Israeli by Day, American by Night

First Mounted Patrol

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 11:22:00 +0000

The most exciting mission one can get at al-Madina al-Muqaddasah, at least on a daily basis, is a vehicle-mounted patrol (VMP - my creation). In order to increase our visibility and have feet everywhere, without maintaining some unruly presence, is to keep an army truck in constant motion throughout the city. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week (yes, Shabbat too), we are out there, eyes open, ready to prevent, engage, and react. No matter where you are in the sprawling city, various military and police forces are roaming.

My first VMP came quickly after we began operations in al-Madina. My commander, let's call him Ranger since he really should have gone to special forces, came into my room where I was sitting on my bed, whittling away my time on Facebook Mobile. He asked me if I "wanted" to do a VMP. I laughed openly in his face, knowing he was asking me sarcastically. Weeks before we finally got here, I told every single commander, all the way up to my commanding officer, that I didn't want to miss even one assignment. I can guard for 24 hours a day, I told them all. And as a matter of fact, you better try to wear me out or I'll run away to America.

Taking my word seriously, they put me on the platoon's very first patrols. I couldn't have been more excited, just as I was with the previous post's foot patrol. Give me body armor and get me the hell out of the base! Let me loose, I growled. And with that I threw on the ceramic vest, and then my combat vest, chucked my helmet inside the armored Jeep, and told the Russian driver to "hit it already!"

We crossed the wire, Ranger checked the com system, the other soldier with me fiddled with his Camelbak hydration pack, and I stared out at the rolling, house-dotted hills of our operating area. My mind was racing with what could be, what would happen, what it would be like to hear on the radio that Bad Guy X was in Scary Place Y, and was about to carry out Terrorist Act Z. If that call went out, it would be going out to us, and that would mean me. And if-

Obliterating my unrealistic fantasies, the radio blared through the external speaker, echoing off the box interior of the thick metal walled Jeep.

"Patrol, this is HQ."

"HQ, continue."

"We've got a report of rocks being thrown at Fizzeh Junction."

"Copy that. Patrol en route. Over."

Not two minutes in, we had a directive from the radio control room to engage. Rocks being thrown sounds so cliche for the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and I thought the same thing at first. But Fizzeh Junction in al-Madina is really the junction of a walkway between two Arab neighborhoods and a high-traffic shared road. Palestinians and Israelis both use the road, and cars travel at about 80 km/h or more. If you hit a windshield with a nice sized rock at 50 mph, you can expect a life-threatening crash.

So off we sped, racing towards Fizzeh. Mere minutes later we were approaching the junction, and amazingly enough we spotted large rocks on the highway. Our driver whipped the back end of the armored truck into the direction of the neighborhood we suspected the rocks came from, and just like a movie I threw the doors open, ducked my oversized frame through the opening, and jumped out of the vehicle ready-to-roll. I glanced left and right, and then up past the barricade blocking the neighborhood from the highway.

As if some CNN production of the Second Intifadah was filming, a conflictual period I watched half-knowledgeably from my cozy high school and college perspective, I spotted the offenders. About seven or eight teenage boys were going crazy nearly 150 meters in front of me, jumping up and down, waving their arms, and yelling unintelligably in Arabic towards my commander, my platoonmate, and myself.

With rocks in their hands. From awkward Virginian Jew to Israeli-American Golanchik, I had transformed into the Intifadah's image: rock thrower versus IDF combat soldier.

Now, you may think that throwing some rocks is just harmless aggression. I hear you. 150 meters for a 16-year-old to throw a rock isn't as dangerous as throwing a Molotov Cocktail. Sure. But let that kid throw that rock, and you dodge it, no big deal. But the next day, and don't think I'm exaggerating here, he'll roll backpack-sized stones on the highway. Give an inch, anyone will take a mile.

And with that we could have shot non-lethal rounds at the obvious law-breakers. Tear gas, rubber bullets, flashbangs; any of those things would have been well within our rules of engagement. These kids were throwing rocks at cars passing at high speeds. Deadly, and deserving of a serious response.

But rather than going in full swing, our first days in the deployment, my commander and I instinctively ran towards the group. We're both sort of... hands on. But the teens had their distance, and we had a clear directive at the time to not enter too far in that neighborhood without at least a squad-sized force. And so they mostly dispersed as two six foot four hulking, trained combat soldiers bore down on them. I dropped into kneeling position as we reached the barricade, putting the remaining rock throwers in my magnified reflex scope.

Red jacket. Blue shoes. Black shirt with gold colored chain. White jeans. Green Nike shorts.

Details to remember. For when? Well, you never know. Who says we wouldn't get the word to go door-to-door?

And we walked back to the Jeep, quietly reflecting on our first contact with the most cliche element of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. 16-year-old kids in the beginning of October, noon on a weekday, not in the school on the other side of the junction. Yes, that one right there! Another 150 meters away from the street! And yes, soldiers trained for an all-out war with Syria fighting what? Kids that don't realize how deadly their actions can be? That's it?

But it's important, and you know it. It's not battling your way to Damascus, but it's good work. If you don't believe it, you haven't been there. You know why I say that without reservation? Because the majority of the Arabs in these areas just do their job, love their families, and move on. We sat at Fizzeh Junction for another half an hour, with many individuals making their way across the highway to a neighboring area where all the schools and universities (yes those too) and jobs are. And we asked about the kids, and they all rolled their shoulders and shrugged their eyes.

"I don't know. Stupid kids. I just do my job and go home. Morning 'til night."

When you hear that sentiment over and over, you kinda start to believe it. And in a strange way, and as a side note you don't have to believe me, you find yourself thinking about that average individual. You see a kid throwing rocks, and you think about that 25-year-old going to his university class on computer science. You remember and see his face because you checked his ID and quizzed him on it. Those of us that care for peace can't help but feel the disappointment when you respond to one of the troublemakers, so misguided, so myopic. When he throws rocks over and over, we increase our presence. And though it's exciting, you know it's not taking the process forward. Over and over.

Cause and Effect. Action and Reaction. Incident and Response. Cycle and Cycle and Cycle and Cycle.

"Patrol, this is HQ."

"HQ, this is Patrol. Continue."

"............."

First Foot Patrol

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 11:22:00 +0000

Having arrived at al-Madina al-Muqaddasah on a Wednesday, my platoon was informed that we wouldn't be starting operations until Sunday. The rest of the company was going to start right away. It's just us greenhorns (tzairim - youngin's) who were supposed to wait. That wasn't because they wanted us to get settled, or to relax a little in a first deployment, or anything quite as magnanimous as that. Rather, the logistics NCO's needed bitches to set up the company's area. From hanging signs to organizing shipping crates to moving cabinets - stuff that the veterans wouldn't dare raise a finger for.

Just as we started the agony, and it really is terrible to work for the RASAP, my platoon commander called my squad over to the side. I had heard some rumors earlier in the day that a foot patrol would be sent out of the wire, but rumors fly constantly around here. When my entire squad was called over, however, I just knew I had caught yet another lucky-Danny the American break.

"Listen up," he started. "You guys are going to take a foot patrol. Go work on your gear. I want it to be fix. Perfect. Don't let anyone take you to work on anything else. You are in nohel krav - combat procedure. Again, if the RASAP tries to have you work for him, come tell me."

And with that he sent my squad off to the barracks, leaving the rest of the suckers in my platoon to do all the worst initial setting up. As we walked off, I looked back at my buddies heaving a locker full of unbelievably heavy M113 periscopes onto a high shelf. Suckers.

Our personal gear is so important to the IDF, in that it has to be exactly the way the platoon and company commanders want it, that whenever you receive a mission you are sent for hours to work on the stuff. I, however, always make sure that my gear is exactly the way they want it. It's become so rote to me, actually, that even now I want my gear to be the way they want it. Gear tradition is one of the great mysteries of the army that you would only understand if you had to live it. Essentially, in Golani, you have G-d, country, and gear - in no particular order. So, my gear was already perfect, fix, and ready to roll.

I spent the next couple hours helping others with their gear. And hanging out on my bed, of course. I cleaned my gun like a maniacal germ-freak, over and over and over. Finally, we were called to the briefing room. Walking past the still-working platoon, my squad couldn't help but feel real tough. We were chosen above everyone to take the first mission of the entire company. We must be cool. Send me out Rambo style. I'll keep the peace, singlehandedly.

