A boy in soldier’s uniform

Do you know the feeling you get when you first walk on stage for the opening act, the lights brighten and hundreds of pairs of expectant eyes stare at you from behind the dazzling haze of the headlamps? Or the feeling you get at the starting line of the 100m sprint, as you measure up your opponents from side to side and swallow the butterflies that tickle your stomach? Or the feeling you get as you step onto a crowded train from Tel Aviv to Be’er Sheva on Sunday morning, dressed in full IDF uniform – sleeves up, beret on shoulder, polished black boots and your M16 semi-automatic hanging by your side?

The uncertainty of acting the part of the ‘IDF soldier’ is a feeling that accompanied me during basic training and the rare weekends I was let off base. When I first arrived in Israel, I would excitedly stare in awe at every soldier sitting on a bus – looking all badass and professional, at once heroic and glorified, returning from dangerous cross border raids and top secret missions. Now I am that soldier – and yet I don’t feel the part. How would I react if my younger ‘me’ approached me now on a bus, sycophantically asking all kinds of questions in a cute and clumsy manner?

For when I enlisted, I was but a boy in uniform –  hardly out of high school – thrust into the conflict and sent to be trained for the defense of the state. Sure, unlike my Israeli peers, it was a choice that I wholeheartedly made on my own  - to leave behind everything I knew and to enlist in the IDF to protect my homeland. Yet despite my motivation and my desire, nothing could really prepare me for the reality of army life. The army is always over-glorified and romanticized from the outside – yet until you enlist and experience the drain of day-to-day punishments, endless crawling, little sleep and tuna for breakfast, lunch and dinner, it’s difficult to truly understand the life of a soldier.

Which is precisely why I find myself in a transitionary stage of sorts: almost 5 months into my service, I don’t quite feel like a soldier, yet I’m beginning to get used to the absence of personal freedom that I had as a civilian. I find it mostly expresses itself in the little things: being required to sport that uniform short crew cut, shaving daily, having my mobile phone switched off the entire week, or not being able to speak to my parents in Australia for weeks at a time. Not being able to eat what I want, or when I want to, and of course, having every tiny detail of my life dictated to me: from when I can sleep, to where I can relieve myself, to how I am supposed to look, and where I have to stand and guard.

These are the little trivialities that you don’t see from the outside. Everybody imagines that the life of a combat soldier is essentially that of Rambo: you go out on a mission, get the baddies, return to base – sweaty and uninjured, eat a hearty meal and go to sleep. Of course, nobody sees the countless of hours of mind numbing guard duty in the middle of the night, the hours spent rehearsing getting dressed as quickly as possible (our commanders place high value on being ready and dressed in full uniform under 3 minutes- so you can imagine how many times we practiced and re-practiced this until everybody got it right), the weariness, the hunger and the psychopathic cold of undergoing basic training during the winter – an inhumane freeze that chews away at your bones.

And despite all that I have been through, I still think twice when somebody asks me: “what do you do?”. “I’m a soldier” you may imagine I respond – yet it doesn’t come naturally. It’s almost forced – like a lie, like I try to cover up something that I’m not. And it’s not that I’m ashamed or embarrassed or shy. It’s that I just don’t feel like a fit the part – yet.

An interesting thing happened last Wednesday. We had returned from days of training in the shetach (the desert hillsides) back to our “base” (it’s not much of a base – just a few tents in the middle of the forest), when a few busloads full of teenagers from abroad pulled up beside us in the clearing. It was a group of a ‘Shnatties’ who were here to connect, discuss and debate with us all the burning issues that they had been studying and experiencing thus far (Shnat programs are year long Israel programs before university for Jewish kids that have finished high school). They needed a few representatives with fairly decent English to represent ‘the Israeli solider’ and interact with the diverse gaggle of Australian, South African, English and American kids fresh out of high school.

I approached my group – standing tall, my boots muddy and sandy, my green pants torn from hours of crawling, with sweat and dry blood stains on my shirt, my m-16 slacked over my right shoulder, with my index finger poised – covering the trigger and the cartridge case. I eyed the kids up and down: tight jeans, tank tops, sunglasses and iphones: a mixture of ‘alternative Melbourne’, ‘country USA’ and ‘annoying King David Johannesburgian’. Only 1 year separated us in terms of age, yet as they stared at me in absolute awe, the difference couldn’t be more striking. “I was you, that boy in the corner, sitting cross-legged, baseball-cap nonchalantly off to the side – only half a year ago!” I wanted to blurt out. Yet I remained composed and stoic, my face refusing to reveal the overwhelming emotions that began gurgling inside. The guys began listening attentively and getting involved in the conversation, the girls – completely captivated, as if in a starry eyed trance began leaning in my general direction. On the inside I kinda still felt like one of them – 19, fresh out of high school, getting bussed around Israel on a surreal Zionist summer camp. On the outside, I projected some kind of aura, something that transcended simply looking the part – for them I symbolized “Ha-Hayal Ha-Yisraeli” (the Israeli soldier (and an Australian one at that), together with all the emotional baggage that that represents for certain people.

