It's Always Sunny in Beit She'an

Operation Protective Edge

2014-07-22T14:19:00.001+03:00

I've recently had an epiphany. I'm rather embarrassed that it's taken me so long to realize this, because now that I've thought about it, it seems like a pretty simple truth. But nevertheless, I've only just put it all together: Terror is never justified.

That sounds so obvious, the very word "terror" renders it an evil that shouldn't be used to manipulate entire governments. But I had always figured that as long as there were people out there trying to justify terror, there must be cases in which it is, indeed, justifiable.

But there aren't. And the line between acts of self-defense and acts of terror is not as thin as the media is making it seem.

Since I began this blog, I've tried to shy away from taking a political stance. Based on the fact that I've made Aliyah and drafted to the IDF, I assume it's obvious that I support Israel, but I understand that there are many things I don't understand, and so I've avoided politics as best as I can. It's easy to remain apolitical when the conflict is so far away, when it seems like this is all happening to other people. But now it's here, skirting dangerously close to me, and I can't pretend to be anything other than completely against the terror that Hamas is wreaking on my country.

A few days ago, I wrote an OpEd piece for the Jewish Exponent about what it's like living in Israel right now, about the pit I feel in my stomach when I read a newspaper headline and know that at any time, this conflict could come waltzing into my life in a very real, very personal, very heartbreaking way. And now it has.

Sunday morning, 13 members of the Golani Brigade were killed in Gaza. Over the next few days, the IDF released the names of those killed, and the country mourned every one of them. But I learned two of the names before they were released to the media. Just a few hours after their deaths, I began getting frantic text messages about two lone soldiers who were among the 13 killed. I never met either Sean Carmeli, z"l, or Max Steinberg, z"l. But we are a community of lone soldiers, and this loss is something that all of us feel excruciatingly deeply. These boys were friends of my friends, we shared a background, they held the same values and passions as I do. Suddenly, the posts on my Facebook newsfeed went from generic posts supporting Israel to "I miss you, brother." Though I didn't personally know them, many of my friends did, and seeing their pain so close to me makes me feel it.

Those words, "I miss you, brother," won't stop wrenching at my heart.

Coming to Israel and drafting was a choice for these boys, these soldiers, and they are nothing short of heroes. But they shouldn't have died. None of the 28 people killed since the beginning of Operation Protective Edge should have died.

I support Israel's ground incursion into Gaza because I refuse to wait for Hamas to advance their weapons before we fight back. I support it because although the Palestinian death toll is much higher than the Israeli one, we're not waiting for them to even out before we take action. I will never condone the tragic civilian deaths on either side, but Israel should not be attacked, not by Hamas and not by the media, for successfully protecting her citizens.

And my epiphany was right, terror is never justified. When Hamas stops preaching terror and threatening kidnappings, when they stop silencing the civilians of Gaza who do want peace, then maybe this conflict will become something more than just seemingly futile killings. I want this to end because it's actually my friends who are fighting this battle, it's people I care about as if they were family. But Sean Carmeli, z"l, and Max Steinberg, z"l, and the rest of those killed did not die so that Israel would tolerate hundreds of rockets a week being shot at innocent civilians. We will not justify Hamas's terror, nor will we ignore it. Israel will continue to defend the Jewish homeland without crossing the line into terror, we will continue to oppose extremists while acknowledging that not every Palestinian is an extremist. We want it to end, but we will do what we believe is right even in the face of misguided and, in many cases, misinformed international pressure.

It's frustrating not being a combat soldier right now. My job has very little to do with the current operation, and so I'm stuck here watching the beginnings of a war with no way to stop it, no way to contribute. But I'm part of something bigger. My unit is the one communicating with the civilians of Gaza, we are the ones who create and distribute fliers warning people to evacuate their homes before an attack. And even bigger than that, I'm part of an army that will do anything to protect my friends who are being torn from childhood and thrown into war. I'm so proud of every one of them. I'm proud of those fighting and those in combat support, and I'm proud of Israel. I've never been so grateful to be a part of something I truly believe in, to be a soldier in the IDF.

Max Steinberg, z"l

Sean Carmeli, z"l

To all of my friends, stay safe.

A Quick Update

2014-07-18T18:44:00.003+03:00

I know it's been a while since I last posted, but I just wanted to thank everyone who has sent me messages of love and support since the situation in Israel has started heating up. I can't even begin to explain how much your words mean to me and to all the soldiers of the IDF. Below is an OpEd piece I wrote for the Jewish Exponent about what it's like living in Israel and being a soldier right now. Hope you enjoy!

http://jewishexponent.com/opinion/2014/07/a-lone-soldiers-eye-view

"I Carry Your Heart With Me, I Carry It In My Heart"

2014-03-07T13:11:00.000+02:00

Looking back over my blog posts, it's fair to say that I complain a lot about the army. It's boring sometimes, the bureaucracy can be overwhelming, I clean a lot... You know, the usual stuff. But for all the complaining I do, I actually have it pretty easy. I've wanted to make Aliyah since I was 10, so even when I inevitably have things to whine about, I'm whining with the smug elation of someone who waited literally eight years to complain about those things. When you fulfill your dream, you're left with this profound happiness and satisfaction that make inconveniences like being stuck on base for 21 days or waiting for a bus that's over an hour and a half late seem absolutely trivial. Even the hardships that are slightly more than trivial don't seem to matter so much. When my budget forces me to choose between buying vegan food or a warmer blanket for base, or when I have to sew a button on my uniform myself because my mommy isn't here to do it for me, of course I see that fleeting image of my life if I lived at home or went to college instead. Of course I feel that tinge of sadness. But it's only a tinge, and it's quickly and easily subdued by the thought that Oh my God I'm deciding what to bring to my army base, or, I'm sewing a button on my IDF uniform! Yes, there are moments and thoughts that sometimes make me sad, but it's a sadness that comes about only because I'm finally living the life I waited eight years to live. As you read my blog, you should take all my complaints with a grain of salt, because no matter how often these trivial difficulties arise, I can't honestly say that army life, or even life in Israel in general, has ever actually been hard.

Except for once.

There was one time, one week in the entire year and a half I've been in this country, that my fulfilled dreams and profound happiness didn't outweigh the hardships of living here.

Tomorrow will be one year since my cousin Lauren passed away from brain cancer, and one year since the first and only time I hated living in Israel.

What I've heard most about Lauren since she died is that she had an unmatched ability to connect with anyone on an individual level, to give a special piece of herself to everybody she met. And since she had such deep connections with everyone, a lot of people took her death really hard, and really personally. It wasn't just the inspiring woman with a beautiful and fiery soul who died. It was much more personal than that. It was Lauren the cousin who passed away. It was Lauren the daughter, Lauren the mother, Lauren the sister, the niece, the friend, the sister-in-law, the aunt, the Eagles fan, the synagogue congregant, the enthusiastic Facebook user, the childhood friend, the patient, the Israel supporter, the mentor, the life of the party; it was all the pieces of herself that she gave to everyone she loved and everyone who loved her. If she had been just any one of those things, her death would've been an incredible loss. But she was all of them. And it's the pieces of herself that she never had the chance to give, all the pieces that she would have given if her life hadn't been cut so tragically short. If the number of people who attended her funeral is any indication, Lauren touched more people's lives than probably even she could ever imagine.

But that number isn't a good indicator. Because there are some people who were forever changed by Lauren and who loved her very deeply, but still couldn't be at her funeral.

During Lauren's funeral, I was sitting in my room on kibbutz, my knees pulled up to my chest, facing a computer screen. I watched over Skype as my family members delivered eulogies, as my own sister spoke of feelings that I didn't yet have the time or tools to register. I listened as the rabbi chanted a broken El Malei Rachamim and I held back a wave of sobs every time my Internet failed me. I watched from 6,000 miles away as her casket was lowered into the ground. I heard my family's tears over my computer speakers. I watched people huddle around Lauren's daughter Ava as she released a new mournful wail with each shovel of dirt that filled her mother's grave. But I couldn't hug my little cousin. I couldn't comfort her or offer her my shoulder for support. And for the first time ever, I truly regretted moving to Israel.

Logic has no place in the grieving process. If it did, I wouldn't have found myself after the funeral writing in my journal that I'm a selfish coward. Those were my exact words. "Is that why I wanted to move to Israel?" I wrote. "So I wouldn't have to face the heartache and the pain and the suffering that comes with being close to the people I love?" I didn't just make it harder for me when I doomed myself to be far from the people who could help me through this. In my selfishness, I effectively relieved myself of any responsibility to be there for the people who need me. That train of thought morphed into another: "Was it worth it? Did I even know the price of moving to Israel before I paid it?" I had known I was going to miss birthday parties and Bar and Bat Mitzvahs and Passover Seders -- but celebrations are so easy to plug into from afar. How did I not think about this? Am I really so naive, so simply stupid, that I never even considered the possibility of tragedy? I realized that when anything ever happens in my family, I've put myself in a position where I'll be the last to know. The hardest to reach. The least likely to be able to come home.

And as soon as I started hating where I was, what I was doing, and the decisions I had made, I went to an even darker place. I convinced myself that my eight years of yearning and longing and dreaming were based on a delusional fantasy, on a 10-year-old's complete inexperience with reality and heartache. I began to despise the army. I refused to take a test and my commander threatened to put me in jail. The worst part was that I had no one to talk to about it. I have people in Israel that care about me as if they were family, but in my bitterness towards the country, I found that it wasn't enough. I spent the entire week of shivah alone in a sour whirlpool of self-pity and unfocused rage.

And then, a few days after shivah ended, I was on my computer again, reading all the messages that people were posting on Lauren's Facebook wall. I looked at all of her pictures. I read all of the things that she had posted throughout her battle with cancer about finding an inner strength that everyone around her already knew she had. And then I found something she posted on my wall. I found this.

And this.

That's the piece of Lauren she gave especially to me. When I was younger, she was the cousin who made me feel ten feet tall, even though I was the baby of the family. She was the first to treat me like an adult, a friend. When I decided to follow my heart to Israel, she gave me a new piece: She gave me her support and her unconditional pride. She bragged about me to her friends on Facebook. She listened when I called right before I made Aliyah, when I was questioning if it was the right thing for me to do. She stood up for me when I didn't know how to stand up for myself. She spent two minutes of a long-distance call telling me about her health, and ten minutes asking about my new life. It felt so wrong to me that I wasn't at her funeral when my piece of Lauren was so special, but then I remembered that she loved that I was in Israel. She admired me -- her own word!! -- for giving up basic comforts like being able to mourn with my family in order to live in and serve the Jewish homeland. I found a weird comfort in realizing that she probably expected me to not be at her funeral. And I realized that I had gotten to do something even more meaningful to me than attend her funeral. You see, the army has many strictly enforced rules about when and why soldiers are allowed to leave the country. You can't go before you're eight months into your service. Emergencies only apply to immediate family. You need at least a month's advance notice. You can't leave during a course. Literally not one of the exceptions applied to me in February of last year, and yet in what I swear was a case of some kind of divine or supernatural intervention, I found myself at home in Philadelphia for an entire week. She was confined to bed, she could barely speak, and sometimes looked like she was in pain, but it ended up being Lauren's last full week of consciousness. Of course it was hard seeing her like that. There were few physical similarities between this bedridden Lauren and the Lauren who came to my going-away party to see me off before I moved. But I got to say goodbye. I got to tell her about the army and watch as her eyes lit up with the familiar love and pride in her family that I had seen in her my entire life.