After a long series of briefings from three different NCO's and CO's, replete with satellite maps, quizzes on protocol and patrol structure, rules of engagement, scenario testing, and even a preparatory drill (as if we haven't trained for a year doing this simple movement!), we got the order to move out. I walked up to one of my squadmates and said, like some American army movie, "MOUNT UP!" He looked at me pretty funny. I told him that if he hears me say that, it means put on your gear. Listen, if I'm going to do an army, I want to feel cool. I'd love to say things like Oscar Mike and Stay Frosty, but that's too much explaining to these guys. As you can tell, I was giddy.

FINALLY! Here it is! A year of training, and finally I'm going to get out there. Our mission was simple, just to establish a presence, but in our eyes any mission was a great and wonderful gift. I would have taken a 50km patrol happily at that point! Yes please! More please! Can this last, like, I dunno, 10 hours? When you've been waiting all your life to do something, or at least feel that way, the moment instantly before is no less than euphoric. I didn't feel the extra 60 or so pounds on my body. I didn't feel the ceramic armor digging into my shoulder blades. I didn't feel my uncomfortable, stiff new boots. It was all adrenaline.

Step.Out.Of.The.Wire.

Cross.The.Street.

And in no less than two minutes there we were, walking in between Arab houses. Now, don't get the idea that I think all Arabs are bad people, the enemy, or suspects. As a matter of fact, in high school I had a good friend that just so happened to be from al-Madina al-Muqaddasah. He even lived here just a few years ago, since they still have all their family in the area. This was a good, good friend of mine. I obviously don't hate Arabs. But when you're geared up like I am, and a scary ass Tavor assault rifle pointed at the low and ready... they probably hate us. And since I'm the pointman in the squad, and therefore the tip of this patrolling spear, they hate me first.

But with all that being said, we were in hostile territory. At least on paper. In reality, my squad made our way through endless grape fields, admiring the clusters as if we were Moses' spies, amazed at the bounty and impossibility of this land. Nearly as endless as those chest-sized clusters were the Arab houses, many built illegally no doubt, and their porches. Sitting on the porches were families, old men playing backgammon, young men smoking hookahs or talking on the phone, and women knitting. Children playing soccer. Life happening. Quiet.

STOP - instantly I dropped down to the kneeling position. We were approaching a turn in the dirt path, and at that moment a 20-some year old guy appeared in front of us. That's the key age for trouble. You never know. I instinctively told him to stop, in Arabic, and eyed his body for any unnatural bulges. Gun. You never know. In this area, word spreads quickly. "There's a patrol coming your way" probably found it's way on at least one phone. Is this guy a hero, I wondered.

Nope. Just a dude walking to some other place. It is his neighborhood - he just happened to get a little close. That's ok. It was unavoidable. Yeah, your ID checks out. Have a nice day. I signaled him to walk to the side, and not in-between the patrol.

First contact. OK, that wasn't so bad. Yeah, I know they're just people. Yeah, that kid was probably on his way to his girlfriend's. You never know, though.

We made our way on, stopping here and there to check an ID, make sure that that car that turned off the path as soon as it saw us just did that because we're scary and not because he's got something planned. Yup, he's cool. Have a nice day. Keep a close eye on that guy that went inside when we neared his porch. Check that corner. Stop. Drink some water, guys. You're sweating a lot more than you realize.

With the sun going down, we took a few minutes break to switch to night vision scopes, rest, rehydrate, and soak up the geographical location. The expectation to learn our operating area is high, and nothing is better than a foot patrol to learn just where that intersection is, or where that typically hostile neighborhood tends to heat up. But as I knelt there, checking my scope, I watched the kids next to me play soccer. Two little girls sat on the side, staring at us, obviously more entertained by the "big bad Zionists" than their little crushes.

And you know what was the most surprising and impacting impression I made from this first patrol? Not tightening my grip because some guy briskly walked inside his house and then came out with a long wooden thing - which from 100 meters looked like a rifle, but really was a cane. Not how much power we had over these people (which we do, and have to respect). But rather, I was absolutely blown away by how much the kids seemed to like us.

This isn't Iraq, and the IDF is not the liberators or heros of al-Madina al-Muqaddasah. They are supposed to hate us. According to the world, we are the people that shot these kids' dads in front of them... for fun. But those kids, from 5 year olds to 13 year olds, were all smiles! They giggled and pointed and laughed. I was as serious as it gets for the entire patrol, for obvious reasons, but once we continued on the path and came upon a gaggle of little boys and girls playing in the street I naturally loosened up. They playfully ran to the side, next to a fence, and stared and giggled. Dropping my mission-oriented tone, I winked at one particular chamuda.

Just like any kid, she put her hands up to her face, snickered, and buried herself in her best friend sitting nearby. Just like my friend's nieces, little ultra-orthodox Jewish girls.

What? Aren't we the terrible, oppressing, evil Zionist pigs stealing Arab land? Shouldn't these 10 year olds have heard by now about the Nakba, and about how these black-gun toting devils will break your neck upon the slightest, if any, provocation? Apparently, and this was my impression on the street, the IDF makes a smaller footprint than some would have you believe. I know that there are certain places where the army is more intrusive, even in other areas of al-Madina al-Muqaddasah. But even here, even with an ID-checking, car stopping patrol, we don't seem to be the worst thing in the world.

Last anecdote on that matter: Once we passed a house on our left, and I was busy checking our right because my right-hand pointman was new at that position and I felt he was missing some of his sector. I glanced at him, and he cocked his head upwards and to my left. Towards that house. There were about five people sitting on a second-story porch, just hanging out. Middle-aged people. They interpreted his signal to me to check them as the international head pump, which says "hey, what's up." They waved. What? They freaking waved at us?

I was pretty sure at that moment that the army lied to me and actually sent me to an Israeli-Druze village. That would explain the Arabic text on the walls, at least.

And despite seeing with my own two eyes how friendly these people can be, I know the history. And the commanders remind us of the history, and remind us what happens all the time and doesn't make the news. Most importantly, not everyone that is nice to you on the road while on patrol are representative of the guy sitting in his room, sulking, staring at you through the window. Stoking his anger. Planning. Rocks to start, knives, acid bottles, and so on. The cycle continues. His dad waved. His uncle waved. Even his cloaked aunt raised a finger. He sulked.

So we stay prepared, and hope that the moderates look around and see what could be! Fields of grapes, nice houses, nice cars, businesses - not everything is rubble in the West Bank, and not everyone hates Israel or the IDF. It seems.

My 25th Birthday In The Israeli Army

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 06:06:00 +0000

(If you don't read the post, at least check out the photo comparison at the bottom. I think it's hilarious)

It's pretty damn hard to believe that it has been exactly one year since I had my 24th birthday in the army. I was drafted four days previous, on the 22nd of October, 2008. Still nervous as hell every morning upon waking up, I kept my mouth shut when my birthday came. No one knew about it, and that was the way I wanted it. Despite that, as I said in that post from a year ago, "It was really tough spending your birthday getting yelled at."

Well, days have changed. I am a fully-rated combat soldier, and yelling is reserved for... nevermind. They still yell at us all the time! Not like in the movies, like basic training in Full Metal Jacket, but it is for when we do something wrong. And that happens all the time.

So, I guess I will also spend my day getting yelled at!

But again, as I said in 2008, "I've always wanted to be a soldier, especially for the only army in the world that I think is 100% imperative for the existence of the state it serves. So, ideologically I didn't need cake or toys or songs." The only thing I'd change about that now is that yeah, I'd like cake. And don't you worry, I will eat some cake!

Seriously though, and I know everyone says this at this age, but I am having a hard time understanding how I'm already 25. I remember quite distinctly being about 17 and thinking long and hard about what Danny Brothers of 2009, a 25-year-old man, would be like. This is the age that definitively signals adulthood. This is the age where your profession becomes your life. Where marriage and children become a reality. Where you become, I don't know... grown-up.

But I don't feel like that! Man, I feel like a kid still. I'm pretty sure I'm 18 and just started college. That ridiculously handsome, athletic, muscular body in the mirror? That's not mine, is it? Those rugged good looks on that wise, mature face? Could it really be? And the prophetic eyes staring back at me; where did they come from?

At 16 I thought about myself at 25 as being everything I wasn't at the time: confident in my beliefs, set in my ways, and self-sure. Some of those are good things, others less so. Regardless, at least those things have come with age. For that I am thankful. I don't think I am quite as emotionally stable and mature as I hoped I would be, but over the past few years I have learned that emotional stability is one of the rarest traits. And considering the challenge I've gone through over the past year, I think I'm doing ok coping with difficulties, and stability in general.

