I didn't know how to fight the IDF. There was no way to fight the IDF. They were my brothers and sisters. So, sitting on the lawn outside of the N'vei Dekalim synagogue, as an infiltrator into Gush Katif fighting to stop the Disengagement, I found my best weapon: my voice.


As the IDF stood around the perimeter of the synagogue lawn, they looked tired, listless and bored; yet, ready for the job at hand the minute they would receive the order. Their commanders had them march around at random, calculating the right time to charge.


Thousands of Israelis and I tried to stave them off as long as we could. Some lovingly talked with them, some prayed in front of them. I plopped myself down on the grass and sang a cappella to rows of soldiers, each clad in caps and vests mercilessly imprinted with the Star of David.


I sang every loving, cheesy Jewish ballad I could remember from my Jewish day school youth.


I yelled to the soldiers forming human gates on each side of me, "Way to go IDF! I'm going back to America!"



"Our brothers, the entire house of Israel, cast into sorrow and captivity, standing between sea and land...."


"God created within me a pure soul...."


Realizing they were probably not into the "Jewish stuff" - for otherwise, the popular slogan, "A Jew does not expel a Jew" might have made an impression - I sang "There Can Be Miracles When You Believe" from Prince of Egypt. Some cried, some sang along; most remained stoic.


Yet, I knew that I softened them as I sang. I knew that maybe I touched a chord as I sang the chords; maybe not enough to make them refuse orders, but enough to make them really think about their actions.


But it didn't work as well as I had hoped. Eventually, they hauled me out of the synagogue, where I had continued to sing prayers with thousands of earnest, idealistic, loving teenage women.


Their songs didn't work either, and as two female soldiers dragged me out of the synagogue, I yelled to the soldiers forming human gates on each side of me, "Way to go IDF! I'm going back to America!"
 
And I knew I would go back to America - not forever, but at least for a well-deserved vacation.


I returned to my apartment in Tel Aviv and everything was different - or at least I was; every one else was too much the same. Most of my friends hardly cared that thousands of Jews were being torn from their homes with nowhere to go. They hardly cared that Gush Katif would turn into a free terrorist trade network. They had bills and boyfriend problems to worry about.


The only remedy to my frustration and depression, I thought, was to join the ranks of shallowness and apathy. I booked a trip to the US in time to tryout for American Idol.


Yes, perhaps if my voice couldn't stop the State of Israel and the Jewish people from the brink of destruction, then maybe it could get me a spot in my favorite American talent contest. If I wasn't cut out to be an Israeli heroine, then maybe I was cut out to be an American idol.


I arrived to the Gillette stadium in Boston with a friend from New York. After registering a day earlier for an audition wristband, 7,000 American Idol hopefuls and I took our seats. They would call us row by row to sing our song of choice a cappella in front of producers: first come, first sing. Those who graduated this audition would move on to sing for Simon, Paula and Randy.


The audition was rainy, cloudy and annoying. The producers had us all sing "Singing in the Rain" with an umbrella dance as if that was fun, while I was still debating which song to sing. "There Can Be Miracles When You Believe"? Nah, I couldn't pull it off. "Eternal Flame" by the Bangles? Maybe. Then, it hit me: "I Need a Hero" by Bonnie Tyler.


Maybe the producers would feel my emotion, for I really needed a hero. I left Israel lacking hope, faith and inspiration.


Finally, after watching hordes of Kelly, Ruben, Fantasia and Carrie wannabes get sent home, and only a handful follow the path to victory, my row was called. We were split into groups of four, divided among 14 booths, and lined up in front of two producers. As I reached my booth, a bitter-looking woman wearing sunglasses told me to go first.


Great.


I reminded myself that I sang impromptu in front of the IDF, so singing in front of strangers should be a piece of cake. Right? I mustered up my courage, looked into the judges' eyes, and sang my call:


"Where have all the good men gone, and where are all the gods...."

All I had was the memory of Gush Katif and the faces of those soldiers.



The lady stopped me as I reached the chorus. "Thank you," she said.


Then the others took their turn, to be met with the same response.


"You all have good voices, but not of the American Idol caliber," she concluded.


It became clear from talking to people that the producers either chose the vocalists who were phenomenally good, humorously bad or just plain freaky. That's what gets the ratings.


I had no gimmick. All I had was the memory of Gush Katif and the faces of those soldiers egging me on. And all I had was that memory to make me realize that I wasn't an American idol.


My heroes were not the thousands vying to become an idol. My heroes were the thousands of Gush Katif infiltrators who fought for what they believed was right. My heroes were the young women I sang with in the synagogue. My heroes were the people who justly defended their homes. My heroes were the few soldiers who refused orders.


In America, there are idols in training. But in Israel, there are heroes in training. And I'm privileged to remain a contestant in one of the most real, meaningful and historic contests for heroes of the Jewish people.