And I realized that she wouldn't have wanted me to go to army jail for refusing to take a test. She wouldn't have wanted me to minimize the relationship I have with my almost-family in Israel. She wouldn't have wanted me to regret this thing that I'm doing -- this thing that she was so proud of. Lauren's death forced me to face serious issues that in my blessed and inexperienced life, I had never really had to face before. But the things she did and the person she was in her life showed me that I'm strong enough to handle those issues.

That realization didn't make handling her death any easier. When someone like Lauren dies, it can never be easy. But as soon as I stopped feeling guilty and calling myself names and convincing myself that my family felt I deserted them, I could focus on Lauren and on comforting my family and myself. I found that I really am strong enough to handle this, though it's the hardest thing I've ever had to handle. There are times when I still get flashes of it - these waves of regret, this inexplicable physical sensation of my heart literally being pulled back to the life I had in America, my life in the place where Lauren was always just an hour-long drive away. But I just have to remind myself that although the cost of what I did was high, nothing can ever diminish the pride that Lauren felt for me or the pride she made me feel for myself. I've set myself up to face a lot of heartache in the future, but Lauren has shown me that I can't ignore my dreams or the causes I believe in just because they're going to be hard. If I'm doing the right thing for the right reasons, I'll always find a way to make it through even the most trying of times.

Tomorrow will be one year since the world lost someone so incredibly beautiful and compassionate, but every day of my life, I can feel her guidance and her love and her spirit. Every single person who held even the smallest piece of Lauren's soul knows that her gifts would cross galaxies to comfort the people who love her.

I'll never stop thinking about you, Laur. I'll never stop being grateful, and I'll never stop wanting to make you proud. I love and miss you more than anything.

Lauren Pearl Halper, z"l

(1982 - 2013)

"I carry your heart with me (I carry it in
my heart),
I am never without it."
- e. e. cummings

Listception

2014-02-11T23:25:00.001+02:00

They say that necessity is the mother of invention. Ok, that makes sense. Cavemen needed to hunt, so they invented the spear. Eskimos needed to keep warm, so they invented the igloo. Hungry busy people needed a quick, easy meal, so they invented Hot Pockets. But I have a sneaking suspicion that some inventions were not birthed by necessity. I think that sometimes, there's a much stronger force at play and it can probably take credit for more inventions than necessity can: boredom. Or, more accurately, I think that boredom is the mother of necessity (thus being the grandmother of invention, if you were finding this extended familial metaphor difficult to follow). Think about it: Alexander Graham Bell was sitting home alone, he needed a way to talk to his friends, he invented the phone. Thomas Edison was sick of sitting in the dark after his candles burnt out, so he invented the light bulb. Ben Franklin's plans were rain-checked, so he grabbed his kite and his house keys, went for a swim, and voila! Electricity. Boredom is responsible for some pretty groundbreaking inventions because the human mind is capable of incredible things when left to its own devices.

I myself have some firsthand experience with boredom. Anyone who has ever been on guard duty for upwards of 8 hours will tell you that boredom is to be expected. That's not exactly a bad thing -- a boring guard shift is most certainly preferable to one with a lot of action. And when you're facing such spectacular tedium for such a long period of time, that's optimal procreating time for boredom.

Now, the nature of the invention depends entirely on the nature of the bored person in question. When faced with overwhelming monotony, I personally make lists. In the past year and two months that I've been in the army, I've had lots of guard shifts, and therefore have made lots of lists. I gave you a little preview in my blog entry Top 10 Reasons Why The IDF Is Like Harry Potter, but that was only the tip of the tip of the tip of the iceberg. I create these lists constantly. I haven't really posted anything about my daily life since I finished my course, and perhaps I will one day, but until then, I feel like writing about what I think on a daily basis is almost just as good. So as a product of my current state of boredom, I hereby present to you...

Listception;

or, The Top 15 Lists Created By Becca When She Was So Bored It Was Borderline Dangerous

1. The 6 Most Common Nicknames Given To Me By People Who Think "Becca" Isn't A Name

2. 10 Life Skills I Learned During The Year That I Worked At Bed Bath and Beyond That Are Weirdly Applicable To The Army

3. Top 5 Reasons Why My High-Ranking Officer's Ring Tone Should Not Be "Sexy Lady" By Shaggy

4. The Top 1 Reason Why I Hope My Officers Don't Read My Blog

5. 26 Of My Friends Who Would Actually Have A Chance At The Hunger Games and How They Would Fare If All Pitted Against Each Other

6. Top 5 Mustaches Featured On The Faces of The Palestinian Bus Drivers I Work With Daily

7. 12 Most Creative Recipes for Potatoes I've Seen Since Drafting

8. The First 10 Things I Would Do If I Discovered That I Was Sabrina the Teenage Witch

9. 15 Hebrew Words and Phrases That Are Hilarious When People Try To Translate Them Into English

10. 6 Reasons Why Hercules Is The Best Movie To Watch More Than Once In A Row If You Only Have Room For One Movie On Your Phone

11. Top 4 Bodily Functions You're Exposed To When You Spend A 12-20 Hour Guard Shift With Three Boys

12. 250 Productive Things I Could Be Doing Instead of Making Lists

13. 20 Reasons Why My "Red Hot Chili Peppers" Playlist Is The Best For Passing Time

14. Top 15 Times My Friends In Israel Made Me Feel Like The Luckiest Person In The World

15. The 100 Best Times to Use The "I'm American, I Didn't Understand" Excuse

So there you have it. A brief glimpse into the extraordinary capabilities of the human mind when it's forced to occupy itself. Don't get the wrong idea, a lot of my army service has been really interesting, and serving Israel has provided me with some amazing opportunities. But being in the army also means that sometimes I'm bored, sometimes I have to watch Hercules three times back to back, sometimes I have to look for things to make me laugh so that I don't go crazy.

Depending on how much longer I can put up with these guard shifts, there may be a Listception part II coming soon. Until then, you should try watching Hercules. Or maybe an episode of Sabrina the Teenage Witch.

A Letter to the Man Who Called Me A Fascist

2014-01-17T14:02:00.001+02:00

Dear Sir,

You may not remember me. A while back, you attended a protest outside a venue on Broad Street, in Philadelphia. That venue was hosting a fundraising dinner gala for the FIDF, or Friends of the IDF. The FIDF is an organization that - among many other things - gives support to lone soldiers like myself. I assume you knew only that the event was pro-Israel. You arrived early, the event started at 6 PM sharp, and you were already waiting outside with signs and slogans when I arrived. You may not recall my arrival; it must have been a long and busy night for you as hundreds of event attendees came from all over Philadelphia and New Jersey. In case you have forgotten, I was the soldier. I came in my uniform as one of the representatives of the IDF. It was cold (I've adjusted very nicely to the weather in Israel and just can't seem to adjust back), and as I walked by you, clutching my mother's arm for warmth, you and I made eye contact. I saw you eyeing my outfit - my olive green uniform seemed to pop from among the sea of business attire. You glanced back up at my face, narrowed your eyes, and hissed, "Fascist."

The main reason why you should not call me a fascist is that I am not a fascist.

Another reason why you should not call me a fascist is that name-calling is mean. You looked at my uniform and decided that I was something that I'm not, and then made it offensively obvious what you thought. That's on par with me looking at your scraggly long hair and stylishly mismatched clothes and saying, "dirty hipster." Would you have liked that? I have to assume that you wouldn't. If you went to elementary school, and I'm going to guess that you did, as you seem to consider yourself well-educated enough to form an opinion about some pretty complicated political issues, then you too learned that name-calling is mean. We also learned that "if you don't have something nice to say, don't say it at all." But we're not naive, there is a validity to protesting that which you think is wrong. And though we may disagree, if you think Israel is a fascist state, then by all means, protest and be heard. But don't undermine your own cause by stooping to the same level as a 5-year-old boy who pulls his classmate's hair and calls her stupid.

Which brings me to the third reason you should not call me a fascist: I am a human being. Not only am I a human being, I am a teenage girl clutching my mother's arm for warmth. Does that scream "fascism" to you? Or beyond that, does it seem to you that calling me a fascist is going to bring about the desired results? You may take issue with Israel, but as a single solitary soldier, I lack much of the power that it would take to "Free Palestine," as your banner was calling for. And as a 19-year-old with relatively little self-defense experience, I lack many of the skills that it would take to fight you off if you turned out to be one of the more violent protesters. So not only did you not accomplish the goal you set out to accomplish when you hurled your insult at me, you also scared the **** out of me. It's not that you looked especially threatening, but I'm scared when the mailman comes and I'm home alone -- why would I not be scared of someone who so publicly disagrees with my very existence as a soldier? Your cause has been known for having some extremists, you can't take it to a personal level without giving me reason to worry. And I'm with my mother, God dammit! Sure, you may not have known she was my mother, but she was. She is. And while you may only be trying to make a political statement, a mother is a mother and will go into Mama Bear mode when you seem to pose a threat to her young. I don't want to get into politics, it's the simple humanity in this situation that bothers me. I may represent the State of Israel as soon as I button up my uniform. But being a soldier does not stop me from first and foremost being a human. When you call me a name, you're not offending Israel, you're offending me. And you don't know me at all.

The last reason why you should not call me a fascist is that I'm not sure you know what fascism means. I looked it up to make sure that I did, and Dictionary.com defines it as a "governmental system led by a dictator having complete power, forcibly suppressing opposition and criticism, regimenting all industry, commerce, etc., and emphasizing an aggressive nationalism and often racism." Truthfully, I can't hold you responsible for this one. If I didn't know what a fascist was, I might also suspect that I am one. But in all seriousness, Israel has many faults, and I'm not blind to them. But some very basic facts about Israel make you seem a little uneducated, the first of which is that Israel is a democracy. That's rather undeniable, no? The convoluted voting process in Israel (that is, by the way, very stereotypically Israeli) makes having a dictator seem rather impossible. The second basic fact would be that if Israel tried to oppress all criticism, you would be jailed. So the fact that you can attend a protest and spout your beliefs against Israel, and the fact that you could also do so in Israel, is in and of itself in defiance of your "Israel is fascist" theory. Thirdly, Israel is not nearly organized enough to "regiment all industry, commerce, etc." Fourthly, though I couldn't expect you to know this, my unit in the army literally has the sole purpose of making sure Israel stays safe while Palestinian civilians get their non-fascism-compliant rights. In fact, some other units of the IDF laugh at my unit, calling us extreme leftists. But the very existence of my unit, which a quick Google search would bring to your attention, rules out the possibility of a fascist regime.

In conclusion, I want you to know that you had your desired effect, if your desired effect was calling a teenage girl names and scaring her a bit. If you had higher aspirations, I'm afraid you were a bit off your game. Again, all politics aside, I applaud you for exercising your right to protest. History has proven that sometimes the simple act of demonstrating your beliefs can be enough to change the world. Far too many people today see something they think is wrong and choose to be a bystander. And I'm not going to tell you that you're on the fundamentally mistaken side of the conflict, because although I may believe that my cause is more humane and more well-researched than yours, objectively that may not be so. But I will tell you that if you want to be heard, you must learn how to advocate effectively and with a clear purpose. After all, you had far more than just your cause at stake. You risked your personal safety. You almost invoked an attack from Mama Bear.

Sincerely,

Becca

P.S. I've attached some photos from said event to jog your memory as to who I am and/or for the enjoyment of the people who read my blog. I apologize that you do not make an appearance in any of my photos.