And with that, for the first time I felt like the soldier sitting on the bus – looking all badass and professional, at once heroic and glorified, returning from dangerous cross border raids and top secret missions. And not just on the outside…

Lone soldiers in the IDF

Olim Hadashim, new immigrants in Israel, make for an interesting bunch, having left behind family, loved ones and their lives back ‘home’ to come and fulfill a higher duty – a calling you could say: To answer their inner Zionist spirit and become pioneers against the backdrop of a 21st century landscape where apathy and narcissism reigns supreme. The reason that I crawled out of my can’t-be-bothered-writing-anymore cave and finally put pen to paper in order to write this post, is because it has dawned on me that in a couple of weeks I will no longer count myself amongst the Olim Hadashim crowd, but rather I will soon sport a green uniform and shiny red boots as soldier #39832732 – an Israeli in every sense of the word. Which got me thinking about these immigrants – from the way the native population relates to them, to how they are absorbed in Israeli society, and what their motivations are for coming here –  in other words, I realized that Olim Hadashim are in a very really sense sui generis, and they deserve a few words.

But lets put all the la-di-da aside for a moment and get to the point: Who are these new immigrants, why do they leave their comfortable middle-class homes to join the Israeli army, and where the hell does this writer (i.e. yours truly) fit in within this balagan (scrambling mess in hebrew slang)?

Firstly let me make this clear: Israel is a country that has been built upon the very important human resource know as immigration. Indeed, the country’s Jewish population went from 600,000 in 1948 to nearly 2 million overnight, and it has been growing ever since – with immigrants forming a substantial portion of the population. But that was back then – back in a faraway time before I was born, when Jews still lived – endangered – in hostile countries, and every time a refusenik sneezed in a Soviet jail cell, the shock-waves would be felt on the streets of New York:  Today, Jewish communities don’t nearly face similar problems of such magnitude  - and thus the impetus to make Aliya (lit. to immigrate to Israel) that saw millions of Jews fleeing to Israel like a running tap, is no longer there. We now live live largely in the west, comfortably and with little antisemitism. The tap has been plugged.

So what is it that still brings these modern day, facebooking, Iphoning halutzim (pioneers) to leave comfortable Melbourne and Miami and make the big jump to the Middle East? Well I have a few theories – or stereotypes rather – and here they are, in dot point form:

1. The religious guy

Espousing ‘Torah ve’Avodah’ (Torah and work – the slogan of the Bnei Akiva movement), the religious guy makes it to the holy imbued with a desire to defend the Land of Israel for the People of Israel. Sporting a flat-tennis-ball like kippa, he looks like a modern day Sampson from the Settlements, his Tzitzit proudly hanging out beside a pair of brown sandals that Moses may have worn 3000 years ago. Highly motivated by his beliefs, he is often accepted into the top units of the IDF. Unfortunately, as the IDF has trouble catering to all the numerous needs of religious soldiers, and even moreso to the complicated issues that Chayalim Bodedim face in the army, so the religious oleh in the IDF may have a hard time adjusting to army life. On more than one occasion there have been those who finish their army service secular – like the majority of their peers. However those that keep their faith until the end are truly a testament to the motivation that brings them to Israel.

2. Gi Joe

Jacked up from endless hours in the gym, GI Joe has always dreamed of joining the military, eliminating baddies in Afghanistan, and posing stoically in a Marines outfit beside the American flag. Usually a last-minute decision or a flip of the coin brings him to Israel, in a bid to fulfill his dream of becoming a modern day Maccabee – albeit in a Jewish setting. Fitting the personality of the typical ‘popular-kid-at-school-that-sits-in-the-centre-back-seat-of-the-bus’, GI Joe looks like he was born for the army, bursting with American-Zionist pride, whilst never taking off that IDF tourist shirt he bought last year on a Birthright trip to Israel. Beyond ramping up his intensive training sessions, he spends his spare time watching WWF, teaching American football to clueless Israelis, reading ‘Brotherhood of Warriors‘ and mixing protein shakes.

3. Picking up the pieces

Half a college degree later, working long hours at an uneventful pizzeria, and a desire to ‘sort things out’ so-to-speak, brings these guys to Israel to join the IDF and clear their head a little. The army is seen not so much as a remedy for the problems they face back home, but an intermediary chapter of their life, so that they have enough time to think things through before heading back home. Whilst any Oleh Hadash that leaves his/her home to join the IDF is laudable, these guys assert that they have no higher motives for enlisting other than personal ones: A desire to gain a sense of discipline, motivation, and acquire new skills along the way.

4. Katin Hozer (born overseas to Israeli parents)

Speaking Hebrew at home, going on Falafel picnics with Imma and Abba and hanging out with the other Israeli kids in the neighbourhood leaves the Katin Hozer vying to leave the Israeli bubble he/she lives in abroad and experiencing the real thing. Besides having already visited Israel a million times and hearing Abba’s stories of how we won the Six Day War, the Katin Hozer has the additional benefit of a large extended family in Israel – including Saba and Savta (the grandparents): an imperative support group that most Olim in Israel lack.

