“What the hell are you thinking?” I asked him when I first saw his kippah. I was concerned that he was going through an army conversion. I felt betrayed, like he was leaving me alone and wounded on the battlefield.
“I just need something,” Bar had said to me quietly, not wanting to fight.
“But the religious don’t even accept us as Jews,” I say quietly, not wanting to upset him too much, but still feeling hurt.
I, on the other hand, reacted by fighting with Yoni every day, until I got sick with mono.
But through all of the abuse, both Bar and I stay dedicated to our work. It was the one thing keeping us going. While our branch seems to be falling apart, the rest of the country is on the verge of a civil war. Even though Israel is not the country of brotherly love, it is the country where everyone considers one another brothers. Jewish residents in Gaza are threatening to lift up arms against the army to protect their homes—something unthinkable in Israel. The threat of soldiers refusing to participate in Disengagement is looming. Half of the country is wearing bright orange to show their support for the settlers and their disapproval of Disengagement. Jewish settlers are wearing orange stars that resemble the yellow stars from the Holocaust to express their pain from being expelled from their homes.
It feels as if the entire country is about to implode and we are trying to prevent it, all the while simultaneously suffering under the reign of a tyrant who isn’t even tall enough to ride the roller coasters at Disneyland.
“The research says that the public does not approve of soldiers disobeying orders, but they do understand and even agree with soldiers not wanting to participate in Disengagement,” Bar says, reviewing the statistics with me at 7:00 A.M.
Bar speaks fluent French, Hebrew, and English. We could speak English, but it doesn’t feel right speaking English when we are talking about such an historic Israeli event.
“Is there any information on soldiers’ opinions and what they think about refusing orders?” I ask, trying to figure out how we are going to tackle this issue. We can’t have soldiers refusing orders or justifying it; this would cause the entire army to collapse.
Strangely, I feel like my Hebrew is best with Bar. I don’t stumble over any words or sentences. I wonder if it is because I don’t feel like I need to prove anything with him.
“It says that soldiers disapprove of refusing orders, but it might be hard to actually rely on those polls since soldiers may be scared to say the opposite.” Bar has stopped wearing his kippah by now. Just like a zit, it disappeared one day. He realized that prayer was not going to stop the harassment from Yoni, and now our friendship is getting back to normal.
“If the public thinks that it’s okay for soldiers to refuse orders, then the public will disapprove of punishing soldiers who disobey orders. We have to change that,” I said. “The first step is to prevent soldiers from disobeying by letting them know there will be consequences. The threat of punishment has to be real. We should make an example of any act of disobedience, and the punishment should be publicized. We shouldn’t hide it, pretend it isn’t happening, or try to bury it. I’ll work on the report and develop specific tactics. It will take a few hours. You’ll get the data and figures ready to present?”
By late afternoon our report is ready. For the first time in a few months, I finish all of my work before 19:00. I call Yehuda, my commanding officer, who left for home hours ago, to let him know I’m leaving early.
“Hi Yehuda. How are you?”
“Baruch Hashem, bless the Lord” he says. Religious people use this as an answer for every question, from “How is the weather?” to “How is your dying grandmother?” Even though I’m now almost fluent in Hebrew, I still don’t know if this answer means that things are good or bad.
“I finished the report and the recommendations on refusing orders. Tomorrow I’ll work on the recommendations regarding dismantling of the houses, synagogues, and army bases in the Gaza Strip. I wanted to leave early today. It’s almost 18:00,” I say, feeling demeaned just having to ask, but more so after I have already put in over eleven hours of work today.
“Wait for another forty-five minutes and then you can go,” Yehuda says calmly.
“I’m done with my work today. You’re telling me that you want me to spend forty-five minutes staring at my computer? Doing nothing?” I’m close to yelling. I almost wouldn’t mind if there was something specific that needed to be complete urgently. This reminds me of the beginning of my service.
“Yes. What if something comes up?” he says, calmly.
“I’ll come back. I only live five minutes away from the base,” I reply. I’m in shock. Yehuda is the most reasonable officer. Ever since Yoni turned into a rabid munchkin, I have turned to Yehuda for support. He is nice, kind, and caring. He has been my only redeeming officer in the army so far. And now he is turning on me. I yell in the phone, “I am not going to sit here and stare at my computer screen for no reason.”
“Yes, you are.”
Instead of replying, I hang up. I can’t figure out why Yehuda is treating me this way. I turn my phone off. I don’t want anyone to be able to reach me.
I walk out of the base.
I disobey orders.
I am fed up with the army. I’ve given up. I no longer care about my fate here. I no longer respect the ranks of the IDF. I have given everything to the army and all I get in return is humiliation and degradation. I don’t need this army to prove my Jewishness anymore. I just want my service to end. I only have four months left.
I aimlessly walk around Tel Aviv. I’m not ready to go home. I don’t even know where I want to go. I just don’t want to be here anymore. I see billboards and graffiti protesting Disengagement with pictures of little children who are going to lose their homes. I see stickers plastered on walls, bus stops, and cars that are pro-Disengagement. I walk through a huge rally in Rabin Square, where the mayor of Sderot is prophesizing more Kassam rockets hitting his city and even Tel Aviv following Disengagement. Pictures of houses, buildings, and kindergartens that have been hit by Kassams illuminate the large screen. The picture changes to the face of a woman who was killed by a rocket fired from the Gaza Strip. She stares back at me from the screen.
