memoir – Page 8

Israel’s early days

Gloria Levi launches her most recent memoir at the Jewish Book Festival Feb. 12. (photo from Jewish Book Festival)

When local activist and writer Gloria Levi was a teenager, she was immersed in the Labour Zionist movement and “dreamed of becoming a pioneer in Israel.” In 1950, at age 19, she spent several months there. In 1957, with then-husband Norman (whom she had met on the previous trip) and two young children, she made aliyah. Her recently published memoir, Kissing An Old Dream Goodbye, honestly and succinctly relates what took her to Israel – and what brought her back just under two years later.

Levi launches her new book at the Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival on Feb. 12, 2 p.m., in the Waldman Library. Levi, who worked as a gerontologist for 30-plus years, has written a series of booklets, Challenges of Later Life, and co-wrote Dealing with Memory Changes as You Grow Older with Kathleen Gose. A lifelong student of Jewish texts and language, she translated The Life and Times of Simcha Bunim of P’shischa from Hebrew into English. She published her first memoir, My Dance with Schechina, in 2012.

Kissing An Old Dream Goodbye starts with Levi standing on the Marseilles pier, “impatient to set sail for Israel, the land of my dreams.” It was there that Norman noticed her, and the two became close over the subsequent months.

Growing up in Brooklyn, Levi had just finished her first year at New York University – “Emotionally, socially and culturally, I was surrounded by Jews and rarely met non-Jews,” she writes. “I was fiercely independent and a bit of a rebel, and had a stormy relationship with my mother. My father had died when I was eleven. I paid my own way through university and had recently been living independently in Greenwich Village.”

Norman, then 23, had joined the British Army in 1944 and “had been with the British troops who liberated Buchenwald concentration camp. In 1947, he was “deployed to India during the bloody time of Partition.” He was traveling to Israel in 1950, intending to settle there.

While she stayed longer than the summer, Levi did return to the United States to finish her undergraduate degree, at the University of Iowa, “renowned for its child psychology department,” and Norman eventually returned to England. When a visit to Iowa City was about to extend past the deadline of his transit visa, the two decided to get married, as Levi’s career would have been jeopardized if they lived together without being married. “So much for romantic proposals!” writes Levi.

The couple ended up getting married in Canada, for various reasons, and then moved to Toronto, to Montreal and, finally, Vancouver. There, newlywed life was challenging, as they got to know each other, struggled with money and started their family. Levi writes with openness about the good and the difficult – a recurring theme is communication troubles between Norman and her. A prime example is that, when things finally began to look good for them, with secure jobs, a reasonable income, Norman suggested they move to Israel. Initially startled, Levi admits that she, too, still wanted to make aliyah, but “didn’t want to say much.”

They arrived in Israel, kids in tow, in late September 1957, heading to Kfar Daniel, a modified kibbutz. There, they adapted to yet another completely new way of life, making friends, learning the jobs they are given – Levi’s first work is cleaning outhouses – and figuring out how to live in a place with snakes, scorpions and other dangers, including possible imprisonment if you accidentally wandered into Jordan, and military service for Norman.

While they loved so many aspects of living in Israel – “the physicality of the land,” feeling like “a link to 2,000 years of history,” connecting “with the guttural, nuanced ancient mystical language of Hebrew” and feeling “that this truly was our home” – other parts of the experience, both on the kibbutz and in Akko, where they moved in 1959, were impossible to reconcile with their beliefs and moral code. Among Levi’s doubts about staying in Israel were “certain negative societal attitudes, my children’s potential education system, political injustices, corruption in the form of ‘protexia,’ and the top-heavy bureaucracy.” It is with regret and ambivalence, as well as some shame that they couldn’t make it work, that Levi and her family returned to Vancouver.

“I never felt concerned about going public,” she told the Independent of the personal nature of the book, “because I was describing my truth.”

And part of her truth is the love for the country that remains, despite the disillusion, especially regarding social justice – how kibbutz members interacted with one another at times, how citizens were treated by the state in certain instances and how Arabs were viewed. An epilogue takes readers briefly through Levi’s views of the political situation in 1964, 1967 and 2019.