The Blog Post Where You Learn More Army Slang Than You"ll Ever Need to Know

2013-12-18T13:50:00.001+02:00

Imagine you're sitting in class on the day of a big test. Maybe it's a biology test, and you need to get at least a B+ to raise your average. You've been studying for days, if studying means looking at pictures of the new French exchange student on Facebook. I mean, you had a study guide open in another tab, easily accessible in case your mom walked by, which she often did. She knows how important this test is. After all, how are you going to get into Columbia (shout out to my crazy-smart sister) with a C- in biology? But you opened your textbook for the first time last night. You were up all night studying. Sure, pictures of cute French boy were dancing in your mind, but they were interspersed with images of a double helix and the dominant/recessive chart. You made flash cards, you created mnemonics, you even had a song listing the names of all the bones that you learned from that episode of Hannah Montana. Maybe you could've been better prepared, but you're ready. You know you are. You're almost certain. Oh my god you're never gonna pass Mr. Johnson hates you and wants you to fail and the girl you cheated off of earlier in the semester is in France on the exchange program and the girl who sits in front of you now is a total idiot and how are you ever gonna concentrate when the back of French boy's head is sooooo darn French-looking? No, you got this. You breathe.

Mr. Johnson walks around, passing out the thick packets of doom facedown as he weaves between the desks, his malicious smile lurking behind an icy stone face. As he reaches your desk and practically hurls your test down in front of you, you swear you see a lick of fire flame up behind his eyes. That man is the devil. You wonder how a man so clearly not human got licensed to teach biology, let alone to teach human children. You look to the side and see that French boy isn't in school today; good, he won't distract you. You briefly wonder if he's OK. No, clear your head, relax, think only of biology. Mr. Johnson cackles his evil laugh (at least, you swear it's a cackle. You'll testify in court that the man cackles, if you need to) and tells the class to flip over the test. "Best of luck," he hisses.

You turn over the packet, close your eyes, breathe deeply. You open your eyes with a picture of the study guide planted firmly and clearly in your brain. You read the first question and chuckle to yourself. Easy. You scrawl out an answer, detailed and thorough, the way he likes it. You marvel at your own genius. You read the second question. Oh god. You know this! You flip through your mental study guide but the part that answers this question is a blur. What, devil-man Mr. Johnson just expects you to memorize everything? He's the worst. WAIT! Wait. You DO know this. It's... It's... The answer is starting to formulate in your head. OK, you got this. You start penning your answer as the information floods your mind. You begin to scribble furiously, so furiously that at first, you don't hear the loud alarm that has gone off around you. All of the sudden, students start rising from their seats, you don't know why. Only then do you hear the alarm. What is this? Is this part of the test? You hear one of your classmates breathe "Saved by the bell," but you don't understand. Is it some kind of alarm that outlaws unfair tests? Fire drill, whispers your brain. You know what this is. But what do you do? Your mind is blank. "We're kind of in the middle of something!" you want to shout. But more than half the students have already filed neatly out of the room. The other 49% are standing by the door, waiting to exit. Only you remain seated at your desk, looking around with confusion and panic slapped onto your face. It's the first Monday of the month, of course there's a fire drill. But what do you do? How are you supposed to remember what to do when -- the test -- dominant/recessive -- you're stuck. What do you do? Mr. Johnson sees you and gives you a funny look. He says your name.

"I--" you stammer.

"It's a fire drill," he gives you a look. "Don't be a smart-ass."

You look around at the mostly empty classroom. What do you do??

There's a term for this person in Hebrew. It's called a shockist, or for a girl, a shockistit. It's when you're in such a state of shock that you completely lose all common sense. You forget your habits, your logic, your instincts, everything that makes you a capable human being. It usually happens when something you're not expecting happens, rendering you completely useless. Finding this type of person is extremely common in the army, especially in basic training, when a kid from a comfortable lifestyle is suddenly thrown into a world of orders and tents, commanders and long-underwear, guns and cleaning human excrement off the shower floor. At best, a shockist is someone who freezes up and doesn't do anything. At worst, it is someone who does something stupid. You know this guy, you've seen him before. It's the student who asks if there's going to be a test on this material, giving the teacher ideas. It's the guy on the basketball team who scores a perfect 3-pointer on his own basket. In the army, it's the guy who meets with a high-ranking officer, and upon leaving, forgets to take his gun.

This time last year, I, Rebecca Gabrielle Richman, was a shockistit.

In fact, looking back, it's safe to say I was the biggest shockistit in all of Israel.

There is another word in Hebrew, or at least in Hebrew army-slang, that you should know in case you're ever in a situation where you need to know random Hebrew words that are only applicable in the army, and that is pazamuledet. Your pazamuledet is the day that you drafted into the army. For example, I drafted December 17th, 2012, and so yesterday, December 17th, 2013, was my pazamuledet. The significance of this day is twofold: one, it means I have been in the army for an entire year, and two, it means I have half completed my army service. This may not sound like much, but a big part of army culture is wanting to get out of the army. So while I did choose this life, and I do enjoy it immensely most of the time, I'm still counting down to the date of my release. But for me, the main significance of my pazamuledet is that I can look back at my actual draft date and laugh at how young I was. As a wizened old soldier, hardened by a year in the army, with an unbreakable heart of concrete, I really can look back and see exactly how big a shockistit I was.

As I mentioned earlier, the defining feature of a shockist is someone who forgets some basic facts in the face of pressure. The common sense that I lost first was this simple truth: people are people. A year ago yesterday, I got off the bus at a strange base and right away I was bombarded with instructions. It was there that I first lost sight of the fact that the people yelling at me were people. No, I was certain that they were divine creatures, that every order they issued must be treated like it came from the mouth of God. A few of the other girls believed this as well, but I was different in one important aspect: I didn't speak Hebrew. Imagine if all of the sudden, God Himself boomed His voice down to earth and, with an inexplicable sense of urgency, commanded you to do something. But He commanded it in Swedish. And you haven't brushed up on your Swedish recently. So you don't know what to do. That was me, all the time. I wanted to be a good soldier, I really did, but every time a commander yelled at me, I just cocked my head to the side and put on a pretty convincing puppy-dog face that I can only hope portrayed my utter lack of understanding. And because I wanted to follow orders so badly, I sometimes filled in the parts I didn't understand with my own information. For example, I knew I had to be somewhere at 2:45, I just didn't know where. So I assumed it was the dining hall. I assumed wrong. And not once in that entire month of basic did I ever think to myself, Hmm, this commander is human, maybe if I ask him for help, he'll explain something to me. Nope, that just never occurred to me.

The second truth that I lost was this: if you seem mean and snobby, people aren't going to like you. It was only after basic training that I realized that the girls I was with probably didn't understand how little I spoke Hebrew. To them, I was that weird girl who was always doing the wrong thing and answered all their questions with one word answers. In addition, there were two other Americans in different platoons in my base, so of course I was immediately drawn to them. I seemed cliquey and snobby and still I was so hurt that none of them wanted to be my friend. But it's only because I seemed to have lost all the basic friend-making skills that I learned in kindergarten.

However, the main thing that made me a shockistit exactly one year ago yesterday was that in addition to the shock of the army, I was also experiencing some pretty heavy culture shock. The very first day in the army, when we were given uniforms and being assigned serial numbers, a girl next to me made a crude Holocaust joke. You can't say that, I thought, and I classified her as the kind of girl I wouldn't want to be friends with. But apparently that's acceptable in Israel, in this weird country where no one is apologetic for even their most egregious of flaws or most offensive of actions. I was stunned by how arbitrary everything seemed, but that's just how Israel is. They see a need for something, they create a solution however they can. They need to make a ceremony seem special, so they choreograph a ridiculous gun routine and play cheesy music. They need a soldier to stay for the weekend to fill manpower quotas, so they make up a rule until someone breaks it. It's hard to adjust to a system that's constantly changing without a clear reason, and my stumbling journey through basic training was a testament to that difficulty.

But the beauty of a pazamuledet is that I can look back and laugh. Everything has improved exponentially since my days of friendless, Hebrew-less basic training. The past year has been simultaneously the hardest and most fulfilling year of my life thus far. I'm in an interesting job where I've made some pretty great friends (though I'm still with one of the American girls who was my only friend during basic, so I haven't branched out that far), my officers have become human in my eyes, and while I still respect them (most of the time), I feel comfortable expressing my needs and asking for help. My fear of the army has faded into a minuscule speck in the back of mind, and would disappear completely if it weren't for the need to remind me not to do anything illegal. I now have the simple confidence of a person who knows what he or she is doing, and I don't take it for granted because of the very long time that it took me to get here. Of course, I still have my shockistit moments - just last week I forgot my gun in the shower for 10 minutes before running back to get it - but for the most part, this year has gotten me pretty well adjusted. I do have a feeling, however, that by the time I'm fully adjusted to this army life, it will be a year from yesterday, and I'll be getting released.

My fellow American friend and me on one of our first nights of basic training.

The same American friend and me at the shooting range months later, looking like pros.

You Can't Fulfill Your Dreams Unless You Dare To Risk It All

2013-08-01T21:02:00.001+03:00

Sitting in a room full of crying girls - blotchy cheeks, runny noses, smeared mascara, the works- may seem like a man's worst nightmare, but it can also be a lone soldier's dream come true.

A few months ago, during my course, my commanders took all 35 girls up north for a trip. During the day, we toured and learned and hiked and laughed, and I watched as girls around me made the kind of friendships people talk about when remembering the army. Whether it was the fact that they thought I didn't understand them or my inability to tell a joke in Hebrew without people thinking that I'm just highly confused, I often found myself outside of the bonding, and I resigned myself to the fact that I probably would never be close to these girls, but so be it.

Then one night, my officer called all the girls down into a large room, set up so that the chairs were facing a screen, and asked us to sit. We obeyed, as good soldiers always do, and as familiar music swelled and familiar pictures filled the screen, I began to cry.

45 minutes later, every single person in the room, be it officer or soldier, had tears streaming down her face. The soldier leading the program wiped her face and laughed nervously, then stood and asked for reactions to the movie. "That was really beautiful," one girl said. "I never thought about how hard it must be to be a lone soldier," said another, flashing me and the two other lone soldiers an empathetic glance. "It makes me proud to serve Israel," said a third. Then my commander looked at me. "He was from Philadelphia, right?" I nodded, somehow pulled myself together, and stood. I spoke about how Michael Levin, the subject of the documentary, came from my city, participated in my region of USY, and attended my summer camp. I spoke about how his death is one of the few things I remember from the summer before 7th grade, about how I watched as it deeply wounded my community. When my voice was breaking and I couldn't speak anymore, I sat down, and as my hands covered my face, I felt a hand rubbing my back.

Everything changed from that moment on. Girls who had been cliquey and exclusive approached me and asked me questions about my Aliyah, they made an effort to ignore my glaring grammatical errors and listen to what I had to say. I suddenly found myself a part of the friendships I had previously envied.

7 years earlier, August 1, 2006, I sat in a forest with my age group at camp, after a long day of kayaking, and listened as the head of the group explained what happened. Michael Levin, a community member and a former Ramah camper, had been killed in Lebanon while fighting as a soldier in the IDF. The rest of the trip was - in our selfish, middle-school minds - tainted by the tragedy that had struck our community.

I had already fallen in love with Israel a little more than a year before, but hearing about Michael and his story brought an entirely new dimension to what had up until then only been a fantasy. I could actually move to Israel. I could even serve Israel. Hearing about his life - after his death - was the first time I realized that this is something I could actually, literally do. Visiting Israel at 10-years-old may have been the first step in the journey I'm on right now, but Michael's story was the second and the biggest.