5. Searching for a destiny/looking for more in life

The perfect life just aint what what it ought to be. Having everything handed down on a silver platter – from Humvees to Harvard degrees, these (mostly) upper-middle-class “JAPS” (Jewish American/Australian prince(ss)) simply feel that they have it too good in life, and the monotony of exclusive house parties, rich friends, and job offers in the banking sector that most people could only dream about, leaves them wanting more of a purpose in life. Images of sun-tanned Kibbutznickim holding ploughshares and dreams of a middle-eastern adventure by the medditerranean gets these kids rolling first-class off the plane and into a perennial quest to find their destiny in Israel. Perhaps it’s because the Israeli-Arab conflict is one of the most burning political issues in the world, and so they envision to make it here armed with the all solutions, thus fulfilling their desire to make a difference. Or perhaps it’s just the desire to escape the perfection of the American dream and the bordeom of being mollycoddled on a daily basis to get as faraway as possible – without losing all their Western creature-comforts. One striking similarity they share though, is the desire (at least in the beginning) to stay permanently in Israel, and therefore, service in the IDF is seen as a stepping-stone to becoming a fully fledged Israeli.

6. Something for the resume/military career

An aged grandfather sitting on a cushioned chair by the fireplace, sits his young grandchild on his knee and begins recounting the legendary battle of Wadi Um Nisnas in the Summer of 2016, in which he, as a young tank commander in the IDF routed all the enemy forces. Although perhaps exaggerated, the desire to be able to tell the kids ‘where papa was when…’ is a driving factor that should not be ignored. This type of motivation - manipulated as propaganda by the Germans and English in WWI – is an enlistment tool that (in part) causes people to make the decision to enlist. Many of these kids view their lives in ‘chapters’ – with the ‘army chapter’ fitting in nicely after the ‘high school chapter’ and before the ‘university chapter’. There are of course those who also join up for all the post-army benefits, like a nice little line in the resume, (or if they remain in Israel –  a free education), however the efficacy of this kind of motivation lasting throughout an arduous and challenging service is questionable.

Morning Fog

It was a surreal experience. 25 young, inexperienced soldiers standing underwear-naked in the chilly pre-dawn fog of the wintry Israeli desert. Shivering uncontrollably like a live fish out of water, I stood there amongst them, appreciating the magical cloud blanket that enveloped us whilst attempting to delay the inexorable onset of hypothermia that would kick in – in the coming minutes. The icy pavement thawed my bare feet, and a light breeze sent spasm-like shivers down my shoulders and chest.

“Not quick in enough” our commander mentioned quietly, authoritatively, as he mulled the ludicrous situation. The mesmerising cries of morning birds and the stoic stares we received from trees peeking out from the fog, made me feel like I was in Vietnam on some classified reconnaissance mission.

The commander disapprovingly stared at his watch, prompting the entire squad to reset their timers in anticipation for the next task. ‘3:45am’ my watch glared – emanating an icy cold blue backlight that nicely accompanied the freezing temperatures that seared through bones.

“25 seconds, everyone is asleep in their sleeping bags. Tze!!! (Go – in Hebrew)”

A sudden rush of adrenalin prompted the huddled mass of skinny, pale 18 year olds to sprint back into the tent, dodging rain puddles, kitbags and mattresses – on the way to Ho Chi Min city, I imagined – a rag-tag team of naked commandos conquering the tent and then moving on to greater things.

25 seconds later, an eerie silence enveloped the area, as I quietly listened to the symphony of breathing and panting that permeated the darkness and shadows that played across the nylon roof over our heads. The commander imposingly burst into the tent and scanned the beds from side to side, as 25 pairs of eyes followed his every move in the dark. “3 minutes, everybody is outside in full uniform. Tze!!!!!”

As I switched on the light and jumped out of my sleeping bag, struggling to put on my pants with one hand, and my socks with another, one thought was left hanging on my shoulder: “Welcome to the Israeli army”

Dealing with disappointment

Do you know the feeling you get when you ‘almost made it’? When something was within your reach, and then unspeakably, unexplainably, it slips out of your hands in slow motion? – like in the movies, when the protagnists are hanging off a cliff edge and then one of them loses grip and disappears into the abyss – that stare of doom forever capturing their final moments of fear? It’s the feeling you get when you’re informed of that job promotion, or that you have been awarded the Nobel Prize for sobriety – only to be told later that it was all a mistake, and that your name was mistakenly announced – “you were never sober”, the Nobel Prize Commitee tells you, “you were in fact a raging, inebriated alcoholic from the get go.” These analogies somehwhat exemplify my experience over the past 24 hours. After a year of hard work and training, test and interviews, changing enlistment dates and numerous travels to the army office and back, my dream of enlisting into a particular special forces unit was dashed. I was almost in, with 2 days to go. I was on top of the world. And it felt great. Which makes this emotional rollercoaster so much more painful.

It’s been quite a journey to get here – Gibbush Tzanchanim in May, getting the news that I had passed (!) in June, getting my enlistment date moved from August to November, fighting to attend Yom Sayarot – passing that and then passing Gibbush Matkal as well! Gibbush Matkal is a gruelling week long “hell-week” style physical test, that the most motivated army canditates attend in order to enlist in one of the IDF’s top tier, elite units. Naturally, over the past three weeks since getting the results, I was on top of the world – one of the few who finished the gibbush and got selected  - and today I had to resign myself to being regular, simple and plain again.