I'll stop rambling now. It's just that this is the one forum where I can tell everyone how weird it is to have arrived. I'm sure my 40-year-old readers are rolling their eyes. I don't care. Keep rolling. It's my blog and I'll express amazement when I want to! Honestly, listen to me, I could go on for hours about all types of things I expected with this age, from my body (I used to be a serious weight lifter, and I always dreamed about the "prime of life" 25-year-old body) to my intelligence to knowledge to career to love life, and so on.

Hey, us old people are supposed to ramble, right? And be incoherent? Welcome to senility, I say! I guess I really am the grandpa of the army now.

Here's some photos for comparison to what six years does to a man:

A 19-year-old backpacking young buck, ready to roll

A 25-year-old: give me coffee or don't talk to me

Finally Deployed

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 16:59:00 +0000

After eight months of training, and then another three or so of brigade-wide retraining that we unluckily stepped right into, my unit has found its place in "combat." I use that word lightly, especially considering that we have found ourselves in the West Bank during one of the quietest periods in Israeli history. Knock on wood and all that, but I simply believe that it's peaceful because we've brought the hammer down hard on the terrorist groups. Operation Cast Lead sure as hell put a beating on Hamas, and I don't think they're ready for round two.

But they will be, eventually. For now, peace.

While the rest of my platoon took a pre-dawn bus to our base in al-Madina al-Muqaddasah, I was chosen to stay at our previous base in order to help put the final touches on cleaning up. Logistics officers, jobniks with big ranks that you couldn't care less about, were roaming the area, just looking for an excuse to yell at the young, arrogant combat soldiers. "You're aren't leaving here until..." was the line of the day. I heard that no less than twenty times.

Suddenly, in the middle of carrying some containers back to the kitchen, the commander watching over us told me to run to the transport truck waiting at the base's front gate. "HURRY," he told me numerous times. It seemed like the truck was waiting for me, specifically. However, upon getting to the gate, there was no one to be found. After waiting nearly two hours, I finally hitched a ride with a transport carrying our shipping crates which we use to store gear.

"Jump on up!" the animated driver told me. For the entire five hour ride I was all alone in a tractor-trailer with a reserve duty soldier who rambled on and on with his wife on the phone. With just three hours of sleep the night before, I fought back my leaden eyelids the entire way. I was told to not let this guy stop at his base for the night, but rather to carry on all the way to our deployment, so I had to stay awake. And as they warned, between calls to his wife, he called just about every officer in the IDF for permission to go sleep at the truck base.

Finally we neared the border crossing into the West Bank. The driver started showing his true colors pretty quickly. He made a call to his dispatcher on the speakerphone. It essentially went like this:

"Uh, so when I cross over, what happens? I only have one soldier with me. Is that enough?"

"Yes."

"OK, are you sure? Because it's just one soldier, and you know, it's at night! How will I know if I'm going into a bad area or not?"

"There's nothing to worry about."

"Well!.. Famous last words, no? OK, I have one soldier, but should he put the magazine in the gun, and a bullet in the chamber? Ready to shoot!"

"No, that's not necessary."

"Is there a signal truck that could guide me to the base?"

As he drove hesitantly toward the border crossing, unarmed Israeli civilian cars zoomed by, headlong into the territory. My jumpy driver and his wide-open eyes rubber necked the entire way to our base, making terrified comments one after another. I giddily seared into memory the crossing, marveling at the towers and guard posts and concrete barriers and mazes of chain-link gates used to check Palestinian pedestrians. All the things the world hates Israel for. What all the protestors were losing their minds over. Every little detail shone brilliantly under the yellow, sodium lights. I was happy to finally be deployed, after so much waiting. The frightened driver was ready to get the hell out.

My favorite line of the night? While driving past an Arab town with a green-lit minaret, he asked seriously, "Do they have rockets?!" And then once we made it to the base, with relief he inquired if we had "finished the Arabs finally?" That's less racism/prejudice than it is excitable cowardice.

After wishing him a good night and laughing at his catharsis upon reaching the safety of a Golani base, I made my way to our barracks. I entered the small, squat building to cheers from my platoon. I had no idea what al-Madina al-Muqaddasah was all about, and at night I had seen nothing, but I had arrived.

Time for patrols and guard duty and checkpoints and guard towers and seated ambushes and arrest operations.

OPSEC Is The Name Of The Game

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 08:21:00 +0000

Taking a page from one of my favorite Iraq War bloggers, Matt Gallagher of Kaboom, I feel I have to make this post about Operational Security (OPSEC). OPSEC is defined by the U.S. Army 1st Information Operations Command as:

A process of identifying Essential Elements of Friendly Information (EEFI) and subsequently analyzing friendly actions attendant to military operations and other activities to:

Identify those actions that can be observed by adversary intelligence systems
Determine indicators - Adversary intelligence systems might obtain that could be interpreted or pieced together to derive EEFI in time to be useful to adversaries
Select and execute measures that eliminate or reduce to an acceptable level the vulnerabilities of friendly action to adversary exploitation

With OPSEC on my head, I plan on continuing my blog for at least the next three months. My unit has deployed to an active area, and we have already begun our operations. In all reality, as the army works, we have switched places with the unit that was here before us - so no one should think this is some new campaign or new mission or new operation. The Israeli army works really as a police force, so we're just continuing keeping the peace. That's our mission: keep the peace.

As Kaboom found useful, I too will strictly refer to this area of operations with a made up name. Though the name will be made up, and you can guess all day where this stuff is taking place (and I will never say a word on the matter), I can tell you that it is inside the West Bank. I can say that because as anyone familiar with the geography of Israel knows, it is the only place that the Israeli army operates within Arab population centers. Gaza is a closed-off area, and the northern borders, though hot, are on the other side from Hizbullah and Syria.

So what name will I refer to the area as...? I don't know as I'm typing this! How about...

al-madina al-muqaddasah

What A Relief!

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 13:15:00 +0000

Many months ago during advanced training I found myself trudging through exhaustion in one of our "war weeks." Think Hell Week, I suppose. Finally, after nearly 24 hours of non-stop drills and hiking and carrying loaded stretchers and all types of worst case scenario preparation, we were given a few hours to sleep. I plopped down in a forest with my platoon, fully geared up and ready to pass out. Helmet on head (forbidden to remove), combat vest strapped tight, gun tucked under my arm - pass out I did.

I'm not sure what happened, if anything happened at all at the moment that woke me, but I opened my eyes an hour later to a certain degree of pain. On my left shoulder, towards the back, there was a slight stinging. I pulled the shoulder straps of my vest to the side, pulled my shirt off the area as far as possible, and there on my skin was a raised, bloody bump. I just kinda looked at it for a few minutes.

"What the hell is that?"

The first thing that went through my mind was that I was stung by a bee, or even worse, a scorpion. Eventually I rubbed the bump, and there seemed to be something underneath the skin. I felt like I could move some large, straight, hard chunk of hidden something or other. Despite playing with this thing for a solid hour, missing a most important amount of sleep, I didn't see anything come out. Except blood, of course. And some pus. It was pretty gross.

It wasn't until a few days later that I realized another possibility. My hypochondriac mind reminded myself, much to my dismay, that years ago I had to have a mole removed because I ripped it and that could potentially start cancer growth (namely, melanoma). The more I thought about it, the more it seemed plausible: the shoulder straps of my vest rub that area constantly, and between all the stretchers resting on my shoulder, as well as hundreds of pounds in waterpacks and enormous backpacks full of ammo and food and gear, well, there's no reason that a mole couldn't have been traumatized.

A normal person would have seen a doctor right away. I am in an army run by Israelis, however. I'm pretty sure they don't believe in diseases here, cancer included. I knew not to even ask about some weird bump that sometimes bleeds, sometimes dries up and peels a layer of skin off. Yeah, that sounds pretty bad, right? Crap. What was I going to do? I figured I'd just wait it out...

But then, two days ago, the bump was raised again. I kinda just moved it around, and some pus came out. Gross, sorry, but bear with me. Then some blood came out. A day passed, and the thing looked terrifying! It was raised pretty high, scabbed over, and obviously had both blood and pus underneath. Honestly, I was starting to worry that maybe indeed I had something serious on my hands. What the hell would I do about it? If the doctor in the army dismissed my 101.2 degree fever by telling me to rest, no medicine included, what would they say about a bump? I know: it's a pimple. Bastards.

Well, with all that worry, I finally got home this afternoon. After taking my shirt off in order to take a shower, I glanced at the scabbed bump. I figured I'd be 15 and play with it. I peeled the scab off, and a small amount of pus oozed out. Awesome. And then, for no reason at all, I figured I'd touch around the sides. So as I barely pressed a side, out squirts a long, thin, sharp thorn. It was like Old Faithful how fast that thing flew out. It kinda even scared me to see some foreign, alien object shoot from my flesh.

