What would you do if someone committed a robbery right before your eyes? How would carrying a gun alter your course of action? What responsibility, if any, do citizens have in maintaining law and order? And is there any difference if the citizen is also a soldier?
These questions were all I was left with after a sorry little incident came my way on Friday night. My friends and I were nearing the entrance to Liberty Bell Park (Gan HaPa'amon) when the sound of smashed glass turned our attention to a nearby parking lot. A young Arab had thrown a heavy stone against a car window and then fled. Moments later he returned. With a drugged look in his eyes the perp leaned into the car and dashed off with the car-radio.
As endemic as car theft is in Jerusalem, this is the first time I had ever witnessed one in person. My friends and I were hardly the only witnesses to the brash act of public larceny. Some two dozen Israeli Arabs were in view, with a hundred plus more hanging out in the park. One of the Arab families off in the park had just had their radio stolen and their car window smashed apart. Yet no one raised a finger as the thief scampered away into the night.
Part of the disinterest in reining in the crime may be the dissatisfaction some of the local Arabs have with the police. When one of my friends asked a nearby popcorn vendor to ring up the cops, he requested that my friend speak to the dispatcher. "They will listen to you," the old Arab vendor explained. "But if the police hear an Arab voice calling in about a crime like this, they will not take much interest."
I was not troubled by the failure of others to act as much as by my own. There I was, a soldier with seven months of combat training, and I did not so much as raise my voice as a crime was committed before my eyes! I could not help but wonder what if any difference it would have made if my gun had been with me rather than locked up safely at home (soldiers are encouraged to lock their guns up as soon as possible on weekends at home). With an assault rifle in my hands, would I have been emboldened to intercede? Or would the presence of the gun have simply been enough to dissuade the thief from such a brazen crime?
Israeli combat soldiers do not take their guns home with them on the weekends in order to discourage acts of crime. The idea is to look really coo... that is, to demonstrate responsibility and for self-defense. IDF code prohibits soldiers on weekend-leave from using their weapons for any reason save when life is in danger. Even if an armed soldier is held up by a mugger at gunpoint, the rules instruct the soldier not to use his weapon (though I have been told that in practice if the soldier uses his weapon on the armed robber he would not get in trouble.)
The policy makes sense. Consider that Israeli combat soldiers have the maturity of eighteen year olds the world over and the policy seems even more reasonable. And yet I cannot forget that a few months ago, only a few miles removed from the scene of last weekend's carjacking, I swore an oath over my gun "to devote all my strength, and even sacrifice my life, to the defense of my country and the freedom of Israel." More to the point, I swore a host of silent oaths when I became a citizen a year ago. Oaths about what sort of country I wanted to help create in Israel, a process that would not begin or end the day I enlisted in the country's military.
BONUS
I was dismayed though hardly surprised by the casual racism my carjacking story evinced from a few of the guys in my unit. A young man I know to otherwise be quite sensitive told me the entire incident hardly concerned him since it was simply a case of Arabs preying on each other. When there are such raw differences of opinion on the minimum requirements of law and order then you know it is going to be a long slog towards any rational discourse.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Bikinis and Paint
Many people are impressed by the difficulty and length of my unit’s training schedule (maslul). What they do not realize is that training (in the Israeli army, at least), no matter the weight balanced on our back or the fear swallowed during aerial adventures, is really a glorified summer camp. Birthright in green, if you will. Sensible rules in place ensure that nothing we do can really endanger us. So the whole experience, of bundling off every week to drill something new in another forgotten corner of the country, has the disconcerting feeling of an all male summer Israel program.
If I had any lingering doubt that my maslul was not a summer camp, a in-house “Sports Day” recently settled the question. For no apparent reason, everyone in the unit was bused off to a nearby pool for a day of casual competitive sport and lounging in the sun. Most of the trainees, fighters and jobniks (army slang for non-combat soldiers) skipped the sport events and tried to stave off naps in order to ogle the opposite gender. Harder said than done considering how (a) little sleep we get and (b) the ridiculous high number of bombshells in my air force unit (don’t pity the girls, they have more than their fair share of good looking and obviously in shape guys to look at).
The rest of the week saw us back on base, sprucing up our camp and gear for a twice a year inspection by senior officers. And so it was I spent most of the week with a paintbrush in hand after taking responsibility for improving the look of our kit. I was the right man for the job. Not only was my grandfather a professional painter but following the 2006 Lebanese War I had joined forces with other volunteers to paint bomb shelters in northern Israel. The idea then was to reassure northern residents through beautifying the structures that defended them against enemy attack. The idea now is more or less the same. Strange how after seven months of training to commit violence, I find myself, paintbrush in hand, in a similar position from years past.
If I had any lingering doubt that my maslul was not a summer camp, a in-house “Sports Day” recently settled the question. For no apparent reason, everyone in the unit was bused off to a nearby pool for a day of casual competitive sport and lounging in the sun. Most of the trainees, fighters and jobniks (army slang for non-combat soldiers) skipped the sport events and tried to stave off naps in order to ogle the opposite gender. Harder said than done considering how (a) little sleep we get and (b) the ridiculous high number of bombshells in my air force unit (don’t pity the girls, they have more than their fair share of good looking and obviously in shape guys to look at).
The rest of the week saw us back on base, sprucing up our camp and gear for a twice a year inspection by senior officers. And so it was I spent most of the week with a paintbrush in hand after taking responsibility for improving the look of our kit. I was the right man for the job. Not only was my grandfather a professional painter but following the 2006 Lebanese War I had joined forces with other volunteers to paint bomb shelters in northern Israel. The idea then was to reassure northern residents through beautifying the structures that defended them against enemy attack. The idea now is more or less the same. Strange how after seven months of training to commit violence, I find myself, paintbrush in hand, in a similar position from years past.