And 7 years later, as I sat in my olive green uniform and cried with my friends over the death of an inspiringly beautiful person, Michael influenced me again and told my friends what I had been unable to tell them, told them that this is a hard journey, and I'm going to need friends to make it through.

I see the flowers and pictures and Phillies memorabilia that overflow at his grave, I hear the accounts of so many people who were touched by him, I see the metal bracelets with his name that so many of my friends wear, and I see the baseball card with a summarized version of his story that I keep in my wallet, and I can only hope that he knows his legacy. If his dream was to serve Israel, then he did not stop fulfilling it in his death. Whether it's the Michael Levin fund, from which I personally did benefit, or some girl on Birthright crying at his grave with a new found love for Israel, or the pride that the Israeli girls in my course felt after watching the documentary, he is absolutely still defending the State of Israel.

Michael Levin, z"l

August 1, 2006

Disclaimer: Reading This Blog Post About A Specific Moment Will Take More Time Than The Moment Itself Did

2013-05-24T18:12:00.000+03:00

Sometimes the army sucks. Sometimes it's fun, or interesting, or exciting, but sometimes it just sucks. No matter how much I love my job - and I really do - nothing makes me forget that I still have to wear a uniform in this could-bake-cookies-on-the-sidewalk weather. Even a great day in the army is tainted with the fact that I am literally forbidden from wearing anything other than a black or brown hair band in my hair. I can't wear nail polish unless the color is what I like to refer to as a "Grandma color." (Sorry, Grandma!) I have to wake up much too early. If I accidentally miss a belt loop in the morning, I could potentially go to jail. You can see how this utter lack of personal freedom makes a great day at the office still seem restricted and therefore less enjoyable.

But everyone once in a while, when the planets are aligned or there's a blue moon or whatever happens in the universe to make rare things occur, there's a moment of pure happiness that makes everything else disappear. I don't know how often other soldiers experience one of these ground-shaking, smile-inducing, game-changing moments, but I just had my first one this past Wednesday morning.

After attending my first Israeli wedding on Tuesday night, I woke up early on Wednesday and begrudgingly zipped up my uniform to return to the army. It took a full minute and a half of waiting outside for the sweat to start beading on my forehead. My boyfriend Ben and I started lugging our bags down the road, fretting about bus times and the potential punishments for late arrivals. We were gross and sweaty, and more than resentful that we had to return to the army after such a fun night. (Most of the time, at least in my limited experience, moments of pure joy are immediately prefaced by moments that seem completely hopeless, so prepare yourself for a 'But then -'.)

But then, while we walked along the road in a small settlement outside of Teveria, we passed what has to be simply the happiest scene I've ever witnessed. Across the street from us, there was a class of preschoolers, all holding hands in a line behind their teacher to prevent the wanderers from wandering as they skipped and dawdled and ran cheerfully down the shaded sidewalk in this gorgeous town. Even their bright, mismatched clothes couldn't distract from their brighter smiles and beautiful giggles. It felt like the road that stood between us was a clear divide that kept our state of bummed-hood from infecting them. But the road couldn't keep their simple and inexplicable happiness from permeating our little bubble of self-pity, and so the first little girl in the line raised her free hand and waved at the soldiers across the street. Now, you could be the toughest soldier in the world, you could be a vicious businessman, you could be a super-villain, but when a little girl waves happily at you, you wave back.

And so of course I did, which made the goofy smile on her face grow wider, and her arm wave faster. I began making funny faces at her, which she gleefully reciprocated, all the while keeping her hand high in the air. A few of the other kids started waving as well, until we had the attention of all but the ADD kids in the class. That's when the teacher noticed us. She turned to her class and, in the Hebrew version of the very recognizable pre-K-teacher tone of voice, said, "Look kids! How exciting! Does everyone see the soldiers?" The ADD kids tuned in. "Wow! Everyone say thank you! Have a good day! Everyone wish them a good day!" The kids were smiling and shouting as they echoed her words, staring at us in awe as we labored our way down the road. They kept shouting and waving long after we passed them, and their words reverberated in my mind long after I got to my base.

The weirdest and most powerful part of this brief moment was that essentially, it was an interaction between soldiers and future soldiers. When you look at a pre-K class in this country, you know that in about a decade and half, the same kids are going to be the ones with guns slung across their backs protecting the country. This is just a fact of life for them, but it makes their childhoods a little more precious, their laughs a little lighter, their admiration of us a little more endearing. Granted, my job in the army isn't one that requires me to put myself in any great risk. But seeing that class of preschoolers made me ask myself, Is there anything that I wouldn't do for these kids? The army makes us do stupid, pointless things sometimes, but if there's even the slightest connection between the color of my hair bands and the safety of this class, is it even imaginable that I would complain about it?

The answer was no. Of course, the moment passed, and later in the day, the army sucked again. But the memory is strong, and it's much more powerful than the inconvenience of waking up early. So yeah, sometimes the army sucks. But for many different reasons, I'm happier here than I ever thought I would be.

Shabbat Shalom!

A Day in the Life

2013-04-13T23:12:00.001+03:00

To mark the official end of my two-month-long hiatus, I'm going to use this blog post to answer the question that I get most often from my friends and family back home: what exactly do I do all day? As soon as people hear that I'm a soldier in the Israeli army, they tend to assume that I spend my days in a Rocky workout montage, an M-16 slung across my back as I fight terror and make phlegm-filled Israeli sounds. As close to the truth as that is, there's a lot more to it. So, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you an army-approved summary of my daily life in my course.

5:25 am

My phone vibrates once before Destiny's Child's Bootylicious begins to blast at full volume, effectively waking me up just enough to blindly find the snooze button.

(Song and official music video for your viewing pleasure.)

5:30 am

Bootylicious begins to play again, waking up all of my roommates, but never me.

5:35 am

"Becca! We have 10 minutes! Get up!" And the song begins to play again. I jump out of bed, throw on my uniform, and race to bathroom to beat the crowd of about 40 girls to the five sinks for washing and brushing. I never beat the crowd.

5:43 am

"Two minutes!" We find our spots, stand in formation, and wait to receive our commander - a 19-year-old boy who quite obviously woke up no more than two minutes before he came to give us orders. We have our morning workout, followed by breakfast. Out of respect for food everywhere, I'm not going to get into what qualifies as "breakfast."

7:25 am

Misdar. Imagine you were preparing a dining hall for a grand dinner with the Queen of England. You dust, you wash the floors, you scrub all surfaces, you organize drawers and cupboards that she isn't even going to see. Imagine that the Queen's royal cleaners come and clean the entire room again. Then my dearest mother comes and does a final cleaning just to be sure. This room would not pass an IDF inspection.

7:55 am

We stand in front of the flags (the Israeli flag and the flag of my unit) in three rows: each row must be perfectly straight and perfectly parallel to the the other two rows. We receive the commander of the course, go through this weird choreography that ends with us holding our guns up in front of us, and raise the Israeli flag. This part of the day is important because it has the highest rate of misbehavior. Scratch your nose during this process and you'll be punished. Hold your gun with an arm that is not quite at a 90 degree angle and you'll be punished. Breathe loudly, you'll be punished.

8:05 am

Arabic class. This includes a test on the 28 vocabulary words that we learned the day before.

هذه الفقرة هي من باب المجاملة مترجم جوجل وليس الجيش الإسرائيلي. بقدر ما أود أن أدعي أنني بطلاقة، وأنا لا. تهانينا لأولئك منكم الذين تستطيع قراءة هذا و / أو كان بمعنى لترجمة ذلك! مكافأة الخاص بك هو نكتة: خبط خبط. من هناك؟ النقدية. نقد من؟ لا شكرا، ولكن أود الحصول على الفول السوداني بدلا من ذلك! (لدي شعور أن هذا لم يترجم إلى اللغة العربية بشكل جيد.)

1:00 pm

Lunch! (Usually a potato-themed menagerie of barely edible morsels.)

1:55 pm

Right after lunch, we have another class where we learn about our unit. Once I begin my job (sometime after April 25th), I'll write another post about what it is that my unit actually does. This class also usually has a daily test - in Hebrew of course - and is a lot harder.

6:30 pm

Dinner! During this time, I usually like to entertain myself while I down my potatoes by texting two lovely girls from my last course who deserve nothing but the shout-outiest of shout-outs. So Danna Price and Ayala Lesser, thank you for being my dinner-time entertainment and reminding me that there is life outside of my army base.

7:55 pm

Remember that awkward gun-dance we did this morning to raise the flag? Reverse it.

8:15 pm

We get in formation, each soldier wearing the following:

1 very heavy vest with...

36 billion pockets

1 very heavy metal helmet

2 magazines

1 M-16

2 water bottles that if, when shaken, they make any noise at all, you will be punished

1 full uniform

1 can of pepper spray

1 set of dog-tags

Then they do an equipment check to make sure that everything is in order. This takes forever.

9:00 pm

This varies. Sometimes we have a student-led class on something related to ethics or culture or something else interesting, sometimes we have a night work-out, sometimes we take a test, sometimes we have a meeting where we complain about things to someone in charge and then listen while he/she tells us that he/she is not going to do anything about it.

9:45 pm - 11:15 pm

The best time of all. This glorious hour and a half is when we are permitted to change into civilian clothes and study, shower, call home, read, hang out, compose blog posts in my head with Beatles' references in the titles. This is the only time throughout the day when my time is really my own.

11:15 pm sharp

Lights out. There's a pretty consistent rotation of thoughts in my mind during the 5-7 minutes before I fall asleep. My third to last thought is always, I could be at a frat party right now. My second to last thought is always, But I would never choose that life over this one, as hard as it may be. And my last thought, though I cannot fully articulate it, is a dreadful knot in the pit of my stomach as Bootylicious plays in my mind.

Drumroll, Please...

2013-02-15T20:22:00.001+02:00

And the winner of the 2013 "Name Becca's Blog" Contest is....

Hilarious friend and avid commenter, Akiva "Tiger" Carr!

Thank you all (read: 4 or 5 of you) for your submissions! Check back soon for a new blog post under the new name!

TOP SECRET: For Your Eyes Only

2013-02-02T21:03:00.003+02:00

It's come to my attention recently that I have no way of knowing how many members of Hamas read my blog. Now, normally, I try not to hold any prejudices, but I would hate to make my job any harder by revealing all of the extremely important, very classified secrets that I as a two month army veteran have been exposed to. In order to make sure that I maintain my high level security clearance, I've decided to encrypt the wacky tales of my service with an advanced form of coding used by military officials known as "Mad-Libbing." To make it even more secure, I'm not telling you which words have been altered. Keep in mind that my life is pretty crazy right now, so just because something may seem too crazy to be true doesn't mean it isn't...

My Life as A Soldier in the Israeli Defense Bicycles

Two important things have happened since I last posted. The first is that, after a little over a month, I finally laid down my broom and graduated from basic training. The way the army marks the end of this swirly month is with our swearing-in ceremony. My plugah (company) and I stood in a blob formation while the company commander read a few sentences for us to repeat. Then, one by one, we were called up to hold a tanakh (bible), and our gun and swear to uphold our duties to the IDF. The ceremony itself wasn't anything special -- the army has this funny way of throwing a bunch of random things together and expecting you to take it seriously just because it's the army. This is the only explanation for the flashing light sticks scattered stunningly on the floor, the tree branches arranged in the shape of a Jewish star, or the old, cheesy music playing in the background. It all seemed very contrived to me, and as I stood at attention and watched my friends get called forward, I snickered to myself at the obvious symbolism that the commanders were forcing upon the occasion.

