Have you ever marvelled at the power of language?
The truly incredible feat that is a series of agreed-upon sounds compiling a code so complex that it can convey even the most abstract of theories. The audacity that blotches of ink on treated pieces of wood could deliver whole stories and thoughts. Lines and squiggles that portray voices and tones so full and real that you can journey with them to other worlds or learn to understand the intricacies of society. Symbols on a screen that can move you to tears just as easily as forcing a laugh out of you at the most inopportune of times.
Staring at my phone, at the research library of Israel’s memorial museum to the victims of the Holocaust, having just violated the implied contract of sombre silence with my excited shriek (read: deep and manly bellow), I truly understood the power that these marks and characters possess.
The gloomy cliff-hanger of that last post had been troubling me for quite some time. The desire to put into words the events that unfolded since my purgatory in Nevatim was always at the back of my mind. Those of you who know me well won’t be surprised by the graveyard of drafts that my Google Drive has become, as I tried time and time again to do justice with my story.
There’s quite a lot to unpack here so I guess we’ll get started on the western slope of Mount Herzel, at the very edge of the Jerusalem forest – inside the peculiar concrete prism that is the Yad Vashem museum. When my brother had asked that I request a week’s leave from the army so that I might host him and help his university dissertation research, I was more than happy to oblige and escape my reality.
Like a perfect analogy for the months pertaining to this moment, I was going about the mind-numbing task that was asked of me when to my great surprise (not to mention, everyone around me) a simple WhatsApp message delivered all that I had been wishing for. My security clearance process had at last successfully run its course.
A week went by before my long-awaited Frodo moment, escaping the volcanic inferno that is the Israeli weather in July into the haven of my apartment. Slamming down the giant bags with which I carried all of my possessions back, ripping my uniform off so fast I perk up my ears, expecting the clanging of a stray shirt button. The angelic beep of the AC echoes through the apartment as I dive onto the couch. I close my eyes and smile. It’s done. It’s over now.
Yet even in my euphoria, I remember how anxious I felt. After months of begging and wishing, and enlisting the help of anyone who’d care to listen, I was finally set to begin at the unit I had tested for all those months ago. Perhaps the Stockholm syndrome had just kicked in, but despite the hatred I felt for Nevatim, I was terrified to leave it.
Seven months in the desert really are too long a time for the mind to fantasise and wonder. What if this unit is not all that I have built it to be in my head? How typical would it be if I had fought so hard to get here and it’s simply not for me? Or even worse, it might be just as I pictured or even greater, but after all that they’ve done to rescue me, what if I’m just not up to their standards?
What if I’m just not good enough?
“And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
The Twentager 