Whew. We're talking about more than four months of suppressed worrying here, people! Today, I tell you, is a good day!

My Luck With Gear

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 18:49:00 +0000

We just got rain gear today. The rainy season starts very soon, and we're expecting a wet winter. Water-proof rain jackets and pants are essential for 8 hour guard shifts outside.

Mine, however, are riddled with cigarette burn holes.

The President of Israel Listens to ME

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 13:04:00 +0000

Last Sunday night was the beginning of Yom Kippur, and I was off from the army. For the first night I decided that I would go to the popular 'meat market' synagogue nearby. I swear I wasn't checking out the ladies on the Day of Atonement. I just wanted to, you know, see to it that everyone was repenting for all that gawking that takes place there (they weren't). My flatmate was walking in the same direction, but then had to take another direction eventually. As I turned onto a sidestreet I noticed a big government Suburban blocking the way to a locally famous synagogue (there are lots in Jerusalem, you know). Next to the Sub was a moveable barricade.

Security was abundant. The first thought that crossed my mind was that they were making sure no bad guys tried anything tricky with all those congregants. I quickly remembered, however, that I had seen some government security doing the same thing one morning as I walked to my bus stop on the way back to the army. As soon as I recalled that, a few guys in suits turned the corner. Secret Service guys. Tall, strong as hell looking. M16's not dangling to the side like a soldier going home, but rather with hands on the grips, pointed forward but to the ground. "Who the hell is this for," I wondered.

And out walks Shimon Peres, the venerated President of this fair state. Here we were, just me and Peres on a tiny sidestreet walking in opposite directions. And about 10 ready to pop badasses culled from who knows which army units. Shayetet (Seals), Sayeret Matkal (Delta Force), 669, Palsar (Rangers), Yahalom (special forces demolitions), Egoz (anti-guerilla warfare), some others probably, and even former Mossad who took an even more prestigious assignment if I had to guess. Me, Peres, 5 feet apart - and the world's scariest bodyguards.

I'm not one to get starstruck or shocked over a fellow human being. I mean, we're all flesh and blood and dust and ashes. But this isn't an ordinary man. He is considered one of the founders of the State, and at this very moment he is probably the most respected man in Israel. Peres is like a modern Israeli James Madison. What do you say to a man like that, in passing, on the eve of Yom Kippur? Do you wish him an easy fast? Tell him he's doing a great job? Maybe even something as cliche as saying, "Good evening, Mr. President"?

And so I found myself as shut up as a Tibetan monk in solitude on top a great, lonely mountain. Honestly, I'm not sure that if I had even tried to speak that the words would have come out at all. And just imagine if the security saw some bumbling idiot, big and as potentially threatening as I could be, making a move towards the head of state! That would have been an inauspicious start to the new year. I think the security, black suits and assault rifles and dark sunglasses and all, probably put the kibosh on any greeting or words more than any other factor.

But now, days later, I really wish I would have said something about Gilad Shalit. If you haven't been reading the news, our soldier captured in 2006 by Hamas is still a hostage. He's been subjected to the discommunication between Israel and her enemies for over three years (1,195 days in captivity) now, and just about the entire country is saying the same thing: bring him home already. We don't care how, just do it. Now.

Man, I wish I would have said exactly this:

"Gilad Shalit."

That's it. Nothing else. In a normal tone of voice, no inflection at all, no gesticulation. Nothing. You know why? Because he knows what the country wants, and it would have been foolish to insult him further. I know that he isn't solely responsible for that situation, and the resolution, but he sure has a voice in the matter. He sure can make some moves.

But I didn't say a word, and that's OK - probably for the best. Definitely for the best. I don't need the Secret Service beating me up before I go to the meat market synagogue, giving me a bloody lip or something. Girls don't like a bleeding, awkward tall guy. Or maybe they'd think I was tough and just beat up some bad guys.

Ahh, the delusions of a sleep-depraved soldier...

Dissonance Among The Ranks

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 12:11:00 +0000

(Meant to post this a couple weeks ago...)

Just a little on the fly "had to tell someone" blogging here.

We are in Jerusalem for a day of touring, and of course we've found our way to the Western Wall. There are tons of military border and security police around - even more than usual. Now, these aren't the guys who give out tickets to soldiers who forgot to shave. They are the riot police, among other things. I'm pretty sure the army even chooses kids to go to this unit based on a tendency to fight. In short, they are notorious for being rough and short tempered.

As I walked by one on the way to the bathrooms, I noticed that on the handle of his billystick was a sticker for a popular spiritual movement inside Judaism. They're the hippies of Judaism, if you will.

It's a smiling face with a yarmulka and sidelocks. Not what you'd expect from a riot squad. If your head happens to meet that billystick, you could call it divine justice.

Gilad Shalit Proof of Life

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 14:55:00 +0000

I just want to post this here now as the news breaks. I have a short word or two to say about the matter in a post coming out at the end of the week, but just for now...

Here's the video itself on the Israeli news channel's website

An article:
Link to original Jerusalem Post article

Watch new Schalit video: 'I yearn to see my family again'
Oct. 2, 2009
JPost.com Staff , THE JERUSALEM POST
After over three years in which IDF St.-Sgt. Gilad Schalit has been held in Hamas captivity in the Gaza Strip, Israel breathed a sigh of relief on Friday afternoon after video footage of the captive soldier was released to the media and aired on Israeli television channels.

Click on the image on the right side to watch the clip. A version with English subtitles will appear shortly.

The two-minute long clip shows Schalit addressing Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu and his parents Noam and Aviva, telling them he is being treated well by the Hamas and is in good health, but yearning for the day on which he will see his family again. Schalit is seen clean shaven with a fresh haircut, wearing black clothes.

The video was received in return for the release of 20 Palestinian female prisoners. Israel released 19 of them on Friday morning, 18 to the West Bank and one to Gaza. The 20th prisoner will be released Sunday, after it turned out that a prisoner released Wednesday was finishing her sentence anyway and would therefore be released regardless of the deal.

Following is the full transcript of Schalit's video message:

"Hello, I am Gilad, son of Noam and Aviva Schalit, brother of Hadas and Yoel, who lives in Mitzpe Hila. My ID number is 300097029.

"As you see I am holding in my hands the Palestine newspaper of September 14, 2009, published in Gaza. I am reading the paper in order to find information regarding myself, hoping to find some information from which I would learn of my release and upcoming return home. I have been hoping and waiting for the day of me release for a long time. I hope the current government under Binyamin Netanyahu will not waste the chance to finalize a deal, and I will therefore be able to finally have my dream come true and be released.

"I wish to send regards to my family and say to them that I love and miss them and yearn for the day in which I would see them again.

"Dad, Yoel and Hadas, do you remember the day when you visited my base on the Golan Heights on December 31st, 2005, that if I am not mistaken was called Revaya B. We walked around the base and you took photos of me on the Merkava tank and on one of the old tanks at the entrance to the base. We then went to a restaurant in one of the Druze villages and on the way we took photos on the side of the road with the snow-covered Mount Hermon in the background.

"I wish to say to you that I feel good, health-wise, and the Mujahadeen of the Izzadien al-Qassam Brigades are treating me very well. Thank you and goodbye."

In the footage, Schalit addresses the camera directly, and at one point walks up to the camera and then returns to his chair. He also appears relaxed, not terrified.

By 12:30, Netanyahu's appointee on the Schalit case, Hagai Hadas, reached the Prime Minister's official residence in Jerusalem with the footage. Hadas and IDF Chief of General Staff Lt.-Gen. Gabi Ashkenazi had already reviewed the footage and approved the release of the prisoners, indicating that the video fulfilled Israel's demands, namely that the video was at least a minute long, recent and showed Schalit talking.

OC Manpower Division Maj.-Gen. Avi Zamir arrived by helicopter with a copy of the video at the Schalit residence in Mitzpe Hila, where he was scheduled to view the video with the family.

Noam Schalit said before viewing the tape that the family eagerly awaits it.

The Prime Minister's Office issued a statement following the release of the clip.

"Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu watched the video of Gilad Schalit in his office and has spoken with Noam Schalit," a statement read by the prime minister's media spokesman said.

"The prime minister believes the importance of the tape is in putting the responsibility for Gilad's health and wellbeing squarely on Hamas's shoulders. The prime minister says that even though the the release of Schalit is still far from us, the video is an encouraging sign," the statement continued.

Defense Minister Ehud Barak spoke with Noam Schalit and Zvi Schalit, Gilad's grandfather, at around 2 p.m., just minutes after the family viewed the video, according to a statement issued by Barak's office.