Krav Aggression
Your team tried to crush you today, break your every limb. Yet only one of you had the necessary retzach b’ainayim, that killer’s look in the eyes. And so the rest of you have nothing to show from your work here.
Two weeks of exhaustive krav maga drills came to a close with the instructor dismissing the painfully mastered technique as a waste of time. My team had just fought each other in staged battles pitting each individual against everyone else, one at a time, in thirty second bouts. These kravot, literally battles, had seen even the best guys become little more than moaning punching bags after a few minutes of ceaseless action. And now, according to the coach, it was all for naught. “Krav maga is not about form,” summed up the instructor. “The point is aggression- focused, ceaseless aggression.”
Krav maga, literally ‘contact combat,’ may not be at the forefront of Israeli public relations advocacy. Yet the no-holds barred defensive combat system is one of modern Israel’s most well known exports. And just like the hi-tech exports whose success is due in no small part to their roots in the Israeli defense community (read Start Up Nation for the whole story), krav maga has deep ties to the IDF. Developed by a Czech Jew in the 1930s in response to Nazi aggression, krav maga was fine tuned over the ensuing decades in the IDF. Today many special forces and law enforcement agencies the world over turn to the Israeli product for training. The rules, or lack thereof, are straightforward: counter-attack as quickly and aggressively as possible, with maximum force at your opponent’s most vulnerable points. Do not stop until the threat is over or an opportunity to escape presents itself.
I was first introduced to krav maga in basic training. Instructors from the Nachal Brigade (including a memorable Russian fellow) took full advantage of the opportunity to work with special force troops. The kadar, army slang for pointless intensive physical activity (kadar is shorthand for Klitah Derekh Reglayim, ‘absorption through the legs’!) was unrelenting. And the discipline was total. Nowhere else in the modern army are commanders allowed to leave soldiers in matzav shtayim (push-up positions) for painfully long periods of time. During krav maga sessions, soldiers are put in stress positions like matzav shtayim for the slightest diversion from the rules. Scratch your nose and boom, your entire squad will immediately be running suicide sprints.
The kadar and discipline remained the rule for krav maga sessions in tironut yechida (the two month stretch that bridged the gap between basic and advanced training). What was new is that sessions were now sprung on us in the middle of the night, waking us from sleep with seven minutes to dress and ready ourselves for the violence to come.
Krav maga sessions in advanced training have finally become about technique. That is, after ensuring that we are physically exhausted from endless sprints and push-ups, instructors introduce basic combat moves. Learning to punch, kick and disembowel the enemy comes at great cost however: blows are practiced on each other. All the padding in the world does little good when my job is to stand still and let my friends, riled up to imagine me as a horrible terrorist, let loose on me from a foot away.
Kravot, the draining bouts mentioned above, are normally used to close out a week of krav maga training. As exhaustive as they are—unless you have had to box twenty guys in a row, each one coming at you fresh and determined to prove a point, you can’t imagine it—they do not touch the ferocity and fatigue of the gauntlet. Native Americans are said to have made captives run through two lines of their warriors, raining blows until the unfortunate souls collapsed. We do more or less the same thing, except our peers fill us in from both sides while a meaty instructor pulls us backwards and another holds a punching bag in front of us. The guy in the middle has to surge forward, ignoring the pain and fists, and keep boxing the stuffing out of the bag. Several guys on my team went down under the incoming blows. But everyone got back, tapped his angry inner animal, and surged on to the end.
Two weeks of exhaustive krav maga drills came to a close with the instructor dismissing the painfully mastered technique as a waste of time. My team had just fought each other in staged battles pitting each individual against everyone else, one at a time, in thirty second bouts. These kravot, literally battles, had seen even the best guys become little more than moaning punching bags after a few minutes of ceaseless action. And now, according to the coach, it was all for naught. “Krav maga is not about form,” summed up the instructor. “The point is aggression- focused, ceaseless aggression.”
Krav maga, literally ‘contact combat,’ may not be at the forefront of Israeli public relations advocacy. Yet the no-holds barred defensive combat system is one of modern Israel’s most well known exports. And just like the hi-tech exports whose success is due in no small part to their roots in the Israeli defense community (read Start Up Nation for the whole story), krav maga has deep ties to the IDF. Developed by a Czech Jew in the 1930s in response to Nazi aggression, krav maga was fine tuned over the ensuing decades in the IDF. Today many special forces and law enforcement agencies the world over turn to the Israeli product for training. The rules, or lack thereof, are straightforward: counter-attack as quickly and aggressively as possible, with maximum force at your opponent’s most vulnerable points. Do not stop until the threat is over or an opportunity to escape presents itself.
I was first introduced to krav maga in basic training. Instructors from the Nachal Brigade (including a memorable Russian fellow) took full advantage of the opportunity to work with special force troops. The kadar, army slang for pointless intensive physical activity (kadar is shorthand for Klitah Derekh Reglayim, ‘absorption through the legs’!) was unrelenting. And the discipline was total. Nowhere else in the modern army are commanders allowed to leave soldiers in matzav shtayim (push-up positions) for painfully long periods of time. During krav maga sessions, soldiers are put in stress positions like matzav shtayim for the slightest diversion from the rules. Scratch your nose and boom, your entire squad will immediately be running suicide sprints.
The kadar and discipline remained the rule for krav maga sessions in tironut yechida (the two month stretch that bridged the gap between basic and advanced training). What was new is that sessions were now sprung on us in the middle of the night, waking us from sleep with seven minutes to dress and ready ourselves for the violence to come.
Krav maga sessions in advanced training have finally become about technique. That is, after ensuring that we are physically exhausted from endless sprints and push-ups, instructors introduce basic combat moves. Learning to punch, kick and disembowel the enemy comes at great cost however: blows are practiced on each other. All the padding in the world does little good when my job is to stand still and let my friends, riled up to imagine me as a horrible terrorist, let loose on me from a foot away.