I received the call last night – an army clerk informing me that I was to be dropped. I scrambled to make a few late night calls to fellow friends who had already enlisted in these units, and thus had some connections with the officers who pass and fail the aspiring canditates. It was both a disappointment and a relief to find out the reasons behind this last-minute fiasco: They had simply accepted too many canditates, and Olim Hadashim – new immigrants – whose families remain behind overseas, generally have a lower security profile to begin with, than the Israelis that try for these units. I wasn’t the only one held up by this last minute surprise either. Another 5 guys I knew, Olim like me, had been hastily culled from the list, merely 2 days before we were due to go in. Luckily though, I was still given the option of enlisting tomorrow, albeit to the infantry brigades of the IDF.

There are essentially two ways to view this scenario – two outlooks that will define hereafter my service in the IDF:

The first is the negative outlook: That now I will never be satisifed as a regular solider. That I have trained mentally and physically for an entire year, and invested all my willpower for nothing. That the army has screwed me over – like all those stories that I hear about ‘so-and-so’ that will never happen to be – that has indeed just happened to me. This attitude is inherently flawed because it sets me up for disappointment from the outset – even before I have gone in. It is wrong for me to feel this way even though I cannot help it.

The other option is to bite the bullet and look at the positives: I still get the chance to serve in the IDF, I don’t have to wait until March, and it’s still Kravi, Achi! I made Aliyah in order to give back, to contribute and to work hard in the Israeli army – to serve and defend the Jewish people – and that is exacly what I will be doing when I put on my army fatigues tomorrow afternoon – regardless of where the IDF chooses to place me. The brigades – the ‘Gdudim’ in hebrew – have a shorter training circuit by a few months and are generally assigned to the more mundane and routine jobs that keep this country moving. Being in a place where the ‘Yokrah’ (prestige in hebrew) is a little less, is simply a matter of semantics when one looks back on his army service. I believe that everything happens for a reason and that “Gam zoo le tova” – “this too is for the best”. I’m also a strong believer in destiny, and that there is definitely a good reason, and an excellent life lesson learnt with this entire affair. “It is written” before me, my destiny was outlined, and it was simply a matter of living up to this moment and discovering the path that I am to tread. And yes, despite the unsavoury news, I still feel that I have suceeded.

I’ve proved to myself that if I can put my mind to it and give my maximum, I can achieve – anything. You can only give 100%, and the rest, so to speak, is out of your hands. That annoying little element of uncertainty that bugs the hell out of me – that hovers on everybody’s shoulder like an unwanted stain, constantly whispers into my ear that maybe, maybe it will not be. It will not succeed. It will not work out in the end. It was not meant to happen. That yes you have 2 days until you reach the light at the end of the tunnel and there is still a minute chance that they will drop you at the eleventh hour. Anything is possible. Dreams become reality and reality morphs into nightmares. The future is uncertain, yet I believe that “it is written” and this was meant to be. And this thought of all things provides me with the most consolation. I can do everything in my power to minimize the element of uncertainty, yet I can never eliminate it. And that’s the great irony: our path is laid out before us, yet it curves in mysterious ways.

Conversations with Yoni

Over the course of the past few months, I engaged in long discussions with my close friend from the garin, Yoni, about service in the gdudim, in regular infantry, versus that of special forces units, Sayarot in hebrew. It’s a given that Olim normally arrive in Israel with the motivation levels of a horny Chihuahua overdosed on viagra, and thus many of them volunteer and attempt to get accepted into the elite special forces units in the IDF. Yoni however was different. His position – for an Oleh – was rather radical and from what I found, strangely noble. He argued that he “Davka” wants to be a regular infantry solider – to serve side by side with the layman – the ones who spend hours on guard duty, man checkpoints and conduct the day-to-day work on the ground. These are the guys in the “Shetach” (the field in hebrew) – who may go in slightly less motivated than all the GI Joe Olim straight off the plane from America in their quest for modern-day Maccabee-dom – and yes, some of them may be left slightly short of breath after a 5km run, but these are the guys that we should invest our time and effort into improving. ‘From the ground up’ in other words. “We can be an inspiration to others” he argued. After all, the brigades fight the wars and suffer the bulk of the casualties – not that that should be a reason to run there bareheaded – but that Olim and other Israelis who really want to contribute should be ‘side by side with the man in the trench’, not sitting on their high horse within the sayarot. From this persepective it’s easier to be a Special forces solider in the IDF, as everybody there is super motivated, is there on a voluntary basis and absolute discipline and self control is a given. Every one is ‘mentally ready’ over there. That’s not where the work is. That’s not even a challenge. Sure, aspire to aim as high as you can. But anybody who thinks that they have what it takes to be a SF solider should consider first and foremost  the Gdudim. Thats where they need to be. And Yoni wasn’t just saying that. He really believed it and wanted to set a personal example.

I found Yoni’s outlook interesting for a few reasons: firstly, because he was not only motivated by a desire to serve, but because he was motivated by a desire to improve. The Zionism running through his veins is one of self sacrifice in a place where much of the blood, sweat and tears that he – we – will endure will go largely unsung and unnoticed. After all, a SF soldier has but to board the bus as all heads turn accordingly in awe and admiration (perhaps slightly exaggerated, but you get the drift). A regular ‘Gdudnick’ does not bask in the aura of everlasting glory – his is the curse of the foot soldier – he may put in more work and effort and time and willpower than Moshe and Gidon from Special Forces, yet he remains judged and confined by his shoulder unit-tag. What struck me most about Yoni’s worldview however, was the modesty and humility with which he viewed the whole situation – a modesty welded into his personality that cannot be learned or acquired, and that I can only envy. “This is the real challenge” I hear him saying in my head as I type this up in the wee morning hours before I go in tomorrow (today!), and although the question of ‘what could have been’ keeps on pounding through my skull like a woodpecker, I realize that the experience that I’m in for now is no less honourable, and demands far more patience, effort and respect for those around me. This is the challenge. Now is the time for me to really get to work.

