: the intersection of Geography, Politics, Religion and History. The area is part of the ancient land of Judea, after which the Jews are named. It is where the prophet Amos once lived. Most important, according to those who live there, it is part of the Jewish people’s patrimony. A town of approximately 2,000 people, it boasts an active community, a full array of schools … and a common commitment to the land.
For a number of reasons, I didn’t raise some of the misgivings I couldn’t help feeling. First and foremost, I was a guest. Second, unless and until I make the choice to live in Israel, I don’t feel I have the “right” to make a judgment. And third, even if I did live in Israel, I wouldn’t have the wisdom to know whether “settlements” like Tekoa will help or hurt the quest for peace.
This morning, we returned to the Synagogue and read about Jacob, Joseph, his brothers and the hero of the story: Moses. I was honored to be called to the Torah, and also said the traditional prayer for surviving a perilous journey. (I was too polite to ask whether one has to say the prayer after flying Delta or Continental, or whether it only applies to El Al.)
While my Hebrew leaves a lot to be desired, I am able to follow what goes on, and my ears perked up during the recitation of the usual blessings for the sick, for the State of Israel and for the Israel Defense Forces. These were followed by an additional blessing for the people in the south of Israel who remain under rocket attack, as well as a blessing for the “captives.” The two captives mentioned by name were Gilad Shalit, the young soldier kidnapped by Hamas 2-1/2 years ago from the area near the Gaza border … and Jonathan Pollard, the American jailed for violation of U.S. espionage laws.
The joinder of Shalit and Pollard was stunning to me, and taugt me much about the world view of those in attendance. I allowed that I needed some time to process the balance between the two figures, and was met with similar astonishment. In essence, the response was, “What’s the difference between the two?” (Memo to self: keep reiminding yourself you're a guest.)
Services were followed by snacks and lots to drink (mostly vodka) and discussion of the morning’s Torah reading. We then returned home for another meal, which convinced me that I miss my spinning classes more than ever.
After the obligatory afternoon nap, I packed my bag, said goodbye and thank you, and started the next leg of my journey. David and I rode by bus to the central bus station in Jerusalem. Once again, security intruded on what should be a “normal” experience, as everyone was screened before being allowed inside the station. We found my bus to Tel Aviv, and I took the last available seat in the front of the bus next to a soldier.
Ron is a 28-year old reservist who was raised on a kibbutz, now lives in Tel Aviv, and is completing his undergraduate degree in history and philosophy. We had a delightful conversation, and he thanked me for coming to Israel to volunteer. He also told me I was on the wrong bus: I wanted to go to the central bus station in Tel Aviv and, instead, had boarded a bus to the train station. But, after giving me instructions on how to reach my hotel, he told me that friends were picking him up and offered me a ride to the hotel. Amazing what that Army jacket can do for you!
Tomorrow morning, it’s off to Ben Gurion Airport again to learn of my assignment. I may – or may not – have free wi-fi when I get there. If so, there’ll be more to follow shortly. If not, I’ll keep writing and upload a batch when I return to “civilization” next week.
Isaac, Joseph, Moses, Aaron, Miiko, Menucha, Freyda, Mendel, Dov Baer, Yisroel, David and Ron. Quite a collection. And I haven’t been here for 36 hours yet.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Getting There Is Half The Fun
A long day at JFK, followed by an even longer, but uneventful, flight on El Al, the only airline where many of the passengers walk to Israel.
(One of my favorite stories is about the El Al flight attendant in business class who asks the passenger whether he'd like dinner. "What are my choices?" he asks. She replies, "Yes, or no!")
My son David arranged for a driver to take me from the airport to Tekoa for Sabbath. Within a few minutes, the driver (also named Shmuel,the same as my Hebrew name) and I learned that we have a mutual friend in his town of Efrat who is a former colleague at UJA-Federation of New York. Small world indeed.
I'm staying with David and friends of his before returning to Tel Aviv on Saturday night. Tekoa is an outlying bedroom suburb of Jerusalem, close to Herodian, one of King Herod's amazing projects (and his burial site).
