The End that was No End

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 So, the troops were withdrawn just in time; the equipment moved, a unilateral ceasefire declared.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.

A Soldier and a Wedding

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.

The Flat of the Roller Coaster

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.