At times like these I remind myself why I immigrated to Israel – the country I love. I came here because I believe in the Jewish state, in our right to self determination as a people, “lihiot am hofshi be’arzenu” as the last line of the anthem goes. I made Aliyah in the hopes of building a fair and equal society that will be the envy of the world. A place where ‘freedom’ and ‘peace’ will one day replace today’s political discourse of ‘war’ and ‘violence’. And of course, I came here to protect the Jewish people and defend their homeland – as a soldier in the Israel Defence Forces. I didn’t come here to get into the elite units per se – even being considered was just a bonus. Yes it is disappointing that I nearly made it, and I’m now coming to grips with it, but I’ve long known that every job in the army is extremely important, and just like in a well designed mechanical clock – you need all the cogs and pieces, no matter how small, for everything to work properly. Frankly, I’m just really excited to get in tomorrow and start my service. This country is dear to me, and I want to give back with everything I can. Sure, there might be less prestige in my new place – but I’m here doing what I believe in, and fighting for a cause that defines my very identity. And that’s what counts.

I go in tomorrow into the infantry brigades, and I’m still as motivated as I was when I got off the plane. I’m young, healthy, and of sound mind (at least as far as I can tell – the rest is between me and my therapist. Just kidding ) and the future looks prety bright. I’m finally fulfilling my dream of serving in the IDF and I will proudly wear my uniform and know that I am making a difference. This country was built from the ashes of the Holocaust because of resilience – because of people who in the face of despair chose never to give up. Who never said ‘I can no longer’. People who defied the Nazi beast to immigrate to Israel and turn their hopes into reality.

Tomorrow it is my turn, as I join the IDF and fulfill an ancient legacy dating back 3000 years – I will now be a warrior in King David’s army – and I’m fighting for what I believe in. And when I look at it this way, this whole experience is something that I’m greatful for – far from disappointing, to say the least.

Consolidation

Where to begin? Mum often nags me to write – to put my thoughts and emotions to paper, to spew out the couscousy mesh of experiences that have been blended into a single stretch of memory – and thus to immortalize the symphony of incidents, stories and smells that accompany me throughout my journeys. ‘Anything, anything at all’, she pleads and reasons. But I never seem to have the desire or the discipline to dedicate the few hours required to put pen to paper. So here I am now – on a bus from Tel Aviv back to the kibbutz, with a few hours to kill, my laptop, and a lump in my throat from not being quite sure how to summarize the past few months, or how to unpack my thoughts.

What is the most suitable way to describe the people I have met, and the gems I have gleaned in a faraway land described by many, simultaneously as ‘holy’, ‘heavenly’ and ‘hell’? How to relate to the people here that I simultaneously love and despise – like the young man, shut off from the world with music blasting through his headphones, who sneaks in front of the ticket machine at the train station, and grabs a ticket that he didn’t pay for – or the young woman who rushed to the aid of an elderly lady who dropped her shopping bag in crowded Jerusalem? How to thank the proverbial Israeli on the street, who insists on inviting me over for Shabbat dinner, “whenever you’re in city X!”, despite having just randomly met me on the street. And how can I even begin to detail the many random acts of kindness – a stranger, in the right place at the right time, bridging the invisible bridge that separates people, and running to the assistance of another.

Which is the best way to describe the uncomfortable feeling I get, when I hear one of my kin preaching hatred against perceived enemies of our people – real or imaginary, or the silent applause during the many moments of social harmony: religious and secular Jews, together celebrating the 60 year anniversary of a local council in the Negev; or the large billboards in Gush Etzion that promote coexistence between Jews and Arabs. Watching Ethiopian and Russian kids playing soccer in the street, hearing Americans ordering hummus in Jerusalem, watching an impromptu performance of Japansese pilgrims singing in Zion Square, or feeling the heat, as I sunbake amongst a sea of Frenchmen on a beach near Achziv.

How can I begin to explain the time an entire Egged bus erupted into laughter, when an Arab transport van pulled up beside us – with a podgy middle aged man seated cross-legged on the floor between the seats, happily smoked a nargilah and smiled back at us – the mystical plume of smoke that he exhaled, dancing toward the heavens, as if he was relaxing in Abu Gosh. Or the frustration of being screwed around with by the army – that constantly changes my draft date, and insists that all communication be done through faxing? How to picture the warmth and hospitality of the Beduins of Aramsha – a small village that straddles the Lebanese border, or the way that residents of Bnei Brak purposely avoid me with their eyes during a Shabbat afternoon stroll? How to describe the multitude of faces, cultures and personalities that forge this country for what it is – an unprecedented melting pot, instigated by one of the boldest state building projects of the 20^th century.