The defense minister told the Schalits "I want to hug you. Gilad looks healthy, and this fact only further puts into focus my own responsibility and the responsibility of all of us to bring him home."

A statement issued by the Elysee Palace in Paris called for the "immediate, unconditional release of Schalit." Schalit holds dual Israeli-French citizenship and his father Noam has been lobbying with French President Nicholas Sarkozy to help in securing the release of his son.

Gilad Schalit has been held in captivity in the Gaza Strip for 1,195 days.

A Strange, Indicative Email

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 06:44:00 +0000

I just responded to an email from an old, old friend of mine. Now, I normally would never post a personal email on here, but I kinda liked the sound of it. First of all, that response I literally just banged out was the first writing I've enjoyed making in months. This blog has become slightly tedious for me, so to finally write for the love of writing after so much strained effort... it's good to be back!

Absorb the bizarre:

"...

the army is good. its cool being a combat soldier - you know, makes you feel like a warrior. my technical designation in the army is warrior, so you know, they really boost morale around here! none of this makes sense, i know - i havent really slept (you dont sleep if youre infantry), and i got up super early this morning to get home. super early is like 4:30am, even though we've gotten up at 3:45am twice last week. its nuts man how much you can do (full day, HARD physical work) on 2 to 4 hours of sleep a night for weeks on end. nuts. but yeah, im good, content in ways, anxious in others (i gotta earn some money one of these days, and maybe find a girlfriend). so in answer to that one, no, i have ZERO ladies. bro, now i know you're not going to relate, but i havent kissed a girl for two years. two years. thats nuts for me. im no player, not at all, but two years is absurd. i had girlfriends left and right in college, and now with this job and having zero free time etc... my personal life is in a sad state of affair. but i dont get too worked up about it. just workin on the first thing thats brought me satisfaction in a long time (army). so i am grateful for that.

i dont know what im gonna do when i get out of the army. my release date is april 22, 2010, but i dont know. i can extend that for 1.5 years. and i dont know. i dont know! i could EASILY sign another 3-6 months, easily. and i might. but i dont know. and then maybe after that id sign another and another... but just as easily i could say FORGET THIS, bring on the civilian life! which is, by the way, infinitely more comfortable than the army. i wont say more fun, bc i have a HELL of a time running and shooting my gun in automatic (forbidden, but what the heck, might as well) just in training drills (which suck). but man, your life in the army sucks. no sleep, exercising feels like punishment so you hate to move an INCH, ever, you're treated like property, zero privacy (and man, im a private mofo)... i could go on.

so man, i aint got a clue halfway from sunday what im gonna do in the next year. crazy, right? im getting on in years (creak, groan).. gotta think those things out better i suppose - but sometimes it's just easier to let it all slide by, if you're feeling ok i guess.

if any of that made sense, good. if not, that's more indicative of what my life is like than i even let my mom in on. so either way, this was a good email for me!

i hope to see you soon, my good friend.

affectionately yours,
danny"

Inter-Battalion Rivalries and Military Songs

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 16:52:00 +0000

Golani is the oldest brigade in the Israel Defense Forces (IDF), started on February 28, 1948. It was a restructuring, in fact, of Hagana pre-state defense forces. With this early start, and its storied battle history, Golani has had no shortage of esprit de corps. Most indicative of the pride found among Golanchikim is the enormous collection of battle songs, company-based cheers, and most importantly, taunts against rival units. If you've read this blog, you'll know that our biggest rivals are the paratroopers.

But what you haven't been privy to is our rivalry, or really just our jeering, with a different company in our same battalion. I'm sure it's like this in every battalion of Golani, but all I know is mine - and mine is vociferous! Company G, said rival, gets quite the ribbing from the Messayat, my company. Especially when we beat them in all kinds of tests, like a recent day where we scored higher in shooting drills and had a faster time in a full-gear and stretchers run. It took a few days for them to live that one down.

We will take any chance to taunt Company G, and so will they. Here's us

versus them while waiting for a speech to start. Two sides, just like West

Side Story. Funny enough, Company B is in the middle, yelling at both of

us. Neither G or the Messayat cares about B. So they just yell at both in

turn, and we clap for them. Sad, sad Company B.

Before I get taken away with this, I should back up quite a bit. This post isn't about the rivalry between the Messayat and Company G. Rather, I just want to talk about the songs and cheers that have become such an integral part of my life since joining this company and arriving in the battalion as a full soldier. In armies across the world there are songs, such as the famous "I don't know but I've been told..." Even better are U.S. Marine's cheers, especially songs like Blood and Guts. As you can tell, militaries will be militaries.

The first Shabbat that I got to the Messayat I experienced one of the strangest nights of my life. After coming back from services, I found the group slowly forming a circle. Here was a company consisting of veterans and near-veterans, and there was my platoon, fresh from the training base. Young. Green. Everyone else had been in Gaza for Operation Cast Lead. We were two months into basic training. They were knocking down doors; we were stuck perpetually in pushup position. But nonetheless, we were members of this company now, and we found ourselves in a large circle on an equal footing.

And then the songs started. Some of my guys knew a couple here and there, but most of us just clapped along, smiling awkwardly. And when the time would come, as it does for a few songs, we would run into the middle - jumping, cheering, punching and pushing. With the veterans. Guys that served in every major operating zone in the country. If anyone ever created one of those songs, many of which I'm sure have been passed down for generation upon generation, in an attempt to integrate the greenhorns, they can sleep happily knowing they accomplished the goal.

I swear to you, however, that that first night with these strange songs and their respective physical interpretations (a certain dance, kneeling, jumping, etc), I thought that I had landed on another planet. What in the world was going on? The night was dark and the sky was orange from the sodium lights. A strong Golan Heights mist was swirling the crisp summer air, creating the effect that we were stuck inside a cloud. And here in the midst of bizarre weather were these battled 20-year-olds singing what can only be described as alien chants. Most of the language was well beyond my comprehension of Hebrew. Only now do I know what half of it means.

The singing went on for an hour. A full hour of this massive circle, pulsating with pride and, admittedly, a desire to confront the enemy. Let's not forget this is Israel's most deadly infantry brigade. The energy level was enough to bring even me in, and I am not a singing or dancing type.

I can't tell you how impotent I feel at the moment. I simply cannot describe the strangeness, oddity, mood, setting, and atmosphere of that first night. The unmatched out-of-placeness I felt, but all that without the typical accompanying self-consciousness. I thought I was in a movie about an army unit, rather than actually being deep within one. Maybe I can't describe it because it all seems so normal to me now, maybe because that was over three months ago, or most likely because I'm a hack writer.

So hopefully a video or two of some of these songs, albeit not in the mentioned circle (which we do all the time, by the way), will show you just how intense the experience is. I could say a million things about a million songs, even some in Amharic Ethiopian, but let's just leave you in the same state I was in that first night: confused and unsure what it all meant.

Note the girl halfway through. Terrible!

Happy Holidays From The IDF

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 10:52:00 +0000

Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, starts tonight. Last year I was drafted right after the holidays, so consequently all I could think about was the army. If only I could have seen the Danny of 5770 one year ago as I sat in my Jerusalem apartment, worrying my little head away.

So, here's to a sweet and productive new year, a year of peace for Israel. May we see the return of Gilad Shalit, reconciliation with the resident Arabs, and a Palestinian initiated overthrow of the cancerous Hamas regime.

And in the very least, as our deputy battalion commander put it, "a deadly year for our enemies."

Beware of Desert Enemies

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 18:09:00 +0000

The greatest threat to me in the recent past wasn't Hamas or Hizbullah, kidnappings or rocket launches, bombs or any other terrorist attack. Rather, it seems to be scorpion season around here. We've been finding them left and right, and they usually scare the hell out of us because they seem to be just where we had our hand or were sitting. That scorpion was in between the strap and back portion of a backpack that was moved and about to be picked up.

Interestingly enough, however, turns out even crazed 18-year-old Golanichikim have compunction about killing even dangerous creatures. It took them about 10 minutes to figure out whether or not to kill it, with half the camp yelling for it, and the other half proposing to move it into the desert. Needless to say, our army boots are pretty good at crushing things.

Military Police

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 08:22:00 +0000

I haven't broached this topic for the entire length of writing this blog, mainly because I didn't know where to start. In a sentence, there is no more hated group of soldiers in the IDF than the military police - namely, the branch that stands around checking to see if the soldiers are wearing their uniforms correctly, are shaven, have all their papers, and so on. Combat soldiers especially feel a venomous animosity for these jobnikim that go home every week, do no 10k runs, do no hikes with half their body weight packed on them, and yet have the chutzpah - the chutzpah! - to give us a violation.

