Last winter my battalion pulled duty patrolling a stretch of the security fence south of Kalkilia intercepting Palestinians crossing over in search of employment in Israel, or "snails" as they are called over the army radio. For the most part this entailed stopping the local Palestinian cabbies and checking their passenger's ID lest they be transporting snails.
Late one day we passed by "snail central", an empty lot where the cabbies wait to collect snails on their way home. I told our driver to stop and grabbed a young guy my daughter's age to cover me. At first the cabbies thought I was looking for trouble, understandably considering that I was decked out in 18 kilos of ceramic armor, a combat helmet and an M-16.
"Anybody got a light?" Everybody relaxed and one of the braver ones pulled out a lighter and before I knew it I was standing there in the middle of 20 or so curious cabbies; not as a soldier among snails, but as one of that brotherhood called smokers. We smoked and cracked jokes and got acquainted.
"Tell me, how much is cab fare around here?"
One of the guys shrugged. "It depends. Usually about 5 shekels (1.50 dollars), maybe a little more if it's far, a little less if it's close by."
I was feeling a little mischievous. "And if I wanted a ride. Would you take me?"
A guy my age played along. "Sure. Why not?"
"And do you have a special rate for soldiers?" (Soldiers get a discount on public transportation here.)
"Of course," the cabbie laughed, "For you it's 10 shekels."
After that evening the atmosphere was almost friendly in our sector, at least for me. The cabbies would grin when they saw that it was their smoking buddy pulling them over and I would go though the motions. I was just doing my job and I realized they were just doing theirs. After all, without the army, there would be no such thing as snails, and without snails the army would probably send middle aged guys like me off to do something a lot more dangerous.
When I got home, I wrote "Reserves and Reservations". My battalion started another tour of duty in the same sector last week. For the first time in more than 20 years I asked to stay home this time. It's not that I mind the "snails"; it's just that every year it's a little bit harder than last to function in the cold.
May God bless every one of the men in the 670th and bring them home safe in body and soul. Amen
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Reserves and Reservations
I am a reservist in the Israeli army. I guess I'm a bit of an anomaly; most guys my age have long been released. Unfortunately, reservists are fast becoming a rare species in Israel. Once it went without saying that men in their 20's, 30's and 40's did a month or more of reserve duty every year. Not so nowadays. They say maybe only a fifth of able bodied men continue to serve the nation on into civilian life.
Recently my battalion was sent to a stretch of disputed real estate along the so-called security fence built to shield Israel's heartland from the Palestinian badlands on the West Bank. The fence was conceived as a solution to suicide bombers, and born as a compromise between the desire to end the occupation of Palestinians on one hand and the reluctance to evict the Jewish settlers living in the West Bank on the other. Nobody really loves this lovechild of shortsighted politicians and impatient popular opinion, but too much has been invested in prestige and in cold hard cash to disown it.
There is a surrealistic aura to this particular frontier as it is only a quarter hour's drive from the greater Tel Aviv urban area. Theoretically our mission was to ensure the security, or at least the sense of security, of Israeli citizens living in and passing through our sector, but in practice we busied ourselves by regulating the Palestinians crossing the fence and chasing down those seeking work in Israel. As one born in working class America where freedom, hard work and putting the bread on the table are close to sacred, I couldn't help feeling that our duties rubbed against the values I'd been raised on. And I'm sure that the irony didn't escape and most likely incensed the locals. Visits to neighbors and trips to work that once they didn't think twice about now involve security checks including X-ray machines and metal detector gates that would be the pride of any international airport. Family men that at great cost to safety and comfort seek work for peanuts in black market jobs are treated like criminals. I'm a reservist with reservations.
One morning my company commander and I were musing how we had been cast in a Kafkaesque comedy, acting out a script patently insane. I mean, our particular situation aside, when did the army replace the Interior Ministry? Since when does the military deal with employment, legal or otherwise? And even if so, how is it that an artillery battalion such as ours is saddled with duties suited at best to border police, at worst to infantry? It seems as if someone up there is jerry-rigging an improvisation of half baked half solutions that are so absurd that they'd be comical if only real people weren't involved.