How to express the sheer outpour of otherworldly senses when the sun kisses the pluvial horizon between Gaza and Rafiah, and bids these shores farewell with a spectacular show of colours in the sky – orange, blue and violet? How can I colour with words the jungle-like Wadi’s of the Upper Galilee, and the wild meat cows that roam free, and follow each hiker with their distinctive, pitiful stares? What on Earth is more blue than the Kinneret when viewed from the Golan Heights, or more yellow than the gigantic bees that lap up the water of the kibbutz pool, and then fly off in a hurry to pollinate the fields of the Western Negev desert?

Living in Israel from the inside is nothing like living it from the outside. The headlines continue to ramble on, inexorably and increasingly sensationalist, whilst on the ground, people trudge on, like a backpacker trekking through waist-deep mud: slowly, tiredly and assuredly forward – warding off the hardship and difficulty that surrounds. For in a place so compact and laden with history, which snares the hearts and minds of so many around the world, it’s really easy to get carried away in a biblical fantasy land of prophecies and conflict. It’s a land that brings out the best and worst in people – those guided toward kindness by their beliefs, and those who seek salvation in terror, destruction and death.

Perhaps on this auspicious occasion, at the height of the Arab spring, and Israel’s increasingly difficult political situation it has to be said: Too often Middle East is portrayed as a black and white narrative of hollywood-esque proportions, a game of good vs evil that each side reframes and repackages to suit their bias. The truth however lies in fact this troubled neighbourhood is plagued by many shades of grey, with each opinion offering an element of truth, and an element of sweet illusion. Often I find that the most zealous voices are those of people who have never set foot in the holy land, whilst those who live the reality, lead the moderate voices of peace.

Sure Israel has changed me. There was a time, in the first few weeks, when my heart would open up to every beggar in the street, as I foraged my wallet for all the spare change I could find. Today I join the mass of people who nonchalantly pass them by, choosing to ignore, reasoning that they should get a job, and passing on the assumed responsibility of helping them onto the next stranger. There was a time that I would wait politely in line, whilst the onlookers who pushed in front of me, looked back and giggled at the ‘friar’ (‘loser’ in Hebrew), who clearly has no idea about Israeli society. I remember the days when seeing a wind-torn Israeli flag fluttering in the middle of the desert aroused all kinds of emotional nostalgia and reinforced my sense of purpose here. And how could I forget the tiring bus trips at night, when I would stay awake and rest my head on the window, gazing out to the lights of distant settlements and villages that dot the inland hills; an intense spiritual sense like that of my first visit to the Kotel.

Indeed, as my initial excitement turned to disillusionment, which in turn became a sort of rebellious-teenager apathy, I found myself increasingly sceptical and disconnected from the values that initially brought me here. Whilst now, I find myself in a consolidation of sorts – having sobered up both from the initial thrill this country offered and the mild disappointment that followed.

There was a time when my heart skipped a beat each time I would come across ancient Israelite ruins – and each time I gazed out across the Shfela, the coastal plane, and imagined the ancient wayfarers and merchants that traded spices between the Phoenician north and the Philistine south. There was a period when seeing an Israeli soldier on the train filled me with pride, and almost always led me to make conversation – as I took the role of the excited ‘oleh hadash’ teenager – both astonished and envious.

Yet despite it all, I still feel that I belong here. A humid summer night in June comes to mind: we had just crossed back into Israel from Taba, Egypt, and although the surrounding mountains and the deep dark sea remained the same ominous mountains and sea, the distinct sense of anxiety, and foreignness that accompanied me through Egypt suddenly dispelled across the border. Sure the customs officers cursed in Hebrew, the taxi driver tried to rip us off a few extra shekels, and the size of the Israeli flag, flying white and blue, was no less impressive than her Egyptian counterpart over the border. But I felt at home, and I still do – and that is a feeling that is hard to come by.

Journey to Hebron

When I first arrived in Israel, I believed that I had the entire conflict figured out and neatly wrapped within a few inviolable facts and slogans that validated my worldview of what it meant to be Jewish, Israeli and Zionist: “A Land without a people and a people without a land” I could quote without apprehension – referring to the early Zionist belief that Palestine was empty of inhabitants. Argue “Deir Yassin” and I would respond with Gush Etzion and the Haddasah medical convoy massacre. Discuss the 1948 Arab Palestinian refugees, and I would counter with the massive (forced?) exodus of Jews from Arab countries. Tell me that Israel should withdraw from Judea and Samaria (the west bank), and I would tense up emotionally and become completely immune to any logical persuasion. In other words, I was like a slave to my own ironclad opinions – almost unwilling to accept the other side of the argument or to see any basic humanity in the Arab/Palestinian narrative. Indeed, the moment that the basic tenets that I had come to believe regarding Israel and her history were criticized, I always tended to dismiss them as irrelevant, untrue or even anti-zionist.

This was the worldview that – due to my voracious reading habits and to a large degree, my emotional ties to the Jewish narrative – I had come to accept; a scrawny, bespectacled Aussie kid growing up within the Jewish bubble and dreaming of the Holy Land. Perhaps ironically, as I enter my fifth month in Israel and actually live and observe the Arab-Israeli conflict from within, I have come to the tentative realization that conflict is so complex and intricate – that by mentally summarizing the situation into a few historical flashpoints and soundbytes, I have been not only untruthful to myself, but to all the victims on both sides of the border.