What penalty does a violation incur? The worst penalty of all: confinement on base for anywhere from 21 to 28 days, and it can be much longer depending on your unit's schedule. When all your friends are going home, you know that you're staying on base not because you volunteered in order for others to have fun, but rather because some jerk in a white hat didn't see your dog tags around your neck. And if that confinement wasn't enough, enjoy your hearing with the battalion commander. Yeah, you read that. Even a little violation necessitates a mini-trial before a lieutenant freaking colonel.

So how do these guys strike... There are certain days, hours, and places where soldiers pass through in high numbers in order to return to or go home from their bases. In an effort to not give Hizbullah any extra info on when kids are in high volume in certain places at certain times, suffice it to say that there are favored times of the MP to fill their quotas. So, on these particular days you get off a bus or a train, and standing right near the terminals or the entrance are the MP. Just waiting for you.

Propaganda. Look at him smiling.

White hat, white and red brassard (armlet), white belt, and a bloody nametag. A nametag.

"Damnit," you think to yourself. Quickly, you better check to make sure everything is clear. Boots polished with no dirt showing from the week of crawling in the mud? Are your pant legs tucked into your socks so they are rolled up properly? Is your shirt tucked in neatly to your pants? Are all the buttons buttoned? Did you put your dog tag on, or did you forget that in your pocket because you only slept two hours the night before? Is your hair cut and not a little past the proper length? Not that you just spent 21 days on base or anything and there wasn't a haircutter. Is your beret in your epaulette neatly? And most importantly, if you have a beard do you have the permission form, and if you don't, are you 100% clean shaven?

All of this is a split second check that is performed exactly one minute after waking up from a deep sleep on a two hour bus ride and exiting on to the sidewalk in a half-woken daze. While a Golani soldier is about to go into the West Bank and guard against terrorism, the MP are comfortably stationed in Tel Aviv near the beach, slapping around the defenders of the nation.

Such b.s.

Seriously, listen to this: Once during training one of our guys started telling a story about his brother and the Second Lebanon War. We all had heard stories about this guy, how he was a crazy veteran in his day. For example, he stood up in a battalion-wide meeting with the Chief of the General Staff (head of the entire army) and yelled "UNTIL WHEN?!," a popular veteran-only expression. That's craziness to do that. Anyway, this slightly deranged brother of our slightly deranged friend was a staff sergeant sniper.

After spending twenty some days on base, the Lebanon War started back in 2006. That war lasted for 34 days. So, this guy wasn't home for fifty some days, minimum, and spent the entirety of it in combat. Scary, bloody, heart wrenching combat. He was a sniper, so you can imagine how personal the war was for him. As it was described to us, the war ended and they were given about 15 minutes to pack up once back at base and catch the last buses home. It was a scramble, but they made it just in time.

These guys hadn't been in civilization for a long time, had probably seen their best friends either shot or hit with shrapnel or even worse. They hadn't spoken to their families for well over a month. Parents had no idea if their sons were alive, where they were, or what their conditions were like. Soldiers just wanted to get home. After all that, and having about 15 minutes to catch the last bus, the last thing on their minds was the mud on their boots or the hair on their chins.

And yet, my buddy's brother after 50 days in combat was stopped by a military police officer and given a violation for all of the above. Apparently it was a scene, replete with yelling involving the words "war, combat, and Lebanon" on one side, and "rules, protocol, and tourists" on the other. Judge the situation for yourself.

Anyway, the reason I finally got around to posting this was because a good friend of mine just got busted up for having an unshaven face. The real story is that the MP was looking to give out a ticket, and for some reason he was chosen. He got off the bus, and with the MP no less than 50 feet away, one of them started pointing at him. They asked why he hadn't shaven, he said he had, and they gave him a ticket. Take a look at his face. This picture was taken by me about two hours after he got the ticket:

Just venting a little bit of frustration here. A button of mine fell off and I had to resew it with the only string I had at the time - it is blue. I better get some uniform beige string pronto!

Golani Versus Tzanchanim - The Showdown

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 10:59:00 +0000

After a long few weeks of sharing a small area with a platoon of Tznefim ('young' paratroopers), a period of time which involved phones stolen from our area, combined guard duty, and trading responsibility of cleaning the bathroom, a brouhaha finally erupted. If you're just coming in now, to put a long story short, Golani hates Tzanchanim (paratroopers). Why? Honestly, it's not worth getting into for the 30th time.

One night last week my platoon was singing some of our company and platoon songs when the paratroopers across the way turned up their music to drown us out. We carried on, however, louder than ever. Undeterred, the paratrooper jerks came out of their tents with shirts on their heads, symbolizing who knows what, and pans and ladles in their hands. West Side Story was about to go down, IDF style.

While us Golanchikim sang our songs and clapped our hands, these sissy-kids were busy banging on pots and pans! They couldn't even play fair, as far as we were concerned, and we just laughed them off. We stood on our opposing sides, like the Jets about to trounce the Sharks, and battled for who could sing and yell the loudest. Apparently no one told the tznefim that musical instruments aren't allowed in these showdowns.

Here's a short clip from my phone of the impromptu rivalry face-off:

That went on for probably 30 minutes. It was the same cycle of us belting out some song, while they made as much noise as possible. Then it'd be their turn to sing a song, and, well... not much. They'd just bang on the pots and pans. I don't think Tzanchanim has as many battle songs as Golani.

In all seriousness, I wasn't sure where this clash was leading. Our platoon commander, a second lieutenant, was looking pretty nervous. He loves when we sing and go all crazy, but I gazed over at him and saw what only could be described as anxiety wracking his face. Making matters worse was the paratrooper platoon commander, just standing on the side smiling, not saying a word to our C.O.

You see, this is all fun and games, but I think there is a real amount of dislike between our two groups. At the end of the day, Golani and paratroopers are both in the same army, but you wouldn't know it at this point. Our CO knows and appreciates that we have to work together, and like a good officer hates division in the army. I understand that. I understand his concern.

But how can you not jeer these guys when they cheat even at making noise?! And how about this one:

After getting up at 5am and going out into the desert in our M113's, working in the 100 degree Farenheit weather without a break, and without shade all day, we finally come back late afternoon to find a whole squad of Tznefim sleeping in the bathroom's sink room.

Let me repeat that: they were sleeping in the room with the sinks. Why? Because it was hot outside. I just got finished working in the most uncomfortable conditions - happily, I might add - and these guys had to escape indoors. See, you ask why we don't like paratroopers?! They're soft...

and of course, they wear dresses.

Watermelon Picking Israelis In Uniform

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 14:23:00 +0000

The army involves a little bit of travel. During training you go here or there, to this "shetach" (zone, field, territory) or that. These trips can take a couple hours, which are the absolute best because it means you get to sleep during the middle of the day. In fact, you won't even take a nap during the middle of the day until you're two years and four months in - except for bus rides. So, traveling is awesome.

While traveling with a group of sharpshooters late last month for a week of shooting, the bus randomly stopped by some field. We had no idea what was happening until we all heard the bus driver, a crazy guy by the name of Abu, shouting in his slobbering, disheveled voice from the right side of the bus.

There happened to be a watermelon field over there. Here was this guy and a veteran sergeant picking watermelons from the corner of the field. They were really taking advantage of that Biblical allowance. Anyway, I couldn't believe my eyes when they picked up a few really big, choice melons from the side. Finally we made off with the produce, just like that.

In the army I've seen it all. Honestly, things like this happen all the time. Random occurences are the norm in Israel, but in the army - life is just ridiculous. Not that this is TOO crazy of an incident, but hey, we were in uniform. Before you start the army you think everything is so serious and strict, but really, life is just kinda funny in the IDF!

By the way, this post was really just an excuse to post the following video - the bus driver, Abu, was nearly the Israeli version of Don Vito (beware of strong language, and total idiocy):

Little Victories In The IDF

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 09:53:00 +0000

When you finish one stage of the army and start another, you generally get new commanders. So, having moved up to the battalion, I am surrounded by fresh faces telling me what to do. That's not easy when you're almost 25 and these guys are either 19 or 20, and moreover, they don't have a clue who you are.

Little victories over your commander help to ease all the frustration of being so dominated. When someone so completely controls you, it's great when you either show them up, know more than them, or beat them in some physical test. That's a little victory over a commander. So, what's my most recent victory? My squad commander is a great guy, super by-the-books, and in-shape to the point we've already asked him why he didn't go to the best special forces units (Shayetet, Sayeret Matkal, 669, etc).