And then my name was called.

I took a deep breath and took a step up to my commander. He handed me my bible and my gun, and waited for me to say my part. All at once, eight years of dreams came flooding back to me. I saw myself at 10-years-old, standing at the Western Wall for the first time, feeling a holiness that I could not and still cannot explain, letting my most sincere words to God spill onto a ripped sheet of paper. I saw myself at 14, visiting my sister in Israel and finding that my longing to live here seemed to release me from my angst-filled and impatient adolescence. I saw myself at 16, frustrated with the knowledge that two years of wanting may as well be an eternity, sitting at a computer until the wee hours of the morning and Googling programs to finally bring me home. I saw myself at 17, enjoying my summer program but angry that I had to be a tourist in the land where my heart was born. And I saw myself at 18, cleaning the same chairs for the fourth time, doing push-ups, tears streaming down my face because the language barrier seemed impossible to break. A thought popped into my head and the sheer force of it was enough to literally make me take a step back: I realized that this moment was what I had been waiting for. All of that anticipation and longing and frustration that built up over eight years was just leading up to this very moment. It may be the hardest thing I've ever done, but the icy chill slithering slowly up and down my spine told me that it was all worth it, that this moment was mine to remind me of the pain and the beauty of fulfilled dreams. It was as if 10-year-old me, 14-year-old me, 16- and 17-year-old me, and even basic-training me were all suddenly overcome with an inexplicable happiness that tugged at my heart and had me on the verge of tears. I clutched the bible and my gun, smiled, and finally let the tears dance down my face as I said, "Ken ha'mefaked! Yes, commander, I swear!"

For the rest of the ceremony, I was on such a high that I barely heard my commander when it was over and he ordered us to go clean the bathrooms for the billionth time.

The second important thing that's happened since my last post is that I began my course. The day after we left basic training, I showed up at my base in Disneyland, where I'm learning to do the job that I've been assigned. The other soldiers in my course are really great. We're 10 girls and about 30 boys, which is actually good because boys aren't catty and they don't complain about not having time to apply a thick layer of make-up every morning. We also don't live in bulbous tents anymore, which is good for my sanity, my personal hygiene, and my average body temperature.

The only real difference between this course and basic training is that every day, for 4-6 hours, I sit in a classroom and learn either Arabic or knitting. Everyday, or sometimes twice a day, we have a test on the material. Arabic is hard because I'm learning it in Hebrew. This means that I'm using an incredibly hard language that I have yet to master to learn an equally hard language that I've never heard before in my life. The knitting classes are also pretty difficult, but only because they don't allow us enough time to really learn all the information before we're tested on it. Thankfully, my teachers, Shakira and John Adams, are really nice and usually willing to help.

We also do more interesting things than we did in basic training. Of course, we still clean more than I ever thought possible, but we also took a field trip to Mount Olympus last week to learn about what our job entails and to talk to people who are currently doing it. I'm still not 100% sure what I'll be doing, but at least I could tell that it's supposed to be stimulating and hopefully enjoyable. As soon as I actually start my job, I'll get a clearer picture of what's expected of me, and I'll try to let you know. Until then, wish me luck with the rest of my course, and know that I'm tolerating and even enjoying my life as an Israeli Trombonist.

(I'd like to thank various members of my kibbutz for supplying me with an impressively random selection of words for my Mad-Libbing.)

P.S. I have an announcement to make. Someone commented recently that the title of this blog is embarrassingly sappy. In hopes of finding a new blog title, I'm holding a contest. If you have any ideas for a funny, witty, or just less corny title, let me know. The winner of this contest will be announced as soon as I decide a winner. Thanks!

A Hard Day's Smole

2013-01-01T12:24:00.001+02:00

I've officially been in the army now for three weeks. In those three weeks, I've learned a lot about myself and about the girls I'm living with, but most of all I've learned a lot about the army that I'm serving in. The following is a comprehensive list of things that taught me something about the IDF.

Top 10 Things I've Done in Direct Defiance of My Own Sense of Logic Simply Because I Was Ordered to and the Alternative to Obeying These Orders is Jail Time:

1. Eat nothing but potatoes.

Growing up, I remember hearing about the ideal balanced diet. We learned about the food pyramid in school and spent many a health class discussing the biological effects of our food choices. This is why I'm baffled every time I enter the cafeteria and see a steaming platter of potatoes before me. In the morning, it's hash browns. In the afternoon, it's sweet potatoes and baked potatoes mixed with a questionable-looking sauce, an at dinner time it's mashed potatoes, or what they euphemistically call "purée." Lunch and dinner usually include a side of what may be stew, potatoes floating menacingly at the top. And to go with the stew, there's almost always rice. Now, I may be wrong, but I've always been under the impression that an all-carb, all-starch diet is detrimental to the health of a human being. In addition, our work-outs and running are limited to two or three times a week. But before every meal, we are given a speech in Hebrew that can be directly translated to "there is no situation in which someone does not take and eat the food that is given to you." So now I see why people say that in the army, "boys get hunky, girls get chunky," and why they always give us a uniform at least one size too big.

2. Wake up before the sun

The sun is the strongest element known to mankind. That is why it is absurd that we mere soldiers of 18-years-old get less sleep than the sun does. Before I joined the army, back when things made sense, I would go to sleep when it was late and I was tired, and I would wake up when the sun shining through my window told me it was time to start the day. Now, I go to sleep when my energy is at its peak (9:00 pm) and wake up between 3 and 5:30 am. 3o'clock in the morning is not a time for people to be awake. It is too dark to do anything safely, so we should be warm and cozy in our beds. Instead, at 3o'clock in the morning, I'm racing to the sinks to beat the rush of girls. By law, this stage of the army requires that we get at least 6 hours of sleep a night. But waking up when the moon is still high in the sky is ludicrous.

3. Desert my definition of the word "clean"

Before I came to the army, I had certain expectations about what it would be like. I pictured living in a small, messy room with 5 or 6 other girls, our backpacks exploded just by virtue of our girly-ness. I knew that there would probably only be a few bathrooms for more than a few girls, and that massive amounts of hair in the shower drain was inevitable. I set my standards of cleanliness very, very low. These standards have now been lowered to nonexistent. Never mind hair in the drains; I was ordered to clean something off the shower floor that I can't mention because chances are you just ate, or are eating now, or plan on eating sometime in the future. Suffice it to say that after cleaning it and proceeding to shower in that very shower (with flip flops, mind you), I can no longer be shocked by anything. If you had any misconceptions about girls being a clean breed, abandon them now. That room I pictured is not a room but a tent, and it's not 5 or 6 other girls but 15. Any cleanliness now is merely a luxury.

4. Cleaned clean things

Despite the grossly obvious lack of cleanliness, we do a lot of cleaning. I've broken this down to examples for your convenience.

a. I cleaned an entire kitchen with 6 other girls for a solid 4 hours. We worked quickly and efficiently, and by the end of that 4 hours, the kitchen was spotless. (It's ironic that the army demands a clean kitchen when the only requirement before handling food is that the medic must look - literally only LOOK - at our hands.) when we finished, we proudly called our commander to tell him we were done. Our reward for finishing so quickly was that we had to clean the kitchen again. Because we finished before the scheduled time, there was nothing for us to do. But since they can't just let us relax for a little, we cleaned a spotless kitchen.

b. My platoon (I'm not sure that this is the right translation) had to clean the same chairs FOUR TIMES, because our commander didn't tell us how he wanted it done the first time.

5. Cleaned things that are meant to be dirty.

This one has also been broken into examples.

a. I've squeegeed a floor dry literally seconds before a hundred muddy soldiers came trampling in.

b. I've poured a bucket of water outside into the dirt, then squeegeed the mud away from the door. Why I couldn't just pour the water elsewhere is beyond me, but so be it.

c. I've swept a sidewalk and watched helplessly as the wind blew the same dirt back onto the sidewalk.

6. Live in a 1940s WWII movie

When you picture an army, you don't picture a bunch of girls cleaning the kitchen in uniform. You picture soldiers marching, helmets in place, uniforms neatly pressed, boots clean, footsteps in sync. We do that too. Whenever we march anywhere, our commander saunters alongside us chanting "smole, smole, smole yamin smole." For those of you who don't know Hebrew, that's the same as when the harsh but good-intentioned commander (probably with a mustache) yells "left, left, left right left." The first time we did this, I could not stop laughing. If you ever want to feel incredibly stupid, march in time with 50 other girls. I got in trouble for laughing, so I needed something to distract me from the foolishness of this old-fashioned army I've joined. I came up with a game where I try to see how many Beatles' songs I can fit into the beat of our marching. At any given time, the following is playing in my head: "She loves you yeah, yeah, smole, yamin, She loves you yeah, yeah, smole, yamin, smole." Basically, I've created an entire mental soundtrack of these songs, extending beyond the Beatles once I exhausted their repertoire. Some of my favorites include "Can't Buy Me Smole, Yamin, Smole," "A Hard Day's Smole," and "Bridge Over Smole, Yamin, Smole," by Simon and Garfunksmole. Once I get through this genre, I'm moving onto country music, so stay tuned.

7. Complain

There is a certain stereotype that Israelis are aggressive, and it is 100% accurate. I, being American, lack whatever gene gave them that aggression, and I've been told more than once that I'm obviously foreign because of how polite I am. I always thought that this was a good thing. And then I got yelled at for it. My commander literally yelled at me for not nagging about things that I wanted. He told me I was too shy. I am not shy. But I have, over the years, learned that complaining is usually the least effective way of getting what you want, and so I wait patiently until an opportunity to ask nicely arises. Which seems like quite a good reason to yell at me.

8. Measure my days in minutes and seconds

It's a well known fact that a watched pot never boils, and a watched clock never moves. Everyone knows that if you want time to pass quickly, you must avoid looking at the clock. The worst possible thing you could do is watch the seconds tick by. Which is exactly what we do. All orders that are given to us follow this general formula: "You have (short amount of time) to (impossible task). (Same short amount of time), MOVE." And thus all my seconds feel like minutes, all my minutes feel like hours, and all my hours feel like years. You say I've been in the army for 3 weeks, I say I've been in for approximately 300-some odd years.

9. Take orders from people my age

This one seems rather self-explanatory. It's rather demeaning to be told what to do at every second throughout the day. But on top of that, the people telling me what to do hardly know anything more than I do. When my commanders go home, they're going home to their mommies, and their 18- and 19-year-old friends, and their childhood rooms. They're just people, just kids like myself, really, and I'm subject to their every whim.

10. Call my mother instead of shower

Every day, in accordance with the rights of soldiers, we are required to have an hour of free time. This, I assume, is intended to ensure our sanity. However, this hour is not really free, it is our hour to set up our beds and shower and brush our teeth and relax for a second. It is also our time to call our mothers. But with so much to do in that one hour, we have to pick and choose what we do. Either you put on pajamas and go to sleep hungry, or you go to the vending machine and sleep in your uniform. Either you charge your phone, or you brush your teeth. For me, it's either I call my mother, or I shower. Now, I know my priorities, but I'm still a little ashamed to admit that I haven't showered in four days. My smelliness is a testament to my love for my family, my odor the stench of a good daughter.