The Melbourne Jewish community is by and large one built by Holocaust survivors and their descendants. Ties with Israel are incredibly strong, with large numbers of Jewish high school graduates spending their ‘gap year’ in Israel, and quite a few even staying on to make Aliyah and join the IDF (myself included). Another by-product of this environment, and one that I only begin to notice now, is that the picture we have of Israel is painted with bright colours – one that ignores the Palestinian side or masks over the entire Arab world as bloodthirsty Jihadi terrorists preparing to drive us into the sea. I must admit, that I had even dabbled in literature denying the existence of a distinct Palestinian people altogether: “After all there has never been a Palestinian state or people in history” I convinced myself. Little do I realize that such an argument is inherently foolish, as all identities - regardless of their historicity – are essentially self-conceived. The entire argument would become one of who has stronger links to the Holy land – whilst ignoring the realities and facts on the ground: That the Jewish people and Arab Palestinians have both made their home between the Jordan river and the Mediterranean sea.

The more time I spend here, the more opinions and stories I hear and the more I see, I realize that in their own way, everybody here is very right, and very wrong at the same time. Left wing, right wing, religious, secular, Zionist, Jewish, Arab, Palestinian – this is the crazy concoction of everything that has been thought of and conceived to explain the violence, the anger, the baseless hatred and the unboundless kindness that I have come across in this blood-drenched land during my short stay. I have gone from consuming hours of news and media reports, scouring opinion forums and talkbacks – to becoming completely apathetic toward the political situation altogether - and reading almost nothing; for so many things that I observe here, openly contradict the media reports that I rely on for information and history. My solid opinions and the “I know everything” attitude that I arrived here with have crumbled impressively to the point that I am entirely confused as to who is right and who is wrong; what is true and what is fake. Everybody here is correct, and everybody has their facts (or emotions more-so) to back it up. And who am I really, to question somebody who has lived here their entire life? Who am I to deny to the right of an Arab farmer to till his lands in the seam zone, or for the Israeli victims of Arab terror to call for harsher retribution against terrorists and their sympathizers? I’m just some kid piggybacking this conflict and getting a ride through history. Yesterday I set out to convince the world what needed to be done. Today I keep my mouth shut, listen silently and ask inquisitive questions; powerless to prevent the events spiralling out of control around me.

Cave of the Patriarchs in Hevron

The more time I spend in Israel, the more I realize that this conflict at it’s core is not so much about religion, nationality or land, but rather it’s about people. Regular people – most of whom don’t get involved in politics or ideology, who prefer to live a quite life, like the life I had in Australia. “We’re not angels or demons,” a local Arab from Hevron told me as I visited the ancient city, “we were born into this crazy situation, and now we just want to live our life normally.” The massive cave of the patriarchs compound loomed before us, cut in half by a wall to separate Muslim and Jewish worshippers for fear of a repeat of the 1994 massacre, perpetrated by a militant Jewish-American that left nearly 30 Muslims dead. The reason I bring this up, is to show that Jews and Israelis are capable of evil as well, the same kind of evil that we vilify Palestinian terrorists for. At least this attack was unequivocally and wholly condemned by Israeli society, whilst similar attacks on the Arab side are usually praised and glorified.

The Casbah in Hevron

Indeed, visiting Hevron was an eye-opening experience for me: a strange journey into a different world of tight alleyways, ancient stones and a tense feeling so thick that you could cut it with a knife. The Casbah – which once housed the ancient Jewish community of Hevron, is now a modern battlefield of ideologies that illustrates this conflict better than another. A populated, dense area – the former principle Arab market of the city spirals through the narrow alleyways, manned by ageing Palestinian caricatures – wearing traditional white-black Kaffiyehs, sitting quietly by embroidered carpets and ‘made-in-china’ souvenirs, smoking tobacco from a pipe, and staring blankly into a bygone era when this market was bustling full of people. In the floors above the market, Israeli-Jews have moved in, reclaiming the houses their parents had been dispossessed from, following their massacre and expulsion in 1929. An Israeli flag flies from the edge of one of the windows.

The Israeli flag from inside the market

Below it, a net has been erected by the Arab shopkeepers to prevent the settlers from dropping stones down below. It was such a strange feeling, standing in the market, looking upwards at the Israeli flag. Up there are my people. Down here are the people I sympathize with. Both sides have claims to this city. Both sides have a right to live here, to pray here. Both sides have ruined this place – a city built by the love of our forefathers, now consumed entirely by hatred.

I returned to Jerusalem, dazed and confused – from the heat, from the conflict, from this swimming pool of intensity that I jumped into when I got off the plane. Relieved to be back in Israel proper, I strolled through Yafo st – a lively boardwalk lined with shops – just as the warm Judean sun began casting her shadow over trendy rooftops and balconies. The place was packed with people in every direction, as an impromptu band sang over-played Israeli rock’n'roll from the 80s. I sat down and observed quietly: Middle-aged women sipping late at a nearby cafe. A gaggle of teenagers in summer clothes organizing a sleepover. An elderly couple walking past the band, receiving a nod of recognition from the guitarist and then staying on to listen a little more. A Rabbi hurriedly walking past to make afternoon prayers, followed closely by a religious Muslim woman, inspecting some of the latest fashion at the adjacent boutique. It felt so hard for me to believe that Hevron – a virtual warzone compared to this – was just a cool 30 minutes drive from here.