I've also checked in with my Volunteers for Israel supervisor, and it looks like I may be going north on Sunday not far from the Golan Heights. However, as previously noted, it could change six times between now and then.
Hopefully, more to follow.
Shabbat shalom.
(One of my favorite stories is about the El Al flight attendant in business class who asks the passenger whether he'd like dinner. "What are my choices?" he asks. She replies, "Yes, or no!")
My son David arranged for a driver to take me from the airport to Tekoa for Sabbath. Within a few minutes, the driver (also named Shmuel,the same as my Hebrew name) and I learned that we have a mutual friend in his town of Efrat who is a former colleague at UJA-Federation of New York. Small world indeed.
I'm staying with David and friends of his before returning to Tel Aviv on Saturday night. Tekoa is an outlying bedroom suburb of Jerusalem, close to Herodian, one of King Herod's amazing projects (and his burial site).
I've also checked in with my Volunteers for Israel supervisor, and it looks like I may be going north on Sunday not far from the Golan Heights. However, as previously noted, it could change six times between now and then.
Hopefully, more to follow.
Shabbat shalom.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Oh, Great
Jet Blue called this evening to tell me my flight to JFK has been canceled. I'm now on an earlier flight that, hopefully, will actually take off. Result: A few more hours at the airport. (Just my idea of a good time.)
One of the lessons learned during my summer rides across Iowa is going to come in handy: "If things start to go wrong ... lower your standards."
One of the lessons learned during my summer rides across Iowa is going to come in handy: "If things start to go wrong ... lower your standards."
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Getting Ready
Last Saturday, I received an e-mail from Volunteers for Israel (http://www.vfi-usa.org/index.html)advising that help was needed to support the military effort in Gaza.
As a "veteran" of the program during the first Gulf War in 1991, this was not a difficult decision although it meant leaving Ellen and my job for two weeks.
I gave it further thought over the next few days, and had a long discussion with Ellen on Wednesday night. As usual, she was incredibly supportive ... although she's not eager for me to serve in Sderot. (She was not amused when I told her that I had indicated to VFI that I would be eager to go to Sderot so long as they would guarantee that I'd always be within 15 seconds of a shelter.)
On Thursday, the preparation process was underway: flight arrangements, medical and insurance forms, application to VFI and advising my son, David, that I would be joining him for Shabbat in Jerusalem on two upcoming weekends. He was very excited, and immediately began constructing a shopping list of things he and his friends need: everything from ibuprofen to bourbon. ("Just like coming to a college party," David said. "Bring drugs and booze.")
Most of the people I've spoken with have told me they think I'm crazy to go to Israel now. Those who know me well know that "Frank" and "crazy" are usually redundant. Secondary reactions have ranged from "good luck" to "God bless" to (my favorite) "keep your head down."
More to follow...
As a "veteran" of the program during the first Gulf War in 1991, this was not a difficult decision although it meant leaving Ellen and my job for two weeks.
I gave it further thought over the next few days, and had a long discussion with Ellen on Wednesday night. As usual, she was incredibly supportive ... although she's not eager for me to serve in Sderot. (She was not amused when I told her that I had indicated to VFI that I would be eager to go to Sderot so long as they would guarantee that I'd always be within 15 seconds of a shelter.)
On Thursday, the preparation process was underway: flight arrangements, medical and insurance forms, application to VFI and advising my son, David, that I would be joining him for Shabbat in Jerusalem on two upcoming weekends. He was very excited, and immediately began constructing a shopping list of things he and his friends need: everything from ibuprofen to bourbon. ("Just like coming to a college party," David said. "Bring drugs and booze.")
Most of the people I've spoken with have told me they think I'm crazy to go to Israel now. Those who know me well know that "Frank" and "crazy" are usually redundant. Secondary reactions have ranged from "good luck" to "God bless" to (my favorite) "keep your head down."
More to follow...
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