My commander wondered aloud if perhaps those of us at the bottom of the political food chain aren't somehow responsible for the mess our leaders have made. Does our eager acquiescence to the dictates of our leaders not enable them to make bad decisions? Do our inventive solutions to the impossible dilemmas we face not perpetuate mismanagement of the country? And is it our fault that 80 percent of the country is busy making money or just goofing off while reservists carry the burden of national defense? Could it be that good citizenship means refusing to "make do and make it work"? If our leaders are too lazy, too corrupt or too cowardly to find real solutions, is it our duty to force them to do their job by not doing ours?
My commander was saying something revolutionary, in both senses of the word. I was a bit taken aback. In civilian life he's a mathematician; and when you think about it, what he says adds up.
Is the solution revolution?
I'm reminded of the account of how Moses comes down from the mountain with the stone tablets only to be greeted by the sight of Israel partying and their leaders worshiping the golden calf. In the face of society that has totally fallen apart he smashes the tablets. The tribe of Levi rallies to his banner and only after slaughter and the destruction of the calf is order restored. I guess there are times when there is no choice but to literally wipe the slate clean and start anew.
But then we are told of how Israel wandered through the wilderness. When they broke camp, the tribe of Judah was always the first to set out. They didn't look back to see what the other tribes were doing. They saw the pillar of fire, they believed that it was the right way to go and they just went there. And you know what? The rest eventually followed.
I'm a reservist with reservations. I admit that I like the army life and the company of the men I serve with. I believe in what we're doing, even if I don't always agree one hundred percent with the mission. I hope that by trying to be polite and when possible pleasant I made a bad situation better for both my friends and the Palestinians we dealt with.
Messiah comes from Judah, not Levi. I know there are a lot of things are wrong with this country. I suppose sometimes things can be so bad that you need to shake it up, but I hope I never live to see a revolution. For now, if I think something is right, I think I'll do it. I know that others are partying and that our leaders worship the golden calf, but if enough of us are willing to set out, perhaps we will find our way out of this wilderness. So if I see the right way to go, I'll go there. And I hope there will be others with me, but I won't look back. Cause you know what, if we follow Judah we might just find salvation.
Recently my battalion was sent to a stretch of disputed real estate along the so-called security fence built to shield Israel's heartland from the Palestinian badlands on the West Bank. The fence was conceived as a solution to suicide bombers, and born as a compromise between the desire to end the occupation of Palestinians on one hand and the reluctance to evict the Jewish settlers living in the West Bank on the other. Nobody really loves this lovechild of shortsighted politicians and impatient popular opinion, but too much has been invested in prestige and in cold hard cash to disown it.
There is a surrealistic aura to this particular frontier as it is only a quarter hour's drive from the greater Tel Aviv urban area. Theoretically our mission was to ensure the security, or at least the sense of security, of Israeli citizens living in and passing through our sector, but in practice we busied ourselves by regulating the Palestinians crossing the fence and chasing down those seeking work in Israel. As one born in working class America where freedom, hard work and putting the bread on the table are close to sacred, I couldn't help feeling that our duties rubbed against the values I'd been raised on. And I'm sure that the irony didn't escape and most likely incensed the locals. Visits to neighbors and trips to work that once they didn't think twice about now involve security checks including X-ray machines and metal detector gates that would be the pride of any international airport. Family men that at great cost to safety and comfort seek work for peanuts in black market jobs are treated like criminals. I'm a reservist with reservations.
One morning my company commander and I were musing how we had been cast in a Kafkaesque comedy, acting out a script patently insane. I mean, our particular situation aside, when did the army replace the Interior Ministry? Since when does the military deal with employment, legal or otherwise? And even if so, how is it that an artillery battalion such as ours is saddled with duties suited at best to border police, at worst to infantry? It seems as if someone up there is jerry-rigging an improvisation of half baked half solutions that are so absurd that they'd be comical if only real people weren't involved.
