This blog has been running now for more than two years. I started it's reincarnation here on Arutz Sheva at the beginning and then skipped to my current posts, but there were some that I wanted to post here that I felt were particularly special and explain what life is like in Israel, both as a soldier's mother, and a soldier. During the first year Elie was in, I learned so much about the army, about the way it treats its soldiers. I learned a lot about my son, and I learned, or perhaps I should say was reawakened to how much Israel loves its soldiers. This post, dating back to February, 2008, took place while Elie was taking the Commanders Course. As part of the course, each soldier took responsibility of the other soldiers, to see what it would be like once they'd finished the course.

This post is dedicated to Israel's bus drivers. It was called:

Even the Bus Drivers Love Them

Yesterday, while driving to a special course in the north, Elie received a phone call from one of the other participants in the Commanders Course telling him (as the soldier responsible for knowing where everyone is) that the soldier had forgotten his backpack on a bus. He was calling to tell Elie that he was going to try to catch another bus to catch up with his backpack.

Elie gave him permission simply by telling him to update him to let him know what was happening. In yet another very Israeli story -after the phone call, the soldier jumped on the next bus and explained to the driver what had happened. Soldiers get free buses and trains to almost anywhere in Israel and so they don't hesitate or worry about the number of rides they take.

When the driver heard the story, he quickly radioed ahead to the bus in front, telling him about the soldier's backpack. The bus promptly pulled to the side of the road and waited for the second bus to catch up so that the soldier's backpack could be returned safely.

There are so many stories like this in Israel. Recently, a young child fell asleep on the bus ride home from school. He woke up, looked around, and realized he had missed his stop. Suddenly frightened, the young child started to cry, at which point other passengers asked what happened and alerted the bus driver. Without hesitation, the bus driver turned the bus around and took the boy to his stop. He then turned the bus around again, and continued along his route.

Another "famous" bus story had to do with one of Israel's leaders. When the bus driver realized that a former prime minister had boarded his bus, he insisted on driving the astonished leader to his doorstep, even though it was off the usual bus route. Embarrassed at the attention, the leader tried to argue with the bus driver, but the applause of the people on the bus made it clear that they agreed with the driver.

The drivers yesterday, the one who called and the one who stopped, might not have had to turn a bus around for this soldier, but certainly they warmed his heart by making sure he and his backpack were reunited. With their help, the soldier quickly retrieved his property, jumped on another bus in the opposite direction, and was barely late for the start of the day's activities.

Elie told me this story as if it was something natural and logical but I found it enchanting and just one of the many reasons why I'm so happy to live in this country.

Officially, the Gaza War ended on January 18. Many suspect this was because Israel knew that tremendous pressure would come from the incoming Obama administration if the war were to continue. So, the troops were withdrawn just in time; the equipment moved, a unilateral ceasefire declared.

For me, the war really only ended a few days later, when Elie finally came home and was able to join us for our youngest son's bar mitzvah celebration. I spent hours talking with Elie, trying to make sure he was okay with what had happened, that he wasn't traumatized or haunted, depressed or uncomfortable. What came home was a young man who understood why Israel went in, if not why Israel stopped on January 18th. What came home was a young man comfortable with what his country called upon him to do. Not haunted, not traumatized. Proud of his role, happy to be home and clean and fed.

He talked about Gaza. He was knowledgeable and clear and his convictions were strong and unwavering. He was happy to be home, but not happy that Israel has stopped before truly wiping out the rocket threats. What Elie knew then, what all Israel knew, was that Hamas' ability to launch rockets and mortars against Israel had been damaged, the infrastructure of their ability to attack Israel slowed, but not eliminated completely.

The war ended 227 days ago but the rockets have continued. Yet again today, a rocket was fired at Israel - that makes at least 237 rockets in the last 227 days. More than a rocket a day...

And I can't help but wonder what country in the world would accept such a thing? Obama wants us to compromise, to surrender all building rights, including natural growth. This means my daughter can't build a home here in the same city where I live. Obama, who has likely never been to my city and understands little of life here feels he is correct in mandating our behavior and worse, demanding concessions of Israel unilaterally and without any give from the other side.

How incredible - they shoot rockets...and we are ordered to compromise. I have little doubt that if one of these rockets hits a school, Obama will issue his standard regret statement. But today's rocket didn't injure anyone - never mind those surprised and frightened by a sudden explosion on a peaceful weekend day.

I wonder what the Germans or the French or the Swedes would do if someone were to explode a rocket somewhere in their country every day. Would it be acceptable so long as the rockets failed to do major damage? Until, of course, the rocket hit something, killed someone.

Back in December, 2008, we launched a war to stop the rockets from terrorizing our citizens. Around the world, many understood our actions, but only after hearing that we'd had more than 10,000 rockets launched at our civilians. Even the Egyptians seemed to be saying to the Palestinians, "well, what did you expect them to do?"