Kravot, the draining bouts mentioned above, are normally used to close out a week of krav maga training. As exhaustive as they are—unless you have had to box twenty guys in a row, each one coming at you fresh and determined to prove a point, you can’t imagine it—they do not touch the ferocity and fatigue of the gauntlet. Native Americans are said to have made captives run through two lines of their warriors, raining blows until the unfortunate souls collapsed. We do more or less the same thing, except our peers fill us in from both sides while a meaty instructor pulls us backwards and another holds a punching bag in front of us. The guy in the middle has to surge forward, ignoring the pain and fists, and keep boxing the stuffing out of the bag. Several guys on my team went down under the incoming blows. But everyone got back, tapped his angry inner animal, and surged on to the end.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Issues with Commander & Team
My team came back from a week's training in the north that saw us sneaking past Druze villages, traversing the Hula Valley (including a memorable crossing of the Jordan River) and clambering through trees and up 'n down football length cliff-sides. Unfortunately, a few sour run-ins with my boss and some peers left me with a different takeaway from the week.
The trouble started on Saturday night. Returning to base from Jerusalem, I took a bus to the closest town and then jumped in a cab. One confused cab driver later and I ended up at the wrong entrance to the base. When my commander swung by to pick me up, he did not seem to care that I had made it to the (wrong) entrance well before the deadline. Furious at what he described as (a) my late arrival and (b) my failure to inform him in advance that I may not make it in time, he gave me a piece of his mind and then suspended me from the next 36 hours of active training.
Frankly, I thought his anger and the punishment were misplaced given the circumstance. The real issue, however, merits more attention. According to my commander, my failure lies in failing to recognize that a soldier's duty is to immediately inform his supervisor about all challenges. My understanding had been that that it is preferable to resolve a problem on my own before running to report it to the boss.
Our different perspectives were obvious by our choice of metaphor. I reasoned that as a 25 year old with ample experience of living on my own, it was preferable to clean up a mess before running to inform daddy that the milk has spilled on the floor. But if your officer orders you to take out target X and then something occurs that makes you doubt your ability to succeed, my commander replied, you are obligated as a soldier to report the problem before anything else. Because if you shoot and miss, he concluded, the responsibility is mine and not yours. Decisions, in short, are not to be made by little soldiers like me. And so we come back to Saturday night. If I am not sure how best to return to base on a Saturday night, so the reasoning goes, I need to communicate the problem to my commanding officer before attempting to take care of it on my own.
I wasted no time in embracing my commander's position. Regardless of what I may think, the merit and authority of his words left me with no alternative. The problems that came to light this week between me and my peers, however, require a more confrontational response. And so at the weekly open forum, I opened my mind and let loose.
First I made it clear that I never willfully misunderstand Hebrew instructions. One of the guys had accused me of using my weak Hebrew as a cover for simply not paying enough attention to instructions. The accusation stung. No one in my unit knows what it is like to struggle with oral instructions, I told my wide-eyed audience, and just because I increasingly do not advertise my troubles does not mean they have disappeared.
Language issues were the least of my troubles. Being treated as the confused American, viewed with a mixture of pity and humor, never taken seriously even when I am in full command of the situation--that is the real issue I unloaded on my fellow soldiers. Maybe I am being unfair in requesting that my peers acknowledge my persistent gaps in the language while also respecting my ability to perform as well as any of them. Perhaps it is simply too much to expect from a bunch of teens working in a high stress environment. Then again, maybe that is why I am here, someone to challenge them to be more than age or circumstance suggest.
"Take me for who I am," I implored my peers. "Do not treat me as a mascot. Because that is not what I am here to do. Trust me, there are far funnier Americans. I did not enlist, did not sweat to get here, to be a silly punching bag for cross-cultural confusion. Allow me to be me."
UPDATE: My appeal to the guys had the desired effect. No drama yet definite signs of improvement. And nothing was lost, quite the opposite in fact, in the feelings of friendship between us.
The trouble started on Saturday night. Returning to base from Jerusalem, I took a bus to the closest town and then jumped in a cab. One confused cab driver later and I ended up at the wrong entrance to the base. When my commander swung by to pick me up, he did not seem to care that I had made it to the (wrong) entrance well before the deadline. Furious at what he described as (a) my late arrival and (b) my failure to inform him in advance that I may not make it in time, he gave me a piece of his mind and then suspended me from the next 36 hours of active training.
Frankly, I thought his anger and the punishment were misplaced given the circumstance. The real issue, however, merits more attention. According to my commander, my failure lies in failing to recognize that a soldier's duty is to immediately inform his supervisor about all challenges. My understanding had been that that it is preferable to resolve a problem on my own before running to report it to the boss.
Our different perspectives were obvious by our choice of metaphor. I reasoned that as a 25 year old with ample experience of living on my own, it was preferable to clean up a mess before running to inform daddy that the milk has spilled on the floor. But if your officer orders you to take out target X and then something occurs that makes you doubt your ability to succeed, my commander replied, you are obligated as a soldier to report the problem before anything else. Because if you shoot and miss, he concluded, the responsibility is mine and not yours. Decisions, in short, are not to be made by little soldiers like me. And so we come back to Saturday night. If I am not sure how best to return to base on a Saturday night, so the reasoning goes, I need to communicate the problem to my commanding officer before attempting to take care of it on my own.
I wasted no time in embracing my commander's position. Regardless of what I may think, the merit and authority of his words left me with no alternative. The problems that came to light this week between me and my peers, however, require a more confrontational response. And so at the weekly open forum, I opened my mind and let loose.