Israel's graffiti covered separation barrier

That night I stayed at my uncle Ran’s place in Jerusalem, and we began discussing the separation barrier that I had visited that afternoon – built to prevent suicide bombings from the Palestinian territories. At the edge of Bethlehem, the walled, concrete section of the barrier (that makes up 10% of the entire fence) dominates the road in front of it. On my return from Hevron, I stopped by the graffiti covered barrier, that has almost become a post-Berlin symbol for anti-nationalists and anarchists everywhere. Every single message and artwork has turned the wall into a figurative monument: spraying a profound quote is like tagging your name in history books. “‘Alaskans for Palestine’; ‘UCLA ’09 against the occupation!’ – who do these people think they are, coming to this part of the world and getting themselves involved in the conflict?” I muttered openly with a touch of annoyance. “Perhaps they also have a stake in it?” Ran prodded, while concentrating on the dishes. “All the people perpetuating the violence seem to be from outside Israel! Most people here just want to live their lives peacefully. What the fuck do Alaskans have to do with Palestine??” I shuffled uncomfortably on the couch. A brief silence ensued, and then Ran unloaded the big one: “You’re one of them too, aren’t you?” he asked, in a wise, yet humorous way. And as much as I’d like to deny it, he’s basically right. My emotional, historical, religious and family connections have pulled me to this land – an intense yearning unexplained by logic. My desire to enlist in the IDF stems from my ideological perceptions and my belief in Jewish self-determination – a self determination that I believe should not come at the expense of another people’s. Indeed, at my base, I’m still a Jew born in Australia. Maybe a Palestinian born in Alaska, attending UCLA feels the same way?

Overcome by immense tiredness, I shuffled around on the mattress, trying to forget about the collapsing situation around me, and everything that I have gotten myself into. Ran turned off the light, as the sounds of distant traffic and flickering street lights poured in through the fly screen. I dozed off perhaps for a minute, and suddenly I found myself once more in Hevron. The terrible heat of the sun beat down on my face, as I slowly made my way through an abandoned street between an Arab and Jewish neighbourhood: Every door had bolted shut, and every window had been shattered by rocks. Garbage lay strewn beside dust that had been collecting there for years, and the blue sky seemed much paler than usual. My mouth was parched from the heat and the thirst, as I came across half-ripped Arab posters immortalizing Palestinian suicide bombers, right next to Jewish signs proclaiming the message of Rabbi Kahane. Unawares, the muezzin - the Muslims call to prayer – began sounding off throughout the city. First a distant whisper from the furthest mosque, and then closer and closer, until it vibrated in my ears, as if each new voice was a louder echo of the first. It sounded like a proclamation to besiege the Jewish quarter that I now found myself in –  a quarter filled with bumper stickers calling for the forced expulsion of the Arabs in Israel. The Muezzin echoed defiantly loud and clear – beating down on my face like the heat of the sun, whilst the stickers radiated an equally overwhelming political message that seemed too much to bear. There I stood awkwardly not quite part of it, not quite taking sides – the thirst killing me and driving me into a delirious trance, the oppressive heat of the sun frying my thought process. I was stuck in the middle, on the fence, not quite sure where I belong.

Graffiti in Israel

As Assad slaughters his own citizens without compunction in Syria, and Gaddafi vows to fight to the last inch – it’s necessary at times to seek a distraction from this crazy neighborhood and its even crazier dictators.
Which is why I want to point attention to some of the clever political slogans and messages scrawled across neighborhood walls in Tel Aviv – almost like the unoffical mouthpiece of the Israeli street but with that quirky cynical angle.

Reads: “Orthodox Jews, please place tefillin (phylacteries) on our [Secular] children”

This piece of grafitii was taken in South Tel Aviv – reknowned as a bastion of Secularism, and a general enmity toward observance. The reason I chose it is because it’s funny and raises a relevant issue to the fore – that of the secular/religious divide in Israel. Hilonim (Secular Jews) feel increasingly threatened by Hardedim (ultra-orthodox Jews) for what they see as religious intolerance, whilst Haredim feel simultaneously threatened by secular Jews for what they claim is a bid to ostrazice their entire demographic from society.

The sign reads: “חרדים הניחו לילדנו, תפילין”
Prima facie, the text can be translated as “Haredim, please lay tefillin on our children“. The verb in the sentence “henichu” (הניחו) is then exact verb used in morning prayers (Shacarit) before males place tefillin on their arms. (The prayer consists of “lehaniach tefillin” (להניח תפילין). So the verb used in the prayer is essentially a call by the secular residents to educate their children along the lines of religious Judaism. Indeed, at first, this seems like a feel-good bridge-building slogan, in which secular Jewish society reaches out to their God-fearing brothers, in a bid to shoulder and accept the heavy yoke of religious observance.

However, the text is in fact far more sinister and cynical: The meaning is changed, once the comma separating “children” (ילדנו) and “Tefilin” (תפילין) is taken into account. This premidated punctuation mark changes the meaning of the verb “henichu” (הניחו) from “lay” or “place” to “leave” or “go away”. So in fact, once all punctuation is taken into account, the slogan reads: “Hardeim, leave our children alone; Tefillin“

Also note the fact that the text itself is written in biblical font. Perhaps a lesson in irony to boot!