A few nights ago we did a 5k run around the base, and most of the time I was talking to him. I was running with him, no problem at all, and even thought the pace was a little slow. I could tell he had the competitive desire to lose me in his dust...

As we got within 200 meters of our tents, he said, "Sprint to the end!" Usually I ignore those last minute sprint challenges that they love throwing out. 5k is enough, ya know?

Not this time. As we took off he was a step ahead since he initiated the all-out dash. However, within half a second I pulled in front. And then I proceded to absolutely smoke him.

Let me repeat that: I beat him so badly, when I finally turned around, I couldn't even see if he was still running. He was that far away. That, my friend, is a little victory that you will treasure. But, you won't be able to lord it over him. He is in control of your happiness, after all. It's a silent victory, to be sure.

"Don't be too modest. You're not that Good." -Golda Meir

Golani Pride

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 13:21:00 +0000

I guess this is a post I could have written the first month I was in Golani, but I'm glad I didn't. I'm glad because what was once pride has now become obsession, and these kids are rooted in this world for the next two years, at least.

What am I talking about? The pride of being in Golani. You see, this pride started manifesting itself the first weeks of the army by singing Golani songs, especially "Golani Sheli" (My Golani). It moved from there to wearing the first Golani t-shirt we got. Stickers were found, of course, and those popped up here and there.

But then the 21st century creeped in. Many, if not most, of the guys have some type of Golani background to their cell phones. Here's some of the more popular ones:

One with characters from Gears Of War, a popular video game

Now, all of those above cell phone backgrounds are general Golani. But, once you get into your battalion, you have a specific company with a specific role in combat. I wasn't going to say where I am, but I figured I'd just say in general that I'm in the "Mesayat." I'm not giving away any secrets by saying that name, not at all, but I won't say anything about what it means. I of course won't say what my platoon's role is specifically, or anything like that, mainly as to avoid the whole issue of operational secrecy, etc.

Anyway, now that we're in the Mesayat, all that general Golani stuff is disappearing and being replaced with our company symbol: a rearing horse, since we're the "Wild Horses." Or, this Mesayat symbol:

Anyway, what I really wanted to put a picture up of was something that I knew would raise an eyebrow or two. But, as far as I'm concerned, this is totally in keeping with an infantry unit, and nothing at all wrong about it. You see, we have medics in our unit, of course, and they are constantly being tested by the commanders. One of those tests is preparing a person for fluid injections. I guess if you get shot it's good to get some fluids in you.

So, randomly during gear checks a commander will point over to a medic and tell him to open up some poor kid's vein. Surprisingly, these kids are pretty good at it, so I never mind if I'm chosen.

The other day we all were gathered around as our medics were pitted against each other in a competition of who could prep a person for fluids first. Now, one of the things you have to do when you inject a person is write on their arm the info of what has been done so that a doctor taking over will know what's been done to the patient. That's pretty standard stuff as far as I'm concerned. Now, one of the ways you make due in combat is, errr, to use that person's blood to write on their arm.

So, Golani pride took over in the competition, and one kid showboated. Guess what he wrote?

Mesayat - RESPECT!

That's the kind of stuff people join Golani for. Honestly.

Not Everything Is Mud And Guts Tough

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 13:08:00 +0000

While brushing my teeth one night, I looked up and saw the toiletry bag that a veteran was using. I swear that I did not doctor this picture in any way. This kid fought in Gaza during Operation Cast Lead, has done tours at Hebron, Jenin, Nablus, the border with Lebanon and Syria, and who knows what else. And yet, he has a pink, flowery, grandmother style bag. These are the times that you just smile at the ridiculousness of army life.

Kitty Litter In The IDF

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 07:30:00 +0000

I meant to post this about four months ago when it happened, but you know how life works out. Anyway, the RASAP (logistics guy for a company) had me cleaning out his storage room when I heard a strange noise coming from a shelf. I looked up and saw a cardboard box marked "vests" where the noise seemed to be.

Taking it down, I felt something shift inside the box. As I set it down on the ground, I saw a litter of kittens, all meowing as if nothing was wrong at all! I told the RASAP immediately, of course, and we took the box outside onto the sidewalk. As I furtively pulled out my phone and took the below picture (still at this point technically forbidden for me to have a phone on me at the time), he called over all the commanders nearby.

We had a good laugh about it. I had to run off to do something else, but I wonder what they did with the litter? I know that everyone was feeding a stray, tiny, miserable kitty a few months later that was living next to a dumpster, so I suppose they'd also have pity on this bunch.

Well, if you ask the anti-Israel crowd, they'd say he probably ate them!

An Article Loosely About Yours Truly

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 11:42:00 +0000

A good friend of mine here in Israel, Paul Gross, is one of the country's rising, brilliant political and social commentators. Why is he so brilliant? Mainly because he featured me in an article for a British Jewish paper he contributes to biweekly. Let's not mention his high-profile speechwriting, Israeli embassy experience, connections, and numerous published articles.

Here is the link to a very fancy web version of the newspaper The Jewish News. If you want to read the bit, flip to page 8. The article is highlighted in yellow. If it doesn't work, I don't know what to tell you... it's really high tech.

Either way, this is like the third article about yours truly in a newspaper. I'm movin' on up!

My New Life - Vatik v. Tzair

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 10:06:00 +0000

As I said in the previous post, my life has changed so much just in the span of a couple weeks. We have finished with our training, left the training base where you are only with your commanders and other kids in training (ie – no real soldiers or real units), and have joined the battalion. I’m with the platoon I’ll be with until the end of my service. Our company has a specific role in combat, and my platoon has a specific set of weapons for combat as well. We’re all settled, this is it, we’re full soldiers in the battalion with our job description sealed. It’s as if we’ve finally been “shipped off,” though in Israel that only means being no more than a few hours from home.

For the sake of clarity, let me define a serious part of army life:

Veteran (vatik) – 2 years, 4 months into the army.

Young (tzair) – Anything less, but of course the youngest are more “tzair” than those drafted later.

In an attempt to scare kids into acting the way they want, you hear all the time during training about what the “veterans” are like when you finally reach the battalion. First of all, they’re portrayed as demons. They have nothing better to do than have all the new guys unload shipping crates full of gear, timed with impossible expectations, of course, only to put everything back in the way it was taken out. A whole shipping crate in 2 minutes. The shipping crate is the most notorious form of tzair work (see above picture).

Secondly, kitchen duty is far beneath the dignity and respect due to a veteran. They come into the dining hall when the meal is ready, eat, make a mess on purpose, and then leave all the cleaning up to the young ones. But, don’t forget, when you’re young nothing is just at your leisure: you’re on the clock, always.

Thirdly, we have to mention what is forbidden. There are many things you aren’t allowed to say, and if you are caught saying them... “oy va voy!” Stupid things. Like, “until when,” “how much is left,” and even any reference to being tired. Oy va voy if you say you’re tired!

What else is forbidden? Well, as we were told, anything the veteran wants to claim, he can claim. He can be walking past a group of youngins playing soccer and declare the football “off limits.” Only a veteran is allowed to touch it then. I’ve heard of that happening when the veterans were playing the tzairim.

Another great story of this claiming ritual is when a veteran walked past a bedroom of tzairim who were just sitting around, something that is very punishable. The veteran declared everything in the room – all chairs, beds, table, even the floor – off limits. Except one bed. Ten tzairim had to jump onto that bed and stay there until they were released.

OK OK OK. So, that’s all the stuff they scared us with while we were at the training base. They said, “If the veteran sees you not working like you’re supposed to, he’ll make you suffer.” I was pretty damn worried about what they were going to do to us after hearing all that for 8 months! Needless to say, when I got to the battalion I had two wide-open eyes, looking for veterans on the prowl.

So, two weeks in, was I tortured? Have I called Israeli newspapers looking to expose abuse in the ranks of Golani?

No, it’s not so bad. Yeah, we had to unload some crates over and over again, and it was dumb and they were jerks about it. If anything touches the ground... well, you basically have to run with it, and some of the stuff is heavy! So, you learn, and you don’t let anything touch the ground! No big deal, as we say.

Kitchen duty – yeah, you’ll do that for a long time. Basically, my group is the youngest in the entire company, so we have to clean all the dishes and trays and all that. But, the November 2007 draft date, guys that fought in Gaza in Operation Cast Lead, guys that have been in for quite a while, they still have to clear up the dining area – clean the floor, empty out trash cans, deal with the extra food, clear tables, and bring us all the dishes. And, worst of all, they are timed too! It takes a long time to get away from being young in the army, so you can deal with it knowing everyone suffered.

