My stomach dropped as if on cue when the producer counted us in. The host launched into his preamble, a grin spread across my face as he introduced Captain Sam in his toothy American accent. Surrounded by green screens and sweating through the makeup already, I recounted for the audience at home the story of two men I’ve idolised since I was old enough to understand – my grandfather Samuel and his brother Mordi. As two partisans who escaped the horrors in Europe and made it to the land of their ancestors, only to find themselves up at arms once more for Israel’s right to exist, Samuel and Mordi were the epitome of heroism to me. It was honestly one of the best moments of my service – proudly sat there in my airforce blues, paying tribute to the men who truly embody Israel’s story in my eyes.
With the annual military exercise coming up in just over a week, the junior officers of the branch took the afternoon off at the beach, relishing one of our last opportunities to unwind and relax for a while. It was such a great day for it, with clear blue skies and winds just strong enough to make the temperature bearable. We played some catch and chilled in the waves, and buried one of the guys up to his neck in sand like overexcited children, instead of the deep-into-our-twenties academics we’re supposed to be.
As evening fell I said my goodbyes and headed back to the office, having left my American football gear there for the evening’s practice rather than getting it sandy. Walking along Bugrashov Street with my head buried in my phone like the people I hate and the hypocrite that I am, I checked through the messages I might have missed. That was when Hamas fired the first barrage of missiles at Jerusalem in what would become known as Operation Guardian of the Walls.
I got dressed as quickly as I could, joining one of the branch’s senior officers who’ll be taking the lead on the retaliation strike. In my naivety, I thought I knew what I was in for, a couple of storage buildings in a known and empty Hamas compound so the generals can tell themselves “we punished them for their tantrum” and everyone can move on. “Moving sand from one side of the strip to the other”, I used to cynically call it. When the lift doors opened I realised that might not be the case tonight.
The Pit was fuller than I’d ever seen it, multitudes of high ranking officers dashing across the corridors in a hurry, the tense silence broken only by the rhythmic clanking of steps. Turning the corner to Mission Control A, I swiped my keycard on the waiting pad and opened the door, quickly taking my designated desk.
If I’m honest, the next few hours are a blur I’m yet to fully process. I remember the rush to look over each and every target in time, walking the tightrope between destroying it effectively and taking every measure to not harm the nearby civilians. I remember the nerve-wracking silence that goes on forever between the pilot pressing the release button and the impending explosion on the big screen showcasing the thermal drone footage. I remember the wordless prayer I recited over and over to any god that might listen that nothing goes wrong, that we haven’t miscalculated, that this one’s the last. Forcing myself to focus on the fact that no one died, like blowing up all their possessions into ashy smithereens isn’t nearly just as bad.
I remember washing my face in the restroom, my dishevelled appearance a stark contrast to the dashing officer in the FIDF studio all those months ago. My family had always gone on about the physical resemblance between my grandfather and I – looking at the bloodshot eyes in the mirror, I couldn’t quite see it. I had always wanted to be worthy of my namesake – to fight for what’s right, to do my part. Trying to live up to his name definitely played a role in my moving out here to enlist. Try as I might, I didn’t quite understand how my grandfather could move away to Venezuela after spending all those years wishing and fighting for a Jewish state. Why the partisan who fought for independence up and left to be a stranger elsewhere once again – knowing all I know now about starting anew on your own.
Then morning came, bringing with it our replacements. We debriefed quickly and quietly and left the control room, relieved of our duties and free to head home to get some rest before the next shift. Exhausted both physically and mentally, I didn’t bother getting changed back into my civilian clothes, submitting to the mercy of the May heat with the smell of sea salt still so evident on my uniform.
When I told my mum of my decision to move to Israel and enlist, she told me about a similar conversation she had at seventeen with my granddad. He told her that he spent years fighting for Israel and how she’ll have to do the same, as will her kids and theirs thereafter – a never-ending cycle of violence. My grandparents left Israel in the late 1950s, my parents and siblings at the height of the second intifada in the early 2000s, I couldn’t imagine what that’s like – raising a family with this feeling of constant existential threat. Call me optimistic (or even just plain stupid) but with how the balance of power has shifted in the region I believed the end was in sight – we can’t just keep living in fear, surely peace is in the works.
Exiting through the guarded gates of the IDF headquarters, I found myself in a bustling Tel Aviv morning – jam-packed with noisy traffic and masses of people on their commute to work like any other day. I stood frozen in front of the massive billboard on the Azrieli Towers, watching advert after advert for a new car model or a soft drink or whatever else it usually plays. As if the hell I left buried on those screens and monitors just a few floors underneath the ground wasn’t a mere 70 kilometers from here. As if any of this is normal. As if it was all just a horrible nightmare I can’t seem to forget.
The Twentager 