The war ended on January 18, but the rockets did not. An average of one rocket per day has fallen in the last 224 days.

If it was your government allowing this, what would you demand of them?

If it were your army, what would you have them do?

I don't want my son to have to go back to Gaza, but I also know that if he doesn't go back within the next 7 months...my next son will.

I went to a wedding last night. It was beautiful, as hopefully all weddings should be. It was sweet; it was romantic; it was exciting, it was fun and touching on so many levels. There was great joy and honor given to the grandparents and young children playing and having fun.

The food was good, the music a bit loud. The bride was beautiful; the groom so handsome. I was close enough to the family to love watching them; distant enough to feel at times that I could watch from the outside. At one point, a soldier arrived. He was in uniform, M16 strapped to his back. He entered the wedding already in progress, the ceremony long over. His boots were dirty; he looked tired and I have little doubt he came straight from base to join his friends.

He stood for a moment and watched, almost as if he was gathering the strength to join in. Some of the boys noticed him and walked towards him, just as he began to walk towards the dance floor. There was pats on the back, hand shaking, hugging. He walked into the far corner of the hall, beyond my sight and returned a few minutes later without his gun. Clearly, he had found some place safe to stash it, or someone to watch it.

He joined the dancing and within minutes, was hugged by the groom. Whatever strength he was lacking before he began to dance returned. He was with his friends and as the group circled around, I realized that though he was the only one in uniform, these are all soldiers.

I looked at the bride's oldest brother - he was one of my middle son's best friends for years as they grew from childhood to the towering men they are becoming. He was dancing with his new brother-in-law, laughing and having fun, and I realized that although he isn't a soldier now, he will be in just 7 months - he, like Shmulik, will enter the army as Elie leaves.

I sat and watched the wedding, an insider and an outsider wrapped in one. At one point, the soldier left the dance floor with another young man; they moved to the side and began talking. I know enough of uniforms and boots and berets to know that he was a paratrooper; the three bars indicating that he's a sergeant.

I don't know how long he's been in the army, when he will get out, what base he came from, where he serves. I can't tell if he fought in Lebanon or in Gaza, if he has sisters and brothers. He is a nameless soldier, in the Israeli army, hated by many simply for wearing a green uniform; and loved by many others, perhaps for the same reason.

I don't know his name, where he lives, if his mother has a blog, if his father worries. But there was something in the way the soldier and his friend stood there and talked, something in the way their bodies were positioned, their heads leaning towards each other as they spoke. It is an intensity that I have seen in Elie when he talks to other soldiers.

I saw it when he stood on the side and spoke to his cousin, another soldier in artillery. I saw it when he stood with our friend's son, Oren, beside the Sea of Galilee. It's a feeling that I have, that they are "talking army."

They stood there to the side, the soldier and his friend at a wedding for about 15 minutes and then one slapped the other on the shoulder and they went back to dance and celebrate, the green uniform a whirl of color in a circle of past soldiers, current soldiers and future soldiers.

It seems silly, now that I think about it, but aside from the time that Elie was near Gaza during the war, the single most terrifying thing that has happened was the time when our house phone rang in the middle of the night. It happened twice in a row and I asked my husband to see if the caller ID identified the number.

He told me that it did, and the number calling us was Elie...but Elie didn't talk as we listened, didn't respond when we spoke. We hung up the phone and I started dialing his number, but he didn't answer; I sent him a text message and tried again. In the minutes before he answered, my mind raced through horrifying possibilities - he's laying somewhere hurt and he can't talk; a war has started...my husband thought of the possibility of his having been kidnapped. (Night Terrors)

Trying to comfort me, my husband suggested that Elie had fallen asleep. And as his phone rang again, Elie finally answered. His voice was groggy; it was, as my husband suggested, an accidental call as Elie rolled over on his phone. It had been about two months since Israel launched a mission to bomb a building site in Syria - one that later was reported (by the UN and others) to contain nuclear radiation traces. Elie was up north that night; close to the Syrian border.

Later, the world would accept the Syrians were up to no good and Israel had stopped something very sinister. But that night (Just When You Thought It Was Safe), Elie was ordered to the fields with the troops. Their weapons aimed at Syria, ready to fire.

They fully expected Syrian planes to attack; knew there was the chance that war was coming towards them. I was at home, asleep, oblivious, as much of Israel was. After a few hours, Elie and about half the soldiers were told to stand down and get some rest while the second half stayed alert. Not knowing what would happen or if he'd have a chance to call us later to tell us that undoubtedly, plans had changed and he wouldn't make the 6:00 a.m. bus, he called me at 4:00 a.m.

I woke out of a sound sleep, to hear Elie tell me that he wouldn't make the bus. I knew something was wrong, but it was a brief conversation. He couldn't tell me what happened, only that he wouldn't be on the bus and that it was a country-wide alert.