First I made it clear that I never willfully misunderstand Hebrew instructions. One of the guys had accused me of using my weak Hebrew as a cover for simply not paying enough attention to instructions. The accusation stung. No one in my unit knows what it is like to struggle with oral instructions, I told my wide-eyed audience, and just because I increasingly do not advertise my troubles does not mean they have disappeared.
Language issues were the least of my troubles. Being treated as the confused American, viewed with a mixture of pity and humor, never taken seriously even when I am in full command of the situation--that is the real issue I unloaded on my fellow soldiers. Maybe I am being unfair in requesting that my peers acknowledge my persistent gaps in the language while also respecting my ability to perform as well as any of them. Perhaps it is simply too much to expect from a bunch of teens working in a high stress environment. Then again, maybe that is why I am here, someone to challenge them to be more than age or circumstance suggest.
"Take me for who I am," I implored my peers. "Do not treat me as a mascot. Because that is not what I am here to do. Trust me, there are far funnier Americans. I did not enlist, did not sweat to get here, to be a silly punching bag for cross-cultural confusion. Allow me to be me."
UPDATE: My appeal to the guys had the desired effect. No drama yet definite signs of improvement. And nothing was lost, quite the opposite in fact, in the feelings of friendship between us.
Our Rollercoaster Rep
Israel's top military units, like my own, have a passive-aggressive approach to fostering a culture of competitiveness. "The gibush (tryouts) is over," my team was told during the first week of basic training. "From now on all that matters are team results." While that message is constantly reinforced, commanders make no secret that individual merit is also weighed in light of the rest of the team's performance. Hanging over everyone is the grim reminder that every few months a few guys on the team will be binned, and so staying ahead in the rat race is a question of basic survival.
Competition is also rejected with one hand and embraced with the other between the various teams that make up my special unit. The is especially the case between the teams that began their training at the same time. Creating a name for ourselves as the top team from 2009 is constantly invoked as motivation by our commander. Our reputation during training, our commander insists, decides whether we will one day be the team chosen for the best missions. Our name (and since teams are named after their commanding officers, literally our commander's name), our reputation, is critical.
Since commencing serious training in May, my team has received feedback to the extent that we are something special, not only in relation to the other teams from 2009 but in contrast to teams over the last half-decade. Buttery words, enough to make what happened a few weeks ago all the more devastating.
Halfway through an in-house introduction to urban combat skills, one of the guys suddenly announced he had lost track of a fancy bit of night-vision equipment. Anytime anyone misplaces anything the entire team drops what it is doing and does whatever is necessary to find the missing item. But this was not a regular search. Our commander quickly informed us that the missing item was of such importance that senior figures in the Israeli and even American defense communities would be informed if we did not find it soon. We overturned and enlisted the help of the entire unit. We searched through the night. All to no avail.
The next morning the search continued. But the damage to our team's reputation had already been done. Thankfully there are many more months of training ahead of us, enough time to take a few more spins on the all important rollercoaster reputation.
Competition is also rejected with one hand and embraced with the other between the various teams that make up my special unit. The is especially the case between the teams that began their training at the same time. Creating a name for ourselves as the top team from 2009 is constantly invoked as motivation by our commander. Our reputation during training, our commander insists, decides whether we will one day be the team chosen for the best missions. Our name (and since teams are named after their commanding officers, literally our commander's name), our reputation, is critical.
Since commencing serious training in May, my team has received feedback to the extent that we are something special, not only in relation to the other teams from 2009 but in contrast to teams over the last half-decade. Buttery words, enough to make what happened a few weeks ago all the more devastating.
Halfway through an in-house introduction to urban combat skills, one of the guys suddenly announced he had lost track of a fancy bit of night-vision equipment. Anytime anyone misplaces anything the entire team drops what it is doing and does whatever is necessary to find the missing item. But this was not a regular search. Our commander quickly informed us that the missing item was of such importance that senior figures in the Israeli and even American defense communities would be informed if we did not find it soon. We overturned and enlisted the help of the entire unit. We searched through the night. All to no avail.
The next morning the search continued. But the damage to our team's reputation had already been done. Thankfully there are many more months of training ahead of us, enough time to take a few more spins on the all important rollercoaster reputation.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Wonder in the Air: Parachute Course
Parents are no longer invited by the Israeli Army to watch their children parachute. As legend has it, years ago a soldier jumped at night with a glow-stick in hand so his anxious parents would see their son. While hopping from the plane, the boy lost track of the glow-stick and it plummeted to earth. Watching the green light drop from the sky proved too much for his father, who went down with a heart attack just as his son arrived safely on the ground.
While families are kept at a distance, fear remains an ever-present element of jumping from a plane. My curiosity was my best defense against the fear I carried with me into the IDF's parachute course. Never a fan of extreme sport, my wonder at what lay beyond the gaping door of the aircraft, along with a good grasp of the technique and a healthy dose of luck, saw me safely through five wonder-full jumps.
If fear, technique and luck are the holy trinity of jump course, then laughs are the ignored fallen angel. The IDF jump course takes place over two weeks, one devoted to drilling everything from how to board the aircraft to the correct landing position and the second to the jumps, five for soldiers in the Paratroop Brigade and select special units (that'd be me!) and two for other special units invited to the course. Whether it is because the course instructors take themselves so seriously (watching everyone's heads snap to attention at the sound of a "up!" command that came out more like "ape!" was constantly hilarious--a horrible bunch of trained monkeys, ape!, we'd make!) or because orders are given in a tradition heavy sing-song cadence (haKol b'Seder!), through the first week of drills everyone was always fooling around. Ultimately the humor was the best defense against a fear that loomed beyond the pedantic training regimen.