While walking through the crowd, I see the faces of the people, of the families, who will be losing their homes and livelihoods in less than a month. A little girl, who is holding her mother’s hand, is crying. I have no emotional reaction to any of it. I don’t even know how I personally feel about Disengagement. I have been too close to the process, too involved in the details to actually develop an opinion about the whole picture. Too wrapped up in my personal pain.
By the time I get to my apartment building three hours later, it is dark outside. I turn my phone on and I have ten voicemails from Bar, Tali, and Yehuda all making sure that I’m okay. As I open the door, I see a note wedged underneath. It is from Yehuda. On one side are his daughter’s scribbles. On the other side is a note from him: “I was in the area and I stopped by to see how you are doing. Be in touch with me. And don’t say that my daughter isn’t talented!”
I hold the note to my chest. I try to picture this happening in any other army in the world. I can’t. This compassionate gesture is exactly what I needed to remind me why I’m proud to serve in the Israeli army.
Disengagement
Thirty of us soldiers are sitting on the hard, cold tile floor of the makeshift chamal. Chamal is usually the abbreviation for War Room, but since Disengagement is not a war, it now stands for Situation Room.
As a representative for our department during Disengagement in the field, I am now stationed in Oshkol, right on the border of Gaza, for Disengagement, while the rest of the department is at The Campus. The entire area is swarming with reporters from all over the world. We are in Kassam rocket range, but I figure I have a better chance of surviving a rocket attack here than Yoni’s rage if I were back at The Campus.
However, Yoni intentionally separ
ated me from Bar, the only person I can rely on. I don’t know how I’ll be able to get through the next week or two without him.
Normally the Situation Room is loud with phones ringing, people running in and out, and multiple TVs blaring, but at this moment everyone is still. No one says anything. No one is sending emails, faxes, or answering phones. It’s as if even the phones know not to ring.
Time seems to stand still.
We are all staring up at the large-screen TV, waiting with the rest of the country for Prime Minister Ariel Sharon to make his speech on the eve of Disengagement.
He finally comes on air.
“It is out of strength and not weakness that we are taking this step. I understand the feelings, the pain, and the cries of those who object. However, we are one nation even when fighting and arguing.” Sharon’s words are broadcast across the country and simultaneously across the world.
Despite it being stifling hot in here, I have goose bumps all over my body.
Then, the second that Sharon finishes his speech, the Situation Room comes back to life. Everything that we have been planning for the past six months is about to start.
At midnight, the attention of the entire world turns to Kissufim Crossing, the main gate between Gaza and Israel, for the opening ceremonies as if it were the Olympics. The location is symbolic as it has been the target of numerous terrorist attacks throughout the years. Top IDF brass are standing at the gate. All the international media cameras are pointed at it. The gate of the crossing is lowered for the final time to signify Israel disengaging from the Gaza Strip . . . and then it pops back up. It is lowered again and then it pops back up again. It takes another three times of putting the gate down for it to stick. It sort of ruined the symbolism that we intended. With the IDF looking like it can barely even handle a garage door opener, it doesn’t seem like we are off to a good start.
Having been assigned the night shift, I spend the entire night scanning the TV and Internet to monitor the media coverage in case we need to make any adjustments to our messaging or operations. But since there are no operations planned for the night, nothing is happening. I wonder if Yoni purposely wanted me to feel useless.
The next morning at sunrise, Disengagement begins. Israelis are being uprooted from their homes. Residents are forcefully removed. Others passively follow the soldiers, who are evicting them, as if they are being lead to the gas chamber. Every scene is more heartbreaking than the next. Soldiers cry on the shoulders of the settlers. Settlers cry on the shoulders of eighteen-year-old soldiers. Soldiers weep in each other’s arms.
As I’m watching CNN, I’m surprised that these scenes are actually broadcast. They are showing the settlers’ pain, the compassion of the Israeli soldiers, and not treating Israelis as vicious Arab-hating Jews. For the first time, the international media is showing the human side of Israelis and IDF soldiers versus their typical biased narratives.
All of our hard work is paying off.
As I’m watching the scenes unfold, a reserve soldier not much older than me comes in. He treats me as if I’m nothing. He has come to take over. He doesn’t know that I have spent the past months planning for Disengagement. All he sees is a lowly soldier. He has seen the way Yoni treats me and pushes me aside like I’m nothing.
“Jessica! What are you doing here! Move! Give the reserve soldier your seat! Get out of here! Did you even do anything during your night shift?”
I freeze. I’d know that voice from anywhere. It’s Yoni’s voice. I feel like prey that has just realized she has been spotted by a predator. I don’t have anywhere to run. Where did he come from? He isn’t supposed to be here.
I leave the Situation Room for the first time in over twelve hours. I feel as disillusioned as the settlers who moved to Gaza to reclaim the land of Israel. I wonder if they still think that their sacrifices for the country were worth it. I wonder if they feel as betrayed by their leaders as I do.