Only about 12 hours later did the news begin to break through that there's been an incident up north, where my son was. All I got from Elie was the strange acknowledgment that it wasn't what I was hearing on the news, not exactly. It took him another week or so before he was able to get home; nights of worry and the memory of knowing something had happened, but not knowing what.

I thought of all of this and those two night-time calls because last night at 4:43 a.m., my husband's cell phone rang and woke us up. He answered, but no one was there.

"Who was it?" I asked, knowing that no one had answered.

"Elie," he answered and went back to sleep.

I stayed there for a few minutes wondering what to do; call him and risk waking him...or worse, interrupting him while he's on patrol. What was missing this time was the terror. My mind didn't travel that panicked road of imagination; I didn't think of him hurt or worse.

I don't know what this means - perhaps that I've grown to accept things more, that I'm more able to wait for horrible news and don't need to anticipate it. I don't know. I thought for a few minutes, decided not to call him, and went back to sleep. In the morning, time was short so I rushed to work, taught, had meetings, and finally had time to call Elie on my way home.

"Allo," he answered.

"Hi, Elie - are you busy?"

"Nope," he answered.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"Yup," he answered. It was one of those conversations...

"So, what were you doing at 4:43 in the morning?"

"Why?" he asked a bit suspiciously.

"Where you asleep?"

"No," he answered. "Why?"

"Because you called Abba," I told him.

"Oh, oops," he said.

I don't know what he was doing, what patrol he was on, but I know that he's safe; I know he's fine. I know he'll probably be out again tonight. Already as I closed the phone they were calling for him.

But what was perhaps the most satisfying of all, was that I seem to have reached a plateau. My son has gone on operations in Arab villages, found guns and explosives. My son has been to war; been called upon to defend his nation and in so doing, kill our enemy so that they would stop attacking us. My son, my soldier, my Elie.

It isn't complacency - it isn't that I am not afraid...it's just that I guess I have come to realize the call I fear the most, isn't Elie calling me in the middle of the night. I can handle his accidentally dialing our numbers any time, any place, any moment. I've heard explosions while I spoke to him - that was scary. I have had nights were I couldn't reach him but knew he was out there amid the rockets and fighting - that was terrifying.

Now, I am...calmer and I recognize in myself the mother I have seen in others. I'll tell this to another soldier's mother and she will laugh; I'll write this to a soldier's father and he'll understand. Others said I had joined their ranks long ago when Elie entered the army, but I didn't feel it for myself. I wasn't there.

They sent their sons to war and managed to function, while I held back and worried. They face each day with bravery and humor, while I hang back and worried. And sometime in the middle of the night, as I decided not to call Elie, I realized that the picture I had painted was all wrong.
They are not nearly as brave or unconcerned as I had imagined; they too walk around with a piece of themselves missing and separate. And I am not nearly as paralyzed as I once thought. I have arrived - after two years, into a family of soldiers' parents.

Perhaps I shouldn't write this next part, but I will anyway. There is a law for Murphy and a corollary. There is a truth that falls with time and happenstance. And so I will admit that the calm is fake. Rather, I am once again on the flat area of the roller coaster and allowing myself to believe I can coast to the end of the ride. I don't know what lies ahead - more uphill travels or sudden falls but the flat place is calm and settling and for now, and somewhere around 4:43 in the morning last night, I decided that I'll enjoy the ride.

A news report can tell you what happened, where it happened, and sometimes even the results. But there is always more, just beyond what you read. It's the "after" that we often never know, the "who" we may never meet.

You may hear about a rocket attack that injured a child. You'll hear that he lost one leg, that he loved to play soccer, that moments before the rocket hit, he promised his mother he would come home straight after school. His teacher will tell you he is a special and gifted child; you'll see his mother crying and asking how this could be allowed to happen. And then nothing.

The news moves on and so we move with the news. The boy who was 8-years-old is now 10, he's been fitted with a fake leg and tries to play soccer with his friends. In the two years since it happened, we don't know about the operations he has had, the struggle he has made to walk again.

It's the same with all things. You may hear about a soldier who was injured but the news moves on and so we don't follow through the years of rehabilitation. The operations to rebuild, to cover, to fix, to get him back to whatever his "normal" life will become.

A woman was lightly wounded on her head Tuesday evening when a car she was traveling in was hit by rocks thrown by Arabs near Shomron in Samaria.

Here's another example. Undoubtedly, the owner of this car will now spend hours running around to get their car fixed, the woman won't quickly forget the horrible sensation that comes with the understanding that she is being attacked. None of this will we know because the news outlets are done. She's had her 15 minutes of fame, they will say.