I would like to point out that somehow, despite the arbitrariness, the foolishness, and the futility, the IDF still stands as one of the strongest armies in the world. Though I sometimes have trouble remembering why I volunteered to wake up at 3:30 am or clean horrendously disgusting shower floors, I'm proud to be a part of something so intricately designed. If nothing else, this is an amazing experience that will provide me with quite a few stories to tell. There are certain times when I can feel the real army shine through, like when I'm sitting on a bus in my uniform and an old woman smiles at me. For all she knows, I could be in some super secretive, elite unit. All she knows is that my friends and I make her feel safe. And this makes all the rest of it worth it.

Happy 2013!!

Top 10 Reasons Why The IDF is Like Harry Potter

2012-12-20T14:26:00.001+02:00

Ever since I drafted on Monday, I've been thinking that there was something strange about this whole thing that I couldn't exactly place. Something about the scenery maybe, or perhaps the food, or maybe even the people felt oddly familiar. I thought about it during meals and classes and ח formations, but I just couldn't remember when I had been here before. In the end, it came to me in a dream. Last night, in the very middle of the night, I woke with a start and realized that my world right now is undeniably similar to the wizarding world of Harry Potter. So here are the top 10 reasons why I may as well be at Hogwarts.

1. I'm living in a place that very much exists, but must remain a mystery to even those who live next door, simply because they are not one of us.

2. Our uniforms are preppy-chic, and though we don't wear a tie, we do have stylish sweaters that we wear casually over button down shirts.

3. When it rains, my base looks like Hogsmead once Voldemort returns. The roads are empty, the windows boarded up, and people in dark clothing huddle together for protection.

4. We are divided into house-like pluga'ot, each one proudly symbolized by an animal and two colors. Personally, my plugah has a regal-looking Falcon as our mascot, and our colors are those of Hufflepuff.

5. Our division into these sections seems completely arbitrary, but it quickly become clear that we belong where we are, and we were put here for a reason.

6. Those who don't get in trouble are seen as "brown-nosers" and are looked down upon. Hermione obviously would've been mocked by these feisty Israeli girls.

7. When people speak too quickly to me, they may as well be speaking Latin for all I understand. And in response, I fall into this trance that, when they realize I don't understand, makes people magically stop yelling at me.

8. Put them in a uniform, and everyone here instantly becomes A-list movie star level attractive. No matter how statistically impossible it may be, literally everyone here could be an actor/actress.

9. The food here tastes like the weird flavors of Bernie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. I distinctly remember one of my meals tasting like grass, and another like, alas, earwax.

10. We are given an extremely powerful tool with close to no lessons on how to use it and without any proof that we are fit to carry such a weapon. People just seem to give us the benefit of the doubt that we can be equipped with a wand and/or a gun and everything will be OK.

Of course, there is a lot more to share about my first week in the army, but between lessons on how to combat chemical warfare and being yelled at incessantly, I hardly have the time to write a full-blown blog entry. Luckily, my first Shabbat is an open one, so I'll be home on kibbutz and hopefully have the time to properly explain what's been happening this week and maybe include pictures. Until then, you have my full permission to tell everyone you know that your friend/daughter/sister/colleague's daughter is attending Hogwarts.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

2012-12-15T23:03:00.003+02:00

Imagine you're driving alone at night along a deserted highway. The streetlights cast suspicious shadows on the road and you haven't seen another car for miles. All of the sudden, out of the corner of your eye, you spot a creature off to the side. You look closer, and you see that the hooded figure is carrying a duffel bag roughly the size of a human being. With one hand, he is carelessly dangling a cigarette from between two fingers. His other hand is extended towards the street, his thumb raised. Imagine that you've decided to ignore the fact that the title of this blog post is probably copy-righted. The pure lawlessness of the situation has your gut instincts screaming danger, and with your mother's voice in your head warning you never to talk to strangers, you drive quickly by and inform the local police of the escaped murderer plaguing your highways.

Now imagine you're in Israel. You see the very same scene, except instead of his thumb extended towards the road, it's his pointer finger. Perhaps the streetlights begin to flicker, making the suspicious shadows dance in the darkness. Maybe you're even in the middle of the desert, and your cellphone has dangerously low reception. It's only reasonable that you should pull up beside the cloaked figure and offer him a ride.

One of the biggest culture shocks when I arrived in Israel was the hitchhiking. As someone without a car, I could totally understand the reasons why someone would hitchhike - after all, sometimes you just need a ride. But the practicality of it absolutely defied my upbringing. I had always been under the impression that if you pick up a hitchhiker in America, he's going to be an axe-murderer. And if you are the hitchhiker, there's no question that you're going to picked up by an axe-murderer.

But hitchhiking in Israel is actually just a perfect example of the larger Israeli society. First of all, they replace the word "hitchhike" with the more Yiddush-sounding word, "tremp." And second of all, it proves how Israel is like one big, dysfunctional family. The political parties bicker like siblings, the drivers ignore traffic signs like rebellious teenagers ignore parents, and everyone is always willing to comment on what you're doing, like a grandma who just wants to know why you aren't married yet. People are always shocked when they come to Israel and they get pushed aside by an old man trying to get on a bus or yelled at by a stranger, but it's because Israelis treat everybody like an annoying brother or sister. And if you saw your brother or sister on the side of the road, lugging a duffel bag roughly the size of a human being, you would obviously offer a hand. Of course, you still need to take safety precautions: every family has its wackos. But for the most part, this kinship with fellow Israelis is what makes this country feel like a homeland.

The reason I write this ode to tremping is because in two days, I won't be allowed to tremp anymore. There's a law in Israel that states that soldiers are forbidden from tremping because of the threat of kidnappers, and in two days, I too will be a soldier. I suppose I could have written this entire blog entry about the pit in my stomach that churns with every passing minute, or the pain in my back from buying and carrying so many pairs of socks in preparation for my draft, or even the embarrassed shrug that I give when I admit that I have zero idea what my job in the army actually does, but I figure that in the spirit of the army, I should learn to stifle my complaints and just trust that I'll be OK.

I also have to warn you, dear dedicated readers (only a fraction of whom acquiesce to my pleas to comment on my blog), that I can't promise any regularity in my blog posts to come. I've noticed with my friends who have already drafted that there is very little certainty when it comes to the army. It seems as though they aren't sure of anything until it is actually happening. The next two years very well may be a blur of constant confusion, but I'll try to transcribe that confusion as often as possible for your benefit. The next time I post, it will be as a soldier.

Have a happy last night of Hannukah!

In Case My Proud Jewish Parents Haven't Sent This To You Yet...

2012-12-02T12:41:00.001+02:00

I know my dear mom and dad sent this link to pretty much anyone who has ever had the pleasure of meeting them, but just in case you haven't seen it, here is the link to an article I wrote that was published in The Jewish Exponent last week. Enjoy!

http://www.jewishexponent.com/worrying-about-war-heading-for-the-idf

My Most Important Milestone Yet

2012-11-19T15:57:00.000+02:00

I must issue a formal apology for omitting something of vital importance in my last blog post. While in Eilat, I reached a monumental milestone in my journey. This step reflected a promise to myself that I am in this for the long haul. It is proof to me that I will not bail if things get tough, as they are wont to do, and it gave me a physical manifestation of my commitment to fulfilling my dream.

This milestone was like a wake-up call that this life is my new reality, and that when I picture my future, I can picture it in Israel. And this milestone fits neatly into my wallet.

While in Eilat, I officially became a member of an Israeli bookstore.

This may not seem like such a huge step to you; after all, people don't usually celebrate gym memberships or listserve subscriptions or the like. But the shiny, plastic card that has made its home in my wallet is like a trophy. It represents my past, and my fond memories of reading as a child. It represents my present, and my struggle through Harry Potter in Hebrew as I work to fully grasp the language. And it represents my future, as I think of all the Hebrew books I will one day buy with my discounts or accumulated frequent-flyer miles, or whatever this card actually gets me.

This gloriously green certificate of membership is also a tie to the country. When I was in Greece, for example, I wasn't exactly invested enough to sign up for any elite clubs. But when I filled out that small slip of paper with my name and email address, when I checked off the genre of books that interest me, when I proudly handed over a 20 shekel bill to the woman at the cash register, I was, in essence, signing a contract that binds me to this holy land. When I left America, it was with a heavy heart that I cancelled my Starbucks membership and unsubscribed from Old Navy's mailing list. With an utter lack of loyalties, I felt scared and alone. But in my allegiance to the Steimatzky Book Store, I found solace and a wonderful sense of acceptance. It is a quiet but persistent voice that tells me, I belong! Sure, I haven't yet utilized this proclamation of loyalty, but my future with the book store looks as bright as the glimmer when my new card catches the light of the sun.

P.S. I also must apologize for my complete shamelessness in saying that I really appreciate when you comment on my blog posts, because it makes me feel popular.

Bikinis, Togas, and Uniforms

2012-11-15T17:06:00.000+02:00

The problem with keeping a blog is that when too many things happen at once, I don't know how to turn it into a few comprehensible paragraphs. The only solution I could think of was to divide the events of the past two weeks into three different subcategories - bikinis, togas, and uniforms - and hope that you, my dear readers, have the patience to read through it all or at least to read it one section at a time.

Bikinis

If you've ever decided to join the Israeli army, you know that it's a rite of passage into a very loud, very pushy society of Israeli adults. Like any rite of passage, it deserves something ceremonial to mark our emergence into a new chapter of life. To celebrate our giyyus – our draft - my Garin took a five-hour bus ride down to Eilat, and spent the end of October and beginning of November on a beach.

Along the way to Eilat, we stopped at the Dead Sea, Ein Gedi, and the Red Canyon. It was nice to get a change of scenery after being stuck on kibbutz for three months. The four days we spent in Eilat took place mainly in the water, hence the title of this subcategory. The first night, we ate dinner on a yacht, enjoying a variety of nautical-themed decorations and Mediterranean-themed food. The next day, we went on a beautiful hike before spending hours snorkeling in the Red Sea and working on our tans. As a quick side-note, it’s worth mentioning that we showered maybe once for the duration of this trip, as swimming all day, every day gives the illusion of cleanliness. The rest of the trip included water sports and swimming, shopping and swimming, eating and swimming (of course, we waited an hour in between), and more shopping and swimming. As we floated weightless in the water, it was as if we were in an alternate reality where we had no responsibilities, no draft dates, no army service ahead of us. Our trip to Eilat was the ideal – albeit, brief – escape from reality.

On our third and last night, my whole Garin headed over to The Three Monkeys Pub for a toast to our giyyus. It was a lively pub, though the average age may have been a few decades older than us, and the band’s covers of classic rock songs had us all in a dancing mood. One fearless girl from my Garin sashayed onto the wooden floor and began to dance. One by one, the members of my Garin decided to ignore the oppressive heat and the curious eyes of onlookers and join her on the dance floor. Gradually, other patrons of the pub rose to join us until the entire floor was filled with people grooving to the beats of an English cover band. For me, the word “magical” comes to mind as I remember seeing all of my closest friends put all of their apprehension for the future into the most sincere dance moves you could ever imagine. Forget whatever may come, it was a night of pure happiness.

Togas

If you've ever joined the Israeli army, you know that the pride of serving your country is often accompanied by a dreading suspicion that you’ve signed away your life. Remember that freedom I gained a few short months ago, on my 18^th birthday? Well, let’s hope I didn’t get too used to it. I fear that as soon as I draft, I will lose my individuality in the wake of commands and punishments. As a gift from the leaders of our group, our four-day trip to Eilat gave way to a 10-day free weekend. What better way to take advantage of our freedom than to camp all around the country for 10 days? On Monday morning, two friends and I set out on camping trip, equipped with one backpack each, a tent, and two sets of clothing. As we left our kibbutz, the following conversation ensued:

“I’m really excited to go camping, but we should take a real trip one day.”