Training week at jump course was not all a laugh. Much of the training consists of jumping from a series of mechanical contraptions, from a three story high zip-line to a back and neck ache inducing annoyance known as the Eichmann for resembling a hangman platform. The idea was to master the technique so that when the moment of truth came the body would react without thinking. A reasonable idea that, one my mind never came to terms with.
The problem started when I failed to 'feel the shock' during basic landing drills. After hours of jumping off a ramp and landing on my leg in the sand, my instructor continued to insist I was not "feeling the shock." Completed flustered, I blurted out, "Not in shock? Every time I run off the ramp I enter a world of shock you cannot imagine." Shock neto (as IDF slang has it, neto an adverb that means something like super-de-duper). What I failed to understand, to peals of laughter, is that in Hebrew the term "shock" can mean the English word or, more formally, the calf muscle. My instructor, suffice to be said, wanted me to feel my calf and not my confusion as I hit the ground!
The first time I hit the ground for real, after launching myself from a C-130 Hercules at 1,200 ft, my mind was working overdrive. "Feet together, oh please G-d, feet together, if its the last thing I do, feet..." Nailing the landing carries the same pressure, and nearly the same technique, as a gymnast at the Olympics. The fear level is nearly the equal experienced when first leaving the place. The difference is that the fear of leaving the plane comes from the lack of control (not jumping is hardly an option) while the fear of landing draws from the knowledge that with the ground rushing ever closer, your fate on touchdown is completely what you make of it.
From the moment the heavy plane took off, I sang songs with (Chel Avir, Commando Chel Avir is the fave) and without (Kol HaOlam Kulow is my charm) everyone to calm my fears. We sat on a low bench, cumbersome jumping equipment wedged every which way, singing and blinking back fear in the eerie red-light. A few minutes and the place reaches the sandy beaches we will be jumping over. Instructors in snazzy pilot overalls start barking out commands. You stand and your body goes through the motions of grabbing the overhanging chord and readying yourself for launch. And then the side doors are thrown open, the wind comes rushing in, and the first poor boy- G-d bless his naive soul- goes flying out into open space. This is when the fear takes hold. Everyone shuffles forward. And like a bull on his way to slaughter, you can do nothing but shuffle forward with all the rest, eyes glued to the blue and white doorway that draws ever closer.
Suddenly no one is in front of you. Your hands are holding the sides of the aircraft, one foot forward as you have been taught. Throat so dry, nerves outstretched...
"Jump!"
You hesitate. You jump immediately.
It hardly matters because suddenly, somehow, the wind is taking you where it wants, body thrown around like a wooden puppet dancing his final dance. After less than two seconds of disorientating puppet ballet, the parachute opens and everything straightens out--canopy above, man below--like it should. And if you are like me and everyone else, you look up, see the white circle of fabric above, and thank the Lord the parachute is doing its job and none of the terrifying eventualities have come into play.
And then comes the wonder.
And the silence.
The glorious silence.
Eight seconds of wonder in the air. Eight seconds with the world on mute. Eight seconds of what must be flight, angels wings, because the ground is ever so far away and here I am, floating effortlessly through the sky. If it is a night jump, the world below seems aflame with pinpricks of light. By day there is only the blues of water reaching up to touch the sky while here and there are the greens and browns and grays and black of rural and urban life.
And then suddenly--it always comes in a rush--the wonder is replaced by the overwhelming reality that the hard ground is rushing ever closer. So close now, mental gymnastics time: What direction is the wind? Is my helmet fastened properly? Feet together, feet together.
I was greeted by a jeep on my first landing. Jeep being slang for when the wind is so strong that on landing, you get pulled along the ground by a canopy roaring along in the wind like a 4x4. I was plowed up and down sand dunes, through dozens of bushes, until one bush finally snagged my parachute. Save for the jeep, I took pride in executing a near perfect landing, toes lightly touching before my body rolled, calf muscle and all, over to the side. The rest of my landings were more touch and go with my helmet saving me from serious injury on at least two occasions.
Serious injury was an all too frequent occurrence with a few boys messing up their legs on every jump. All the injuries had taken place among the ranks of the Paratroop Brigade soldiers until the final night jump when one of my own messed up his leg. I was the first to reach my friend, running from my own landing site in the direction of the anguished cries of pain. Others came and we tended to our friend with the sinking knowledge that his injury would terminate his stay in our unit.
My friend's injury made the concluding ceremony all the more affecting. To the tune of Kol HaZman Tzanchan, our instructors pinned paratrooper wings (canfatz) to our chests. When my instructor reached me, he paused and set his bag of metallic wings aside.
"I have something else for you," he explained. "I want you to have my own wings, the ones I received when I completed the course."
"Why," I stammered, "what did I do?"
"You're just, you're a good man Charlie Brown," he said. While Minnesota's most famous cartoon hero was not actually part of his remarks, the line hung in the air as I thanked the instructor and promised to be worthy of the trust he had shown in me.
"You've jumped from a plane with nothing but a small strip of fabric on your back," my instructor told me as we said our goodbyes. "You realize what that means right? There is nothing now you cannot do. Because you'll always have those jumps as part of you."
My first day at jump school I had been buzzed to have arrived, proud that I had made it to a course that more than any other had served as some sort of goal when I had enlisted. Two weeks later I was leaving, silver wings on my chest reminding me nothing now was beyond my reach.
Note: All photos are public domain materials from the US Department of Defense. None of these are from the IDF since parachute photographs are prohibited. Check out this website for cool US parachute photos.
While families are kept at a distance, fear remains an ever-present element of jumping from a plane. My curiosity was my best defense against the fear I carried with me into the IDF's parachute course. Never a fan of extreme sport, my wonder at what lay beyond the gaping door of the aircraft, along with a good grasp of the technique and a healthy dose of luck, saw me safely through five wonder-full jumps.
