Cross posted from my blog at the Times of Israel
It’s been a long journey, one I’m sure isn’t even close to being complete. To be writing such scathing criticisms of Israel isn’t something I thought I’d be doing. In fact it wasn’t all that long ago that I’d be spewing vitriol at anyone who wrote the kind of stuff I’ve been writing over the last couple of weeks.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about a book I used to read over and over when I was about 14 at school. It was a book about Israeli commandos during the 1950s and 60s. It told tales of the Jewish warriors of the 20th century. Men like Meir Har Zion, Tzapapo and Raful Eitan. Men who were Jews who fought, who didn’t hide from attack, men who made the enemy pay for their attacks on Jews. And this was the man I wanted to be. I guess that was the age I decided that I was going to be a Paratrooper in the IDF.
My head was filled with Israel all through that time and beyond. My dreams were of our history here in this land. Of how Jewish blood had fertilized our soil in order to grow our Jewish state. Israel, the one place in the world where Jews could live freely, could breathe free air, could walk around without fear of the ‘other’.
I even lamented being born in 1979 and not 1929. I wanted to have been present at the founding of our nation state, to have had the honor of fighting to bring it into being, to have been one of the brave who were parachuted into the Mitla Pass of the Sinai Desert. To have made my mark on the founding of this beautiful country.
I read Exodus and then I read it again. Then I found Herman Wouk’s even more impressive The Hope and the sequel The Glory and I was in love with the Israel that had been built especially for me. I read Chaim Herzog’s fantastic book Israel’s Wars and I read Muki Betzer’s book Secret Soldier. I cried while reading Avigdor Kahalani’s autobiography during his depiction of the events in the Valley of Tears during the Yom Kippur War and of course I read of the courage of our greatest ever commando, Yoni Netanyahu, the bravest of the brave, the best of the best.
These were not mere men they were my heroes, my role models, my idols.
I shouted at the television whenever I watched the BBC, so dismayed was I by the way my beautiful Israel was depicted. Israel with enemies on all sides, Israelis with their backs to the sea being slandered and torn apart by journalists who knew nothing. Each issue affecting Israel was one of life and death, each Israeli death a tragedy, each terrorist killed a victory.
And then I made it here to Israel and achieved my dream, I earned that red beret. I was awarded the commander’s beret for outstanding performance during training. I had done something no one could ever take away from me. I had moved from becoming a fan sitting in the stands to a player on the field.
I was an actor in the drama now, no longer seated in the audience.
My army service was dominated by a demand for more. More action, more adventure, more terrorists, more shooting, more enemies to kill. This was MY time. The Second Intifada was MY Mitla Pass, MY Valley of Tears, MY time to be the hero, to be the one who stood up, rifle in hand telling the terrorists I WILL NOT LET YOU PAST ME.
This had been my dream and I was living it.
But perhaps I should have been careful what I wished for. Dreams don’t mix so well with reality. I did everything they told me to do and I volunteered for more operations. I fired rubber bullets and threw stun grenades and I fired real bullets and experienced them being fired at me. I participated in operations that resulted in the arrest of real terrorists. Of suicide bombers led from their holes and I would look at them and see the lives of the 20 people that they never got the chance to kill and feel the thrill of doing something that was truly holy.
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