As I walk outside into the daylight, my eyes slowly adjust to the sunlight. I pull out my phone.
“Baaaaarrrrr,” I cry into the phone. “He is horrible. I need you. I can’t do this without you.”
“Jessica, I can’t understand you when you cry. Calm down and speak clearly.”
I sniffle.
“Yehuda is wearing his work uniform,” Bar says on the other end. “You know how he looks so dignified with his air force uniform on? Well, his work uniform is tight and high-waisted. He looks like Mr. Bean.”
I snort all the snot up my nose while laughing in between sobs. What would I do without Bar?
I sleep all day. When I wake up, instead of heading back to my station in the Situation Room, I pack up the same backpack that I used during boot camp, but by now I’m used to its weight on my shoulders. After getting off the phone with Bar, I call a friend, a doctor in the army. I ask him to give me sick leave. I have learned how to work the system like an Israeli.
I know that I can’t face another day with Yoni.
I walk over to the Situation Room to fax my sick leave to the logistics department. Once I verify they have received it, I head out of the Situation Room, forgetting about everything that is going on in Gaza. It is time to take care of myself. To look out for my own health. My own well-being. I’ve given enough to the army.
I walk out of the Situation Room’s doors and turn into the hallway. The sun shines through the big windows. The warmth reminds me how close I am to escaping.
“Where do you think you are going?” I hear from behind me.
I freeze. He is still here? I feel like the girl in a horror scene who thinks the bad guy is dead, but then he comes back to life to kill her.
“I . . . uh . . . I have gimelim. I’m going home.”
People inside the Situation Room are staring.
“You have sick leave! When did you get sick leave? How did you get sick leave? Why do you have sick leave? You know not every sick leave is at home!”
Who does he think he is with all these questions? Oprah?
A male officer is not allowed to ask a female officer why she has sick leave. And it is an outright lie that gimelim are not at home. I can’t stand the sight of him anymore. I don’t have the strength to answer him. It takes all my power to turn around. I run down the stairs and head for the bus station.
With each step my backpack feels heavier. Silent tears start rolling down my face. My lungs constrict. I know I can never go back there. I know that if I do go back that I won’t survive.
Luckily, the bus comes quickly. I get on and find a seat.
I call the new logistics officer. Nimrod is no longer there. “If I stay under the command of Yoni for one more day, I might do something drastic.” Drastic is the safety word in this sadistic game and I chose it carefully.
On the bus radio, I hear the announcer describing the events of Disengagement unfolding like it is a football game. Up until now, the settlers have gone peacefully for the most part, but in the settlement of Shirat Ha’Yam the settlers are taking a stand, a violent and religiously-inspired stand. They have barricaded themselves on a rooftop. They are refusing to leave. They are throwing paint, acid, and other flammable liquids on the Israeli security forces. Israelis are turning on one another. It is a war of brothers.
“And it looks like the IDF spokeswoman has just been hit in the head by a can that somebody threw off the roof. It looks like a can of loof,” the announcer on the radio screams as if someone has just made a touchdown. He does not clarify who threw the can—a settler protesting Disengagement or a soldier protesting being fed loof.
“Okay, Jessica. Take the weekend to relax. Sleep. Rest. Next week you can meet with the head of logistics. From this point forward, you don’t answer to Yoni anymore.”
For the first time in months I breathe without having to hold back tears.
* * *
1 . For an Israeli salad recipe, please see the appendix.
8
Released into Civilization
I
am twenty-five years old and this is the first time that I’ve had to look for a real job. I’ve run out of Jewish programs to participate in.
“Nice to meet you,” said Carmella Uziel, the head of the public relations department at Mitoog, one of the top marketing firms in Israel. She smiles. It seems forced. It looks like the smile of someone who lost facial muscles in a horrible accident and went through physical therapy to smile again.
I shake her hand with confidence. I’m ready to begin my civilian life in Israel now that I’m armed with my military experiences.
“It is a pleasure to meet you. Please allow me to give you a copy of my résumé,” I say, using professional Hebrew.
Carmella puts on her glasses with her long bony fingers and scans my résumé.
“I served—” I begin to tell her about my army experience, but she stops me by using the Israeli signal for hold on, but I’m not used to this gesture. It doesn’t bother me that she cuts me off like that. I got used to dealing with brashness and pushiness in the army.
“Our main client is a government department that attracts international investors to Israel. Do you think you can support them?” Carmella asks me with doubt on her face.
“I handled the planning of Disengagement; I should be able to handle this,” I say, trying to joke around while working in some of my experience.
With dark circles under her eyes, Carmella glares at me through her glasses. Her nose is pointy and her hair is fried. I guess she doesn’t like humor.
By the standards of my other interviews, this one is actually going well. In previous interviews, most of the time the interviewer asked in roundabout ways if I was planning on getting pregnant soon. It made me feel like I was at Planned Parenthood. I was surprised that they didn’t ask me how many sexual partners I’d had and what form of protection I use.
Chutzpah & High Heels Page 17