If fear, technique and luck are the holy trinity of jump course, then laughs are the ignored fallen angel. The IDF jump course takes place over two weeks, one devoted to drilling everything from how to board the aircraft to the correct landing position and the second to the jumps, five for soldiers in the Paratroop Brigade and select special units (that'd be me!) and two for other special units invited to the course. Whether it is because the course instructors take themselves so seriously (watching everyone's heads snap to attention at the sound of a "up!" command that came out more like "ape!" was constantly hilarious--a horrible bunch of trained monkeys, ape!, we'd make!) or because orders are given in a tradition heavy sing-song cadence (haKol b'Seder!), through the first week of drills everyone was always fooling around. Ultimately the humor was the best defense against a fear that loomed beyond the pedantic training regimen.
Training week at jump course was not all a laugh. Much of the training consists of jumping from a series of mechanical contraptions, from a three story high zip-line to a back and neck ache inducing annoyance known as the Eichmann for resembling a hangman platform. The idea was to master the technique so that when the moment of truth came the body would react without thinking. A reasonable idea that, one my mind never came to terms with.
The problem started when I failed to 'feel the shock' during basic landing drills. After hours of jumping off a ramp and landing on my leg in the sand, my instructor continued to insist I was not "feeling the shock." Completed flustered, I blurted out, "Not in shock? Every time I run off the ramp I enter a world of shock you cannot imagine." Shock neto (as IDF slang has it, neto an adverb that means something like super-de-duper). What I failed to understand, to peals of laughter, is that in Hebrew the term "shock" can mean the English word or, more formally, the calf muscle. My instructor, suffice to be said, wanted me to feel my calf and not my confusion as I hit the ground!
The first time I hit the ground for real, after launching myself from a C-130 Hercules at 1,200 ft, my mind was working overdrive. "Feet together, oh please G-d, feet together, if its the last thing I do, feet..." Nailing the landing carries the same pressure, and nearly the same technique, as a gymnast at the Olympics. The fear level is nearly the equal experienced when first leaving the place. The difference is that the fear of leaving the plane comes from the lack of control (not jumping is hardly an option) while the fear of landing draws from the knowledge that with the ground rushing ever closer, your fate on touchdown is completely what you make of it.
From the moment the heavy plane took off, I sang songs with (Chel Avir, Commando Chel Avir is the fave) and without (Kol HaOlam Kulow is my charm) everyone to calm my fears. We sat on a low bench, cumbersome jumping equipment wedged every which way, singing and blinking back fear in the eerie red-light. A few minutes and the place reaches the sandy beaches we will be jumping over. Instructors in snazzy pilot overalls start barking out commands. You stand and your body goes through the motions of grabbing the overhanging chord and readying yourself for launch. And then the side doors are thrown open, the wind comes rushing in, and the first poor boy- G-d bless his naive soul- goes flying out into open space. This is when the fear takes hold. Everyone shuffles forward. And like a bull on his way to slaughter, you can do nothing but shuffle forward with all the rest, eyes glued to the blue and white doorway that draws ever closer.
Suddenly no one is in front of you. Your hands are holding the sides of the aircraft, one foot forward as you have been taught. Throat so dry, nerves outstretched...
"Jump!"
You hesitate. You jump immediately.
It hardly matters because suddenly, somehow, the wind is taking you where it wants, body thrown around like a wooden puppet dancing his final dance. After less than two seconds of disorientating puppet ballet, the parachute opens and everything straightens out--canopy above, man below--like it should. And if you are like me and everyone else, you look up, see the white circle of fabric above, and thank the Lord the parachute is doing its job and none of the terrifying eventualities have come into play.
And then comes the wonder.
And the silence.
The glorious silence.
Eight seconds of wonder in the air. Eight seconds with the world on mute. Eight seconds of what must be flight, angels wings, because the ground is ever so far away and here I am, floating effortlessly through the sky. If it is a night jump, the world below seems aflame with pinpricks of light. By day there is only the blues of water reaching up to touch the sky while here and there are the greens and browns and grays and black of rural and urban life.And then suddenly--it always comes in a rush--the wonder is replaced by the overwhelming reality that the hard ground is rushing ever closer. So close now, mental gymnastics time: What direction is the wind? Is my helmet fastened properly? Feet together, feet together.
I was greeted by a jeep on my first landing. Jeep being slang for when the wind is so strong that on landing, you get pulled along the ground by a canopy roaring along in the wind like a 4x4. I was plowed up and down sand dunes, through dozens of bushes, until one bush finally snagged my parachute. Save for the jeep, I took pride in executing a near perfect landing, toes lightly touching before my body rolled, calf muscle and all, over to the side. The rest of my landings were more touch and go with my helmet saving me from serious injury on at least two occasions.
Serious injury was an all too frequent occurrence with a few boys messing up their legs on every jump. All the injuries had taken place among the ranks of the Paratroop Brigade soldiers until the final night jump when one of my own messed up his leg. I was the first to reach my friend, running from my own landing site in the direction of the anguished cries of pain. Others came and we tended to our friend with the sinking knowledge that his injury would terminate his stay in our unit.
My friend's injury made the concluding ceremony all the more affecting. To the tune of Kol HaZman Tzanchan, our instructors pinned paratrooper wings (canfatz) to our chests. When my instructor reached me, he paused and set his bag of metallic wings aside.
"I have something else for you," he explained. "I want you to have my own wings, the ones I received when I completed the course."
"Why," I stammered, "what did I do?"
"You're just, you're a good man Charlie Brown," he said. While Minnesota's most famous cartoon hero was not actually part of his remarks, the line hung in the air as I thanked the instructor and promised to be worthy of the trust he had shown in me.
"You've jumped from a plane with nothing but a small strip of fabric on your back," my instructor told me as we said our goodbyes. "You realize what that means right? There is nothing now you cannot do. Because you'll always have those jumps as part of you."