“Yeah, like somewhere out of the country. Somewhere cool.”

“But when could we go? I don’t want to wait until after the army.”

“When could we do it before the army? My draft date could be as soon as two weeks from now.”

“So it would need to be sometime in the next two weeks.”

“Yeah, like next week.”

“Or today.”

“…”

“Today?”

“Do you guys want to just go today?”

“Go where?”

“I don’t know, just somewhere.”

“Yeah, let’s go today! We can totally do it.”

“Are we really doing this? We’re going to leave the country today?”

We turned around to get our passports, and that’s how I ended up in Greece with one backpack, a tent, and two sets of clothing.

When we got to the airport and asked the woman at ticket sales what the cheapest ticket was for that same day, her answer (which she gave with a distinctly suspicious look in her eye) was either Prague or Greece. Since we assumed that Prague would be cold – and because Hercules is my third favorite movie ever – we bought our ticket, and an hour later, we were on the plane to a new kind of Holy Land.

We landed in Athens and went straight to a very warm, very homey youth hostel. Not having had any time for preparation, my friends (Batya and Malkaya) and I were at a loss of what to do now that we had landed in a foreign country. Luckily, the owner of the hostel had some time off from his side import/export business, and, feeling bad for these three crazy Israeli girls who came to Greece without a plan, took it upon himself to show us all of the “must-see” places in Athens. Our first day, we went to an over-look of the entire city. Over the course of the next three days, we visited the Parthenon, various churches and monasteries, the acropolis, many mountaintops, and quite a few frozen yogurt stores. In-keeping with our theme of unadulterated freedom, we spent a lot of our time doing nothing. At the over-looks, we sat and talked. Next to the Parthenon, we snuggled and talked. At the site of a 1000-year-old monastery, we watched Hercules and talked. Though it was exciting being in a new country, none of us wanted the kind of vacation where your days are packed and you feel exhausted by the end. Instead, we simply enjoyed ourselves.

Thursday night, we took a ferry to Hania, a city in Crete. Instead of sleeping during the incredibly long boat ride, I read and watched Hercules, so by the time we arrived in Hania at 6o’clock in the morning on Friday, we were pooped. To remedy that, we found a plateau with an incredible view of the sea, wrapped ourselves in the small, blue El Al blankets, and my friends fell asleep as I read them the history of Hercules from my new book on Greek mythology. We slept for a few hours before wandering around Hania and finding an adorable and inexpensive hotel right on the sea. We also got to feel the extent of the love in our Garin when Adir, one of the sweetest people I know, called to wish us a Shabbat Shalom and make sure all was well. When the innkeeper (a term I doubt has been used in the last few decades but seems fitting for the elderly man who owned our 2-room hotel) discovered that we were Israeli, he proudly brought us a letter written in Hebrew from previous visitors, praising his hospitality. He then pointed out a small synagogue less than a minute-walk away. And thus, we did Kabbalat Shabbat, the Friday night service welcoming in the Sabbath, in the tiniest synagogue in Greece.

Sunday morning, we felt guilty that we had spent so much time being lazy, and so we boarded a bus to Rythemno. In Rythemno, we walked along a path that led to a beautiful fortress. After a few hours there, we headed back to Hania and caught a ferry to Athens. Arriving once again at 6o’clock in the morning on Monday, we replaced our plateau with a sidewalk in front of a bank, and slept for a few more hours. Luckily, I have photo evidence of all our lounging about. I’ve posted some pictures here, but if you want more, I’ve posted an album on Facebook, titled “The Land of Hercules.” Anyway, we spent the rest of the day just enjoying Athens, including – you guessed it – watching Hercules and eating frozen yogurt. We then drove to the airport and, with heavy hearts and heavy bags, rejoined reality.

Uniforms

If you've ever joined the Israeli army, you know that nothing is efficient. One day you get a letter with a draft date, the next day, you're told that the draft date is obsolete and please report to the drafting center tomorrow. Everything is always up in the air. Things became more concrete, however, as I watched the first member of my Garin draft. On an almost daily basis, my friends are receiving news from the army that decides their fate for the next two years. At risk of sounding like a grandmother, I am so proud of my friends. One of them just got accepted to the Tzanchanim (paratroopers), another to Golani, another to Handasa Kravi, and yet another to Nachal. My very own roommate, Batya, is going to be an instructor in Shiryon – tanks. It’s a little scary knowing that the girl who gets silly with me at 4 o’clock in the morning is going to be teaching soldiers to drive and operate tanks, but I know she’s more than capable. I myself do officially (kind of) have a job in the army. I have no idea what it’s called, what it means, or when it drafts, but there IS something in store for me. I’m sorry I don’t have any more details for you, but I’ll let you know as soon as I do.

Also under the heading of “Uniforms” comes the news from Israel that I’m sure you’ve all been hearing. Words like “rockets” and “Hamas” fly around and warnings about traveling to the south of Israel come often. Being on a kibbutz, I’m rather sheltered from current events, but I can say that I am safe, as is everyone I know. When I made Aliyah, I knew that events like this were going to be somewhat inevitable. It’s scary that my friends and I will be in the army while this is happening, but none of us came to Israel to serve when it’s easy. I promise I’ll post blog entries more often and keep everyone in the loop about what’s happening over here. For now, keep Israel and her soldiers in your hearts and prayers.

Batya, Malkaya, and I on our first day in Greece!

The Parthenon

We joined the strike by protesting in front of the Temple of Zeus.

Hania

The bummiest bums in the world.

Rythemno!

Yom HaMe'ah

2012-10-16T21:17:00.001+02:00

The time was 5:30pm. The date? October 15th, 2012. After a sleepless night and a stomachache that would've rendered even the most determined woman incapacitated, I had finally fallen asleep. It was a sleep that would not last long.

5:35pm - a knock on the door. I awoke with a start. As one of my roommates entered my room, I mentally prepared a stern lecture about respecting each other's personal space. Then I saw her panicked look. She asked if I was packed. When my face betrayed the fact that I had no idea what she was talking about, her jaw dropped. "They didn't tell you?" she asked. I shook my head. And then she delivered the news. "Yom HaMe'ah," she stammered. "It's tomorrow." She explained that our group's social worker had succeeded in pushing forward our Yom HaMe'ah to make sure that we would not be excluded from the jobs that draft in November. Unfortunately, this also meant an inadequate amount of freak-out time. Half an hour later, I found myself sitting on a bus to Haifa, trying in vain to ignore the butterflies that were furiously attacking my stomach. And thus - with a slight over-dramatization - began Yom HaMe'ah.

In case you don't remember, Yom HaMe'ah is a day when Israeli girls go to a bland office building in Haifa and for eight hours, travel from station to station. Each station is specially designed to test a certain skill. They have eight hours to try to show the army that they deserve a job that doesn't include guarding ketchup or pressing the same button on a keyboard all day long. Being an Israeli girl (which I will never get used to saying), I, too, arrived at 8am and waited for directions. They split us into groups and had us introduce ourselves. Don't be fooled: the smiling girls in your group are not there to help you. They are also there to prove themselves at each of the stations, and they will do anything necessary - anything - to stand out. I don't even know how to describe the intense feeling of competition that pervaded the air. In my last post, I likened Yom HaMe'ah to The Hunger Games, which was unnervingly accurate. However, there was also definitely an element of Mean Girls at play. Think Hungry Girls, and there you have Yom HaMe'ah.

The first station was one that tested how we lead and teach a class. Each member of my group got a topic and eight minutes to read a double-sided piece of paper. The paper outlined the information we would need for a four-minute presentation to follow. As the Israeli girls in my group breezed through their readings, I stumbled through mine, coming face to face with scientific phrases and psychological blabber that I hardly would've understood had it been in English. Luckily, the words I did understand provided me with enough context to give a decent (I hope) presentation, but I couldn't help feeling like it was infinitely harder for me than it was for the rest of my group, like they had an unfair advantage just by virtue of being born in this country.

The rest of the stations passed by without getting any easier. I won't give you the grueling details, but suffice it to say that I was mentally exhausted and ready to give up after the first few hours. Of course, I know this is what I came here to do, and so I carried on, but my obvious disadvantage kept me stressed. I wish I could say that today was a success, but the truth is that I have no idea. In a week or so, I'll be receiving my Manila with a list of possible jobs for me dictated by today's performance. I think I'll only be able to decide how successful I was when my Manila comes and guarding ketchup isn't listed as one of my jobs.

On the upside, here are some new pictures of my cats. :)

Post-Honeymoon Stage

2012-10-04T16:18:00.003+02:00

A very wise Doctor once spoke of a dark and dreary room known only as The Waiting Place, “… for people just waiting. Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting.” At this point, that’s exactly what it feels like on the kibbutz, waiting for the army. This blog post is titled “Post-Honeymoon Stage” because now that I’ve been here for a little over a month and a half, I’m finally realizing what people were talking about when they said things were going to be hard. Honestly, Dr. Seuss may as well have written, “Waiting for their draft dates to come or their nose rings to go, or their medical test results to come or their sense of freedom to go, or the bureaucracy to end or waiting around for a fax to send or waiting to get Sal Klita money to spend. Everyone is just waiting.” (The Sal Klita is one of the benefits that people get for making Aliyah, and it includes a monthly stipend. That is, when the government remembers to give it to us on time.) We’re all just waiting with bated breath for the next step of our enlistment process. Once in a while, a member of my Garin will get an update that moves him/her ahead in the process and the rest of us, while congratulating the lucky kid, will silently be asking ourselves why we didn’t get the same update. My most recent update is that I received my date of enlistment! Of course, it’s only a technicality. I won’t get my real enlistment date until I know what position I’m going to hold. But for right now, December 17^th is the closest thing I have to any sort of official date, so I’m excitedly telling everyone about it until I hear otherwise.

The next thing I have to look forward to (it’s virtually impossible to convey via text the heavy sarcasm that is plaguing my voice in my head right now, but please note that this was, in fact, sarcastic) is something called Yom HaMe’ah. This is a day for all the girls who are enlisting to go and show off their skills to the army. Some of the girls in my Garin have already done it, but since my medical results got held up, I couldn’t go when they did. From what I’ve been told, you’re with a group of vicious Israeli girls and you go from station to station, each station designed to test a different skill. In order to succeed, you have to stand out from all the other girls by showing off in a way that is all too reminiscent of The Hunger Games. Following Yom HaMe’ah, you receive something in the mail called a “manila,” brilliantly named after the manila envelope it comes in, which contains the list of jobs that the army believes you could do well. After that, I’m not sure, but I’ll keep you updated.

Aside from the army stuff, the only other especially interesting thing that’s happened here was Lila Lavan, or White Night, which is basically just an all-nighter. Pictures of that (and other things, including the cats I’ve taken to feeding) are attached. At 11 PM sharp, the girls suited up into long-sleeved black shirts and pants and stood outside our apartment. The next 4ish hours were a grueling combination of running, push-ups, teamwork “games,” mud fights, carrying two cinderblocks in our backpacks for no obvious reason, and crawling on our stomachs through thick, mushy mud (which, oddly enough, was a product of the first rain of the season, which consisted of maybe 15 raindrops). As a Lila Lavan survivor, I think it’s safe for me to say that if that’s how the army is really going to be, I’m quitting.