One more example, more than a year ago, an Arab took his tractor and used it as a terrorist weapon. He rammed it into cars, buses, people. Near the end of the attack, seconds before he was finally eliminated by a brave passerby, the Arab rammed into a Mazda 5. The family in the Mazda 5 was miraculously saved, though the Mazda was seriously damaged.

What wasn't reported, was the family's struggle with the insurance company and government funding after the attack. The emotional traumas that remained long after the street had been cleaned, the smashed bus removed. The news moved on, and we moved on with it.

So what that means, for those of us who want to understand, is that we must read between the lines. Years ago, I listened to a Russian Jew, newly released from the Soviet Union, who talked about how he knew, always what was happening around the world. We asked how this was possible when we understood that the Soviets blocked international reports.

"It's easy," he replied. "I read between the lines. Sometimes, I even read the paper upside down," he'd said with a smile. I thought about these and other things when I saw a small news article today. No, there was no rocket, no child injured - at least not so far today.

But many of us in Israel have become experts at reading between the lines. There's a traffic jam in the central part of Israel, says the news. This means the security forces have intelligence reports suggesting that a terrorist is trying to get into our cities and the police and army are fighting to find them before they do.

Today, I saw this on Israel National News:

Arabs hurled rocks at an Israeli-licensed car near Karnei Shomron and Azzun in Shomron Tuesday. Two people were very lightly hurt by flying glass and did not require medical care or evacuation.The IDF is combing the area.

There's the name of that village again, Azzun. And "The IDF is combing the area." And from this, I read between the lines - Elie and his forces are driving through the back roads searching. They are in their new jeeps, the ones that are replacing the old Humvees, and they are looking.

It's very possible, of course, that it isn't Elie. There are other forces in the area. But, you see, to me, "the IDF" now means Elie. My son is combing the area, looking for Arabs who were hurling rocks at Israeli cars. Two people were injured, just as last week another woman was seriously injured. Today, two were lucky, they "did not require medical care." Last week, Fanya bat Asya wasn't so lucky. She's in a medically induced coma while doctors try to ascertain the extent of her head injuries. But that isn't on the news.

Fanya may need months of rehabilitation; the two who were lightly hurt today will go home and some time soon, they will realize how much worse it could have been. They will contact their insurance company, which will contact the government. Assessors will come out and look at the car and determine the damage. Money will be exchanged, the car repaired.

Cuts and abrasions will heal; fear will diminish. Or perhaps, each time they pass the same spot on the road, they will remember the sound of rocks hitting their car, a window smashing and glass flying all over. They will feel the sting but when they look, their arms will be whole and the sensation will pass around the next bend...until the next time they travel that same area. We will never know their struggles; their time in the news has passed.

With God's healing grace, hopefully Fanya will be allowed to awaken and the doctors will be relieved that her brain didn't swell or sustain permanent damage after being hit by a rock and shattered glass. And as with the others, we may never know, because the media is covering new stories.

I'll call Elie later to see how he is; perhaps he will mention that he was out searching, or perhaps it wasn't his shift. I find, as the months pass, that I am less likely to ask Elie what he's doing - rather leaving him to tell me. It isn't that I am less interested, but more that I am beginning to realize there is a world of things he is doing that I don't know about, and may never know. And right now, I'm not sure I could handle knowing without even more of my heart and mind being diverted to worrying about him. Now, he is a slow burn deep in my mind; a worry that niggles at my heart. Never out completely; rarely, except when he was near Gaza, all consuming.

Sometimes, in a passing comment, he'll describe fancy homes in Kalkilya and fast cars driven by the Arabs. He laughs when he thinks about how the world has been duped into thinking of the "poor" Palestinians, including the ones driving the fancy black BMW, the high walls that surround some of the houses and modern security-coded systems that guard them.

And I begin to read between the lines.

When Elie first went into the army, his commanding officer came to our home to tell us what Elie would be doing for the next three years of his life (The Uniform and the Visit). Or specifically told us that outside of war and training, artillery units hold the line outside Arab villages when units go in for various operations. Wasn't I lucky? I thought to myself. Blessed that I didn't have that to worry about Elie actually going INTO the village to search, to find, to arrest, to confront.

But it isn't true. Elie says Or didn't lie, but rather the army shifted its practice. Whatever the truth is, the bottom line is that Elie, like most combat soldiers, is sometimes called to search for weapons and explosives within Arab villages and Arabs have been known to booby-trap houses, attack Israel forces with rocks, firebombs and guns.

When Elie talks about what he has seen inside Arab villages, it doesn't take much to realize what he was doing there and the possible dangers he faces. Like today's news items, often there is a world of knowledge between the lines we read...and the hardest thing for a soldier's mother is that it is what is between those lines that challenges our sons, endangers them, and long after the news has moved on, that "between" is the real world in which our sons and daughters find themselves every day - even when the news doesn't report anything.

May Elie and all our soldiers live safely between the lines and be blessed with success in their missions.