My first day at jump school I had been buzzed to have arrived, proud that I had made it to a course that more than any other had served as some sort of goal when I had enlisted. Two weeks later I was leaving, silver wings on my chest reminding me nothing now was beyond my reach.
Note: All photos are public domain materials from the US Department of Defense. None of these are from the IDF since parachute photographs are prohibited. Check out this website for cool US parachute photos.
The Mavi Marmara Mistake
My world is full to bursting with the doings and demands of one of the IDF's most elite units. So when the rest of the world turned their attention recently to one of our sister units, Israel's naval commandos, I felt a certain level of undesired empathy. With all the confusion of what exactly took place on May 31, when Israeli naval commandos stormed the decks of six ships headed toward Gaza with humanitarian supplies, I also feel necessary to add my own few cents.
From what I gather, the basic story is as follows:
This summer a team of international, largely Turkish, pro-Palestinian activists organized a flotilla of ships to carry humanitarian aid to the Gaza Strip, a territory Israel and Egypt have placed under blockade since the radical Hamas group seized power in Gaza in June 2007. While Israel supplies humanitarian goods to Gaza, the blockade is intended to prevent Hamas from obtaining weapons like the rockets that continue to be fired on Israeli communities from Gaza. The flotilla was designed to call attention to the blockade, shaming Israel into opening Gaza's borders. As the boats approached Gaza in late May, Israel communicated they would defend the naval blockade and suggested the humanitarian goods be sent to Gaza through the Israeli port of Ashdod. When the activists refused, Israeli naval commandos boarded the six boats. Five of the boats were seized with no loss of life. Fighting broke out on the largest boat, the Mavi Marmara, leading to the death of nine activists and dozens injured on both sides. While the humanitarian supplies were then unloaded in Ashdod and sent to Gaza, Israel was heavily criticized by governments and mass demonstrations throughout Europe, the Middle East and elsewhere.
Exactly what happened on board the Mavi Marmara, why the operation did not proceed as smoothly as it did on the other boats, remains mired in controversy. As an Israeli soldier, serving in a similar unit to the soldiers who carried out the mission in late May, I know first hand that the naval commandos and their officers are not brainless stormtroopers. I have heard that the commandos boarded the boats with paint-guns, with hand guns holstered and only to be used as a last resort. The special forces soldiers I know would not indiscriminately fire into a crowd or eagerly fire upon political activists. But they would fight to defend their peers, especially as I have read when some of their fellow soldiers were captured or otherwise threatened by gangs of violent activists.
So much for my personal perspective. My real issue with the operation is that it was a mistake from the beginning. The activists were looking to shame Israel. They came to instigate. Sending soldiers on board, even with clear orders to refrain from firing unless absolutely necessary, was providing the activists with the opportunity they craved. Of course some of the activists seized their chance to create a riot! The Israeli response should have been based on how can we best achieve our objectives- maintaining the legitimacy of the Gaza blockade and avoiding a media firestorm- and how we can best ensure that our opponents' objectives- shaming Israel and delegitimatizing the blockade- are not achieved. The fact that five of the six boats were taken without casualties suggests the commando operation had some technical sophistication. Nonetheless, the risk was too high that our opponents would stand to gain by sending armed soldiers on board. As committed as I am to becoming as skilled a soldier as I can be, I recognize that my services will not always be most effective to the dangers my state confronts. Israel leaders failed in that regard, failed to craft a more skilled response that would have ensured our opponents did not triumph in this tragic confrontation.
From what I gather, the basic story is as follows:
This summer a team of international, largely Turkish, pro-Palestinian activists organized a flotilla of ships to carry humanitarian aid to the Gaza Strip, a territory Israel and Egypt have placed under blockade since the radical Hamas group seized power in Gaza in June 2007. While Israel supplies humanitarian goods to Gaza, the blockade is intended to prevent Hamas from obtaining weapons like the rockets that continue to be fired on Israeli communities from Gaza. The flotilla was designed to call attention to the blockade, shaming Israel into opening Gaza's borders. As the boats approached Gaza in late May, Israel communicated they would defend the naval blockade and suggested the humanitarian goods be sent to Gaza through the Israeli port of Ashdod. When the activists refused, Israeli naval commandos boarded the six boats. Five of the boats were seized with no loss of life. Fighting broke out on the largest boat, the Mavi Marmara, leading to the death of nine activists and dozens injured on both sides. While the humanitarian supplies were then unloaded in Ashdod and sent to Gaza, Israel was heavily criticized by governments and mass demonstrations throughout Europe, the Middle East and elsewhere.
Exactly what happened on board the Mavi Marmara, why the operation did not proceed as smoothly as it did on the other boats, remains mired in controversy. As an Israeli soldier, serving in a similar unit to the soldiers who carried out the mission in late May, I know first hand that the naval commandos and their officers are not brainless stormtroopers. I have heard that the commandos boarded the boats with paint-guns, with hand guns holstered and only to be used as a last resort. The special forces soldiers I know would not indiscriminately fire into a crowd or eagerly fire upon political activists. But they would fight to defend their peers, especially as I have read when some of their fellow soldiers were captured or otherwise threatened by gangs of violent activists.