But in all seriousness, Lila Lavan was actually really fun. I truly believe that you’re never closer to a person than when you’re covered in mud, with streaks down the sides of your face from the sweat, and a little bit of blood running down your legs, with dirt in your hair and up your nose, with any trace of your normal scent hidden behind the grime of this distinctly putrid mud-sweat-blood paste, and that person still wants to be your friend. It allowed us girls to bond in a way that I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before. These girls are like my sisters. (But I still love Sarah a little more. No offense.) It only sucks that we had to do things that – 5 days later – still have me sore. Oh well.

However, despite the soreness, despite the bureaucracy, despite the waiting, despite the ants that I’ve learned to treat as 8^th and 9^th and 10^th and 11^th and 12-trillionth roommates, despite the no-shorts-on-kibbutz rule, despite the overwhelming heat, and despite the tarantula that I swear I saw on a run a few days ago, the most frustrating thing that I’ve faced thus far is still the fact that Israelis approach me, and without me even saying a single word, they automatically talk to me in English. Is there something about me that is so obviously American that everyone just assumes I don’t speak Hebrew? It feels like I’m living in Where’s Waldo, where I am Waldo, and instead of being disguised in a crowd of red- and white-striped shirts, I’m in like a mime convention or something, where the only other colors are black and white. It’s the easiest game of Where’s Waldo ever. I’ve affectionately renamed it Spot the Tourist, and the Israelis are winning. It definitely doesn’t help that, most of the time, I am the only blonde in a 20-kilometer radius. (Note my usage of the metric system. I’m really working on that.) But how am I ever supposed to learn to comfortably speak Hebrew if everyone is talking to me in English? I’ve decided that what I’m going to do is tell people that I’m Swedish. The Swedish boy in my Garin told me that I could easily be a member of the Swedish mafia (which has to be one of the sweetest – albeit, weirdest – compliments I’ve ever gotten), so I’m just going to go with it. When people speak to me in English, I’ll give them my most European look and say “Ja, ja, hej,” until they realize that if we’re going to communicate, it needs to be in Hebrew. All I need to do is drink cider and wear brightly colored, traditional Swedish garb, or whatever they do in Sweden. I wonder if they sell that on eBay?

Happy Sukkot!

P.S. Feel free to post your comments! It makes me feel like I wasn’t wasting time when I wrote this novel of a blog post because someone is actually reading it.

My Garin

A free street concert in Haifa

Scary Bug #1

Scary Bug #2

Oreo and Pikachu <3

Young Crowd, Old City: My First Rosh HaShana in The Holy Land

2012-09-19T19:58:00.001+03:00

This time last year, I was one of the luckiest people in the world. I sat in Rosh HaShana services and thanked God that I had everything I needed: a warm home, plenty of food, family and friends who loved me, and support from an amazing community. This time last year, I also began to understand the inevitable heartache that unfortunately would be a by-product of my move to Israel, the loneliness that would accompany me as I left all that behind and followed my dreams. Sitting in synagogue knowing that just one year stood between me and a life that I had always dreamed of - but couldn't imagine - was the kind of terrifying that ties a knot in the pit of your stomach and gives you butterflies that you cannot explain.

Now, one year later, I am still one of the luckiest people in the world. Now, in addition to the wonderful life that continues to watch over me from America, I have a warm (literally and figuratively) home in Israel, I have plenty of delicious food, I have many families who care for me as if we were related by blood, and I have a community of people who are in the same exact position as me to offer me support. There is no easy way to leave the people you love and begin your life again, but I have this inexplicable feeling that everything is in my favor. This Rosh HaShana - with all of its crazy and meaningful and fun adventures - proved to me that my fears from last year were valid, but that everything is going to be OK.

The weekend started off last Thursday near Tel Aviv, when all of Garin Tzabar toured some kind of army facility to learn about the different jobs in the army (and no, I still don't know what I want to do for the next two years). From there, a few of my friends and I took a bus to Jerusalem, walked to a youth hostel to drop our stuff, and got front row seats to an amazing Idan Raichel concert for 100 shekel (where I took the attached pictures). We ended up pulling an all-nighter on the streets of Jerusalem and visiting the kotel (Western Wall) at 4 AM. Then, after spending a beautiful Shabbat with my friend Adir's family in Beitar Illit, I went back to Jerusalem to see some friends and spend Rosh HaShana with the Zeffs. The entire week was just as fast-paced as this one-paragraph summary makes it seem. It was all a blur of people and places, and it served as a comforting reminder that although I may not know exactly what's going on at any given moment, I'm still surrounded by things that make me happy. It was a wonderful way to bring in the new year, and I hope that the years to come are just as wonderful.

!שנה טובה ומתוקה לכולם

Have a happy and sweet New Year!

Idan Raichel

Front Row Seats, Baby!

Tzav Rishon

2012-09-05T19:47:00.000+03:00

Today might have been the longest day of my entire life. At dinner last night, each member of my Garin got a single shot of limoncello under the pretense of toasting our arrival at the first step in our army experience - our tzav rishon. The real reason behind the alcohol, we quickly found out, was to knock us out in preparation for our 5:30 AM wake-up. It worked. By 6:15 AM, we were all neatly piled onto the bus and heading up to Tiberias for a full day of testing.

The tzav rishon is the first call to order for soldiers and the first step in the drafting process, according to the IDF website. But that's not what it really is. Imagine a day in which you wait in all the lines for rides at Disney World, only instead of a fun ride at the end, you have to stand mostly naked in front of an aged Russian man for 15 minutes. Or take an hour-long, SAT-like IQ test. And that's what tzav rishon is.

We arrived at 7:30 in the morning and didn't leave until 4:00 in the afternoon. We had a medical test, a more thorough medical test, a Hebrew test, an IQ test, and a meeting with a mashakit tash (army social worker). Of all those things, only the IQ test took an hour, everything else took 30 minutes or less. If you do the math, that's approximately 2.5 hours of important stuff and 6 hours of literally nothing. And somehow, it was still absolutely exhausting. The worst part is that we don't get any results back for at least 2 weeks, so I have nothing to show for today except an incredibly high score in Temple Run and an incredibly low tolerance for people who think that it's ok to talk to me while I'm listening to music.

Despite the feeling that this was all extraordinarily inefficient, it was definitely a cool reality check. Now that the army knows about me - has a file on me - it's finally all starting to feel real.

I'm going to go to sleep now (at 7:45) because I'm practically falling over. There are only a couple weeks left until Rosh Hashana, so shana tovah u'metukah!

Gadna

2012-08-31T12:06:00.001+03:00

Gadna - a week long simulation of basic training - is supposed to be our first introduction into what it truly means to be an Israeli soldier, to don the uniform of a defender of Israel. But there's something oddly unsentimental about wearing a uniform that is a few sizes too big and is missing upwards of 75% of its buttons and has no doubt been worn by countless sweaty people before me (even though somehow, despite the flaws in the uniform, virtually everyone manages to look good in it). And doing the things that soldiers really do during basic training could be much more powerful to a group of soldiers-to-be, if only our commander didn't look like a 12-year-old and his voice didn't crack as in puberty when he ordered us to do push-ups.

That being said, gadna is also really fun. We do it as a Garin, so all the people I've been living with for the past 2 weeks are the people in my "platoon." You never really get to know people better than when you're sweaty and gross and making fun of your prepubescent commander (who, in his defense, is probably one of the chillest, nicest people in the army). Together, we got into more "ח" formations than I can count, we consumed more dust than I can measure, and we slept in conditions that I previously thought would've made it impossible to sleep.

After a day on the gadna base, we went into the "shetach," which is basically just the desert, and roughed it for 24 hours. I don't even know what words to use to describe the shetach, but it was quite an experience. We built overly complicated tents and ate what must have been a bunch of side dishes in between 2 slices of bread (with an extra serving of desert dust). We got yelled at by 20-year-old commanders and learned how to protect ourselves in case of a grenade. Our commander picked up two rocks and told us that it was important that we were able to tell the difference between different types of rocks. After we went in a circle and each pointed out a difference between the rocks, he explained it to us. He held one of them up and said "this rock is just a rock," and threw it over his shoulder. He held up the other and said, "and this rock is--" and threw it in the middle of the circle. "--A GRENADE!!" and we all had 3 seconds to run for cover.

The wilderness, however, was nothing compared to the 5 curtain-less girls' showers on base that were meant for 150 girls. Fighting my way through that crowd to finally scrub off the layer of dirt that made me seem really tan was probably all the army experience I'll ever need.

Overall, it was an incredible week. I got to bond with my Garin, get used to taking orders, shoot an M16, wake up at 5 AM, and train my stomach to digest what I guess passes for food. Obviously it's not the same exact thing as the actual army, but it was good for me to get a taste of what my life will be like in 2 months. Now I just have to stop reciting the count-down to receive the mefaked (commander) in my sleep.

Shabbat Shalom!

The beautiful sunrise of Sde Boker

The End of Week 1

2012-08-19T03:11:00.001+03:00

Though I haven't actually been here for an entire week, my first Shabbat on Sde Eliyahu has come and gone. After such a crazy week, it was nice to unwind. I was really nervous before coming about being on an orthodox kibbutz. I was afraid that I'd be much less observant than everyone else and that I'd feel intimidated or uncomfortable. But it's so much easier to keep Shabbat on a kibbutz where everything is a little bit different than during the week and (much like on the main line) everyone you pass will greet you with a hearty "Shabbat shalom."

Because it's so hot here - it was 110 degrees yesterday - after services, a kiddush, and lunch, all I wanted to do was sleep. I ended up napping for most of the afternoon, which was lovely. Then, after Havdallah, my Garin helped move all of the kids' books from the old library to the new library. The librarian was helping us, so when she walked away for a second to take a phone call or something, of course we accidentally messed everything up, and when she saw what we had done, she made that "tsk" sound that only Israelis can make and that is virtually impossible to convey via text. She then kicked us out of the library. Awesome.

This picture was taken right before we were expelled from the library, and it's of me and one of my madrichim who was also my madrich for pilgrimage last summer. He's the best. Anyway, my dearest mother asked for me to post some pictures of myself, so keep an eye out for some of those. Lila tov!!

Eyal and Me

Sde Eliyahu

2012-08-16T19:02:00.001+03:00

Kibbutz Life

2012-08-16T14:06:00.000+03:00

Yesterday we came to Kibbutz Sde Eliyahu, our home for the next 2 years. It's a beautiful kibbutz - I haven't had a chance to take any pictures yet, but I'll get around to it. I'm all unpacked, but it doesn't really feel like home yet. We haven't really gotten to interact with the kibbutzniks so we still kind of feel like outsiders. We have, however, gotten well-acquainted with the THOUSANDS of ants that we found in the girls' house yesterday. Ah well, that's kibbutz life. I even almost got a picture of the huuuge spider that startled me to death this morning, but it ran away too quickly.

Luckily, living with bugs is a small price to pay for all of the amazing things that are happening around here. Yesterday I ate a mango and it was nothing short of a gustatory journey. ("gustatory[adj.] - of or pertaining to taste or tasting." It was so good that I actually had to Google a word for it.) American mangoes (mangos?) absolutely pale in comparison. I keep having to tell myself that I'm no longer a tourist, that I don't need to eat my weight in mangoes or hummus or whatever just to get my fill before I return to America. It took a lot of self-restraint to not buy everything in the little kibbutz store today. Instead, I bought only what I needed to make cookies for our Garin's Shabbat oneg tomorrow night. But the word "cookies" is kind of pushing it. We have basically nothing in our little kitchen, so I ended up making kind of a loaf of cookie. Picture a loaf of bread, replace the bread with delicious peanut butter chocolate chip cookie, and slice it. Yum.