My commander wondered aloud if perhaps those of us at the bottom of the political food chain aren't somehow responsible for the mess our leaders have made. Does our eager acquiescence to the dictates of our leaders not enable them to make bad decisions? Do our inventive solutions to the impossible dilemmas we face not perpetuate mismanagement of the country? And is it our fault that 80 percent of the country is busy making money or just goofing off while reservists carry the burden of national defense? Could it be that good citizenship means refusing to "make do and make it work"? If our leaders are too lazy, too corrupt or too cowardly to find real solutions, is it our duty to force them to do their job by not doing ours?
My commander was saying something revolutionary, in both senses of the word. I was a bit taken aback. In civilian life he's a mathematician; and when you think about it, what he says adds up.
Is the solution revolution?
I'm reminded of the account of how Moses comes down from the mountain with the stone tablets only to be greeted by the sight of Israel partying and their leaders worshiping the golden calf. In the face of society that has totally fallen apart he smashes the tablets. The tribe of Levi rallies to his banner and only after slaughter and the destruction of the calf is order restored. I guess there are times when there is no choice but to literally wipe the slate clean and start anew.
But then we are told of how Israel wandered through the wilderness. When they broke camp, the tribe of Judah was always the first to set out. They didn't look back to see what the other tribes were doing. They saw the pillar of fire, they believed that it was the right way to go and they just went there. And you know what? The rest eventually followed.
I'm a reservist with reservations. I admit that I like the army life and the company of the men I serve with. I believe in what we're doing, even if I don't always agree one hundred percent with the mission. I hope that by trying to be polite and when possible pleasant I made a bad situation better for both my friends and the Palestinians we dealt with.
Messiah comes from Judah, not Levi. I know there are a lot of things are wrong with this country. I suppose sometimes things can be so bad that you need to shake it up, but I hope I never live to see a revolution. For now, if I think something is right, I think I'll do it. I know that others are partying and that our leaders worship the golden calf, but if enough of us are willing to set out, perhaps we will find our way out of this wilderness. So if I see the right way to go, I'll go there. And I hope there will be others with me, but I won't look back. Cause you know what, if we follow Judah we might just find salvation.
Monday, January 28, 2008
One Word
On the banks of the Potomac at Mount Vernon rests the father of the American nation. Perhaps the thing most remarkable about his simple grave is that it is inscribed with only one word, "Washington". On that grassy knoll overlooking the city that bears his name, there is no need for words.
Often neither the abundance of words nor the craft with which they are used count as much as the last word.
And that word
is a name.
No matter what we own, no matter what we do or say,
the sum of it all and all that remains
is our good name.
For most a name is what we inherit from our fathers
and what we bequeath to our sons.
I chose my name.
My name is Ami, "my people". I was born a native son of that great nation, the United States America. It was there that I heard the call of a small and ancient people and followed to a land far away.
I haven't done much in my life, but I have become part of my people
and my people have become a part of me.
I haven't done much and I don't have much.
To my people I leave my children;
to my children I leave a name.
And for myself
I save a word.
On my grave
write Ami.
To most people it won't say much.
To those who knew me
it says it all.
Often neither the abundance of words nor the craft with which they are used count as much as the last word.
And that word
is a name.
No matter what we own, no matter what we do or say,
the sum of it all and all that remains
is our good name.
For most a name is what we inherit from our fathers
and what we bequeath to our sons.
I chose my name.
My name is Ami, "my people". I was born a native son of that great nation, the United States America. It was there that I heard the call of a small and ancient people and followed to a land far away.
I haven't done much in my life, but I have become part of my people
and my people have become a part of me.
I haven't done much and I don't have much.
To my people I leave my children;
to my children I leave a name.
And for myself
I save a word.
On my grave
write Ami.
To most people it won't say much.
To those who knew me
it says it all.
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