So much for my personal perspective. My real issue with the operation is that it was a mistake from the beginning. The activists were looking to shame Israel. They came to instigate. Sending soldiers on board, even with clear orders to refrain from firing unless absolutely necessary, was providing the activists with the opportunity they craved. Of course some of the activists seized their chance to create a riot! The Israeli response should have been based on how can we best achieve our objectives- maintaining the legitimacy of the Gaza blockade and avoiding a media firestorm- and how we can best ensure that our opponents' objectives- shaming Israel and delegitimatizing the blockade- are not achieved. The fact that five of the six boats were taken without casualties suggests the commando operation had some technical sophistication. Nonetheless, the risk was too high that our opponents would stand to gain by sending armed soldiers on board. As committed as I am to becoming as skilled a soldier as I can be, I recognize that my services will not always be most effective to the dangers my state confronts. Israel leaders failed in that regard, failed to craft a more skilled response that would have ensured our opponents did not triumph in this tragic confrontation.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Surprise Birthday Party, by Mail
Gone are the days when soldiers would eagerly await the delivery of the weekly mail, bringing word from their sweethearts and loved ones about the world that continues to spin in their absence. Cellphones, text messages and 3G email access have made the precious letter that a soldier would lovingly guard for weeks on end a relic of another age. Relics have their place, however, especially in a unit where regular cellphone use is forbidden.
Several weeks after my birthday, while resting from a draining day of parachute drills, I received a small package from overseas. My sister's long promised gift had arrived! Inside were the gifts every soldier loves: durable socks and energy bars!
But what was this? Buried within the goodies was a small blue notebook. A journal by the looks of it. Just what I need, I feebly smiled, more paper to fill with one-sided conversations. But then I opened the small booklet and my smile took on a warm glow.
Inside were dozens of letters and photos from family and friends, each writing to me at the request of my sister on my birthday. If I hadn't had my fill of tears two weeks before on my birthday, I may have shed a few more. The words were so full of life, so true to the particular relationship I have with a given family member or friend. Reading the letters and taking in the pictures transported me from the muggy tent full of tired and naked soldiers to a surprise birthday party, attended my all manners of dear friends and family whom, with all the time in the world, spoke to me, revitalizing our ties with an energy I can take back with me to my daily reality.
Several weeks after my birthday, while resting from a draining day of parachute drills, I received a small package from overseas. My sister's long promised gift had arrived! Inside were the gifts every soldier loves: durable socks and energy bars!
But what was this? Buried within the goodies was a small blue notebook. A journal by the looks of it. Just what I need, I feebly smiled, more paper to fill with one-sided conversations. But then I opened the small booklet and my smile took on a warm glow.
Inside were dozens of letters and photos from family and friends, each writing to me at the request of my sister on my birthday. If I hadn't had my fill of tears two weeks before on my birthday, I may have shed a few more. The words were so full of life, so true to the particular relationship I have with a given family member or friend. Reading the letters and taking in the pictures transported me from the muggy tent full of tired and naked soldiers to a surprise birthday party, attended my all manners of dear friends and family whom, with all the time in the world, spoke to me, revitalizing our ties with an energy I can take back with me to my daily reality.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
For Love of Navigating
I will learn her curves and swells the way a husband learns his wife. I will learn to love this land by walking her every inch, and seeing her every beauty. There will be no secret place I will not see, and there will be no inch I will not tread.
These poetic words are how a friend of mine serving elsewhere in the IDF described the process of learning how to navigate in the Israeli Army (he also ties navigation exercises to the evils of the Obama administration, in an extended rant!). My own experience with army navigation has yet to inspire Pablo Neruda-like levels of romantic allegories. Yet with months of navigation before me, anything could happen!
My unit devotes more time to land navigation exercises than anyone else in the IDF. We cover the entire country, first learning the basics with veterans and then setting out in groups of four, two and eventually, by ourselves. Navigating always takes place at night, with enigmatic ridge lines and dry river beds shrouded in the inky darkness.
The basic idea is similar to any novice of orienteering. Earlier in by day we are given a map and a series of coordinate points in the wilderness. Over the next few hours we design a path that takes in all the points, and then memorize the relevant topography that lies along our route. The navigation itself will take place without a map, testing our recall and grasp of the wilderness. The evening exercises are also a physical test, since there is a limited time provided to arrive at the end point. And as veterans of my unit add with a grimace, the unimaginably heavy weight we eventually carry means the nights are not simply a test of memory and wilderness lore.
To get a good sense of IDF navigational exercises, see here.
BONUS
Shortly after arriving at our unit's base, a senior officer laid out the ropes as to what we can and cannot share about the remainder of our training. What can we share? Nothing! So what do we tell family and friends? Well, said the officer, since a big chunk of your training involves navigational exercises, from now on that is your answer. If anyone asks what you are doing, reply with just one word: Navigation!
These poetic words are how a friend of mine serving elsewhere in the IDF described the process of learning how to navigate in the Israeli Army (he also ties navigation exercises to the evils of the Obama administration, in an extended rant!). My own experience with army navigation has yet to inspire Pablo Neruda-like levels of romantic allegories. Yet with months of navigation before me, anything could happen!
My unit devotes more time to land navigation exercises than anyone else in the IDF. We cover the entire country, first learning the basics with veterans and then setting out in groups of four, two and eventually, by ourselves. Navigating always takes place at night, with enigmatic ridge lines and dry river beds shrouded in the inky darkness.
The basic idea is similar to any novice of orienteering. Earlier in by day we are given a map and a series of coordinate points in the wilderness. Over the next few hours we design a path that takes in all the points, and then memorize the relevant topography that lies along our route. The navigation itself will take place without a map, testing our recall and grasp of the wilderness. The evening exercises are also a physical test, since there is a limited time provided to arrive at the end point. And as veterans of my unit add with a grimace, the unimaginably heavy weight we eventually carry means the nights are not simply a test of memory and wilderness lore.
To get a good sense of IDF navigational exercises, see here.
BONUS
Shortly after arriving at our unit's base, a senior officer laid out the ropes as to what we can and cannot share about the remainder of our training. What can we share? Nothing! So what do we tell family and friends? Well, said the officer, since a big chunk of your training involves navigational exercises, from now on that is your answer. If anyone asks what you are doing, reply with just one word: Navigation!
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