But overall, I have to say that the veterans are people too. Mainly, they just want to get the hell out of the army. How many times a day do I hear one yell “UNTIL WHEN?!!” Or, “HOW MUCH MORE?!!” To be honest, they’re usually too damn bored or tired to mess with us youngsters. As a matter of fact, I’ve already had a few conversations with a couple of them. They asked me all the typical questions, like why I’m here, how long am I serving for, if I’m dumb or not (why would I join the army if I didn’t have to?).

Seriously though, it’s pretty damn weird being around these guys that either fought in Lebanon (the platoon commanders) or Gaza’s Operation Cast Lead (all of them, even my tzair squad commanders). Even though my Dutch friend and I ruthlessly make fun of veterans, simply because they think they’re very cool and very deserving of all honor, I do have some amount of respect for them.

Two years and four months in? That’s a long time. That’s nothing to sneeze at. What really gets me is that their training isn’t any easier than mine is at nine months in. They do all the same runs we do, some of which are really tough with combat vests and loaded stretchers. They have all the same gear checks, which are much more serious than you can imagine. They do guard duty and everything, middle of the night and all. After two and a half years of this life, they’re deserving of saying they’re tired.

I don’t know. This post isn’t at all what I wanted it to be. I wanted to talk about how strange it feels walking around with my brown Golani beret, but yet feeling so dumb and young. I don’t know anything about anything. I thought that once I’d gotten my beret I’d feel like a real Golanchik. I do feel like a real Golanchik, but now I’m around REAL Golanchikim, and still there’s something different.

You know, it’s really quite indescribable. For example, I just spent the previous week at a shooting range with tons of veterans. Just me, another couple youngsters, and mainly all veterans. I shot better than all the veterans, much better at times, and yet...

And yet they’re still veterans who demand respect, and I still feel like an out of place tzair. There’s a post that hasn’t been written yet, but if it ever is, then you’ll get a better feeling for what it means to be an out of place tzair. Sorry for this rambling post, I’m out of practice.

A Word About The Blog

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 11:50:00 +0000

Being that it’s been a month since my last post, or something along those lines, I’ve had ideas running through my head constantly. Especially since my life is so different now, having left the training base and joined the battalion, there are about a million things I could write. The world is my oyster, as they say.

However, my intention has been to finish this blog, not write any more, after advanced training. After all, what can I say about the actual work I’ll be doing? What would I write about checkpoints and guard duty, ambushes and operations? It works out perfectly that this blog is a documentation of the path to becoming an IDF infantry soldier, and that is all.

But then again, I have so much I want to write! I have zero desire to write, I am tired, and I don’t really care at the moment to spend my little free time writing, but I do have things to share. So, I think the only responsible thing I can do is leave this blog open to my whims. I tend to do things 100% or not at all, and it goes against my instincts to just write when I feel like it instead of regularly – but it’s best for all of us, no?

My recommendation is that you sign up on the right to receive new posts by email, since they could very well be extremely irregular.

A new post will be coming out in the next day or two...

Masa Kumta - Beret March

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 07:54:00 +0000

Writing a blog entry about a march that begins at 7:30pm and ends the next day at 6am is probably harder than the hike itself. What can I say about it? I guess I'll just give a little background...

The masa kumta (beret march, essentially) is the final hike in a long series of hikes that begin in the first month of basic training, and end, at least for certain infantry units, at the end of advanced training. That means that for the duration of your entire training period you have to face these marches. The purpose of a masa is clear: you do them in combat. Not every battle is found right outside your barrack's doors. Sometimes you've gotta hike a few miles out there, or a few back. Why do we open stretchers and load them up and hike miles and miles with them? Because at the end of most battles you've gotta get the wounded out, and there are always wounded. Of course, the masaot also build teamwork, esprit de corps, and give training a sort of backbone - not to mention a clear finale.

What is a masa? Two single file lines. Usually at night. Complete silence. Full gear (combat vest with all related equipment, personal gun, light machine gun, heavy machine gun, water packs, stretchers). Very fast pace (6 to 10 km/h). Steep inclines.

And what is the masa kumta? This is when you earn your brigade's beret, which is simply a different color from other brigades.

OK, is everything explained well? Good, so let's get personal now. You want to know what it was like? It sucked. Everyone was in agreement: it was twice as bad as the "machin masa kumta," which is the 'preparation masa' for the masa kumta. That means it was the one right before this final one. They were the same pace, of course same gear and all that, but the machin had more inclines, meaning it should have been much worse. However, I remember laughing and smiling and singing to myself the entire machin masa! It was good times! "ONLY ONE LEFT!," I thought happily.

The masa kumta, however, brought me no such joy. I don't think I even dreaded it. I don't think I was nervous or anything. I was ready to get it over with before we started, but I did want to do it. I often have thoughts like, "I wish I could just do this blacked out, wake up during the final two minutes for the joy of finishing, and that's it." But I wasn't thinking that about the masa kumta. I wanted to say I did it with a clear mind, suffered as necessary, and finished strong.

I don't know what to tell you, mainly because I don't know myself. Why was it so hard when it actually should have been easier than that machin? I have no idea. Strange. Despite the torture that this was, I am extremely proud of myself for stepping it up with the gear. You see, we have extra gear that we have to carry the entire march - stretchers and a water pack. The stretchers aren't anything but obnoxious to carry on your back, but the water pack... the water pack is tough.

The pack we have holds 11 one and a half liter bottles, I believe.* That's 16.5 liters according to my calculator. Now, according to the infinitely wise Internet, a liter of water weighs 2.2 pounds. So, let me crunch some numbers... 36 pounds. You may be thinking that that's not too bad, it's not 100 pounds, but you try humping 36 pounds at 8km/h for even one hour. Don't forget your gun and your combat vest loaded with ammo, either.

No one ever wants to grab the water pack. We switch off just about every hour, but it always takes a long time to get someone to grab it. Usually the uncomfortable silence of no one stepping forward ends with the commanders yelling at people, and then they grab it. I took the pack the second hour, then after an hour passed it off per routine. Long story short, I was carrying the water again closer to the end, once we had opened the stretchers, despite there being numerous people that hadn't had the joy of lugging it. For the next nearly three hours I had it. No one offered to take the pack, and I didn't ask anyone to. That's 1 hour plus almost 3. Let's say 4 hours with the pack. Can't complain, though - I'm not the MAGist (heavy machine gunner).

For 7 months I dreaded masaot because of that pack, so I wanted to finish strong, with the water pack on my back, and the stretcher on a shoulder. There were guys in the back stumbling along, just trying to keep up, but about 10 of us were giving 100% so we could say we finished with everything we had. Waterpack on my back, stretcher on a shoulder, we ran to the finish line, a full sprint. I thought I was going to fall, but we went right on through to the end - 100%.

That's how you finish this crap.

How did I feel? Anti-climatic. I wasn't tired at all, like most of the guys. They were sleepy, but I don't know, I just kinda felt like I had something to do. I finished everything, the final step in the final masa had been taken, but there I stood. What next? I thought, "Well ok, we can do another one. It's not like that was my physical limit, really." It was hard and all, but why couldn't I do another 10k? Trust me, I don't want to, but after you spend 7 months going from masa to masa, it's weird to think that it's all over.

You know when you have a word on the tip of your tongue? The word is just past that little mental barrier, whatever that barrier is. You can feel it! UGH, what's that word?! Well, I felt like I had joy or relief on the tip of my tongue. Not the word, but the feeling. I could sense those emotions right there, but there was some kind of mental/emotional barrier holding me back from feeling it. Surely it's just because I've been waiting for this masa for so long, and it was bound to be anti-climatic.

Either way, I'm happy. I got through it with the help of tons of junk food stuffed into my pockets and vest (advice: sunflower seeds). Tons of pictures were taken by my commander, who grabbed my camera 5 minutes in and didn't give it back until the next day. The physically intimidating yet mentally weak French kid quit halfway through, as predicted. The weather was great. Everyone had the worst שפשפת ever (don't ask). And there was an awesome breakfast afterward.

All's well that ends well, no?

* - There are many water packs. Don't harp on 'giving away military secrets' here. It's not important.

Here's a couple pictures:

The start

You'd think this is a bad picture, but it kinda says
a lot about what a masa is like.

Breakfast - can't beat a tower of chocolate milk

A friendly blood blister. Not me, thankfully.

The kid's foot is literally coming apart here. The skin

just peeled and got pushed upward. Look at the yellow
flaps up there under the toes. That's skin bunched up.
Awesome.