“Given today’s controversies regarding Israel-Palestine, I wanted to describe the profound needs, emotions and idealism surrounding the early days of the state,” said Levi. “I wanted to convey my own journey of love and doubt, joy and conflict, idealism and human ego – the controversies inherent in communal living and the clashes of two peoples living and loving one land.”

In writing Kissing An Old Dream Goodbye, Levi said, “I hope I’m able convey the colour and beauty of the land, the strengths and limitations of people in an authentic, compassionate way.”

And Levi continues to write. Her current project is a novel called The Hotelkeeper’s Daughter, a “story about an immigrant Jewish religious family, taking place from 1938 to 1948,” she said. “It is the most exciting writing I’ve ever undertaken.”

For the book festival schedule, visit jewishbookfestival.ca.

Magnifying emotions

Gila Green will talk about her two latest books at the Jewish Book Festival on Feb. 9. (photo from JCC Jewish Book Festival)

From the first page, White Zion reads like a memoir. Through 16 short stories, we get to know Miriam and her family, from her great-grandparents to her own children, as well as the places they are from, including Yemen, Israel at various points in its history and Canada. It is easy to wonder how much of Miriam is her creator, Israeli-based writer Gila Green, who will be at the Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival Feb. 9.

“The stories in White Zion are all about emotional truths,” Green told the Jewish Independent. “So, if that’s what’s coming across, that is some measure of success. I did not say this but Alice Munro did – I recall reading an interview with her in which she said: ‘If your audience thinks all you did was wake up and write down everything that happened to you yesterday, then you’ve succeeded.’ I would love to hear about how readers relate to these emotional truths, how they connect.”

Green will also bring her young adult novel No Entry to the festival, for which she will talk at both the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver (12:30 p.m.) and the White Rock/South Surrey Jewish Community Centre (4 p.m.) that Sunday.

The heroine of No Entry is Yael Amar, a teenager from Ottawa, which was where Green was born and has lived. Yael has traveled to South Africa to intern for a spell at a private bush camp near Kruger National Park. (Green’s husband is South African, and Green has lived in the country.) There with the intent of helping protect elephants from poachers, Yael ends up in danger herself.

Despite the connections her books may, or may not, have with her own family, Green prefers to write fiction. She described nonfiction as “limiting” for her.

“As soon as someone tells me to write a true story, I’m suffocating,” she said. “I have to start questioning what is fact, what is memory, what lacks context, what is something I’ve just convinced myself is true and on and on. I spent four years at Carleton [University in Ottawa] studying for a journalism degree, so all of that kicks in. In the end, the short story is a wrung-out sock, more like a dozen tangled wrung-out socks. No one wants to read a sock. There is no connecting with it.”

Fiction allows for the expression of emotional truths that would be impossible to express otherwise, she said.

“Writing fiction allows me to hone in on a feeling – something I want my audience to feel, which is how I start every story I write. I ask myself, ‘How do I want this story to make the reader feel?’ and I start from there – and I can hold that emotion under a magnifying glass. I can distort it, blow it sky high, cut interference to ant height or delete. I can take one characteristic of one person on a single day about a single event and I can magnify it, so that the rest of the human being is rendered invisible. These were some of my goals with White Zion. The characters are all gross distortions of one human trait or another.”

But that doesn’t mean that facts don’t enter her work.

“I tried to be as faithful as possible to the historical period,” she said, referring to the stories in White Zion, “and I spent months researching everything, from what vegetables they could have been selling in the Jerusalem market post-1948 to how they could possibly have been heating their homes. I also used the same biographical details for two of the characters, Miriam and her father. It was important for me that Jewish fiction expand to include Yemenite voices, religious voices, gay voices, the more voices the better.”

Green also did much research for No Entry and, in addition to crafting an entertaining, at-times tense, thriller-like novel, she educates readers on the nature of elephants and the very real threat of their extinction.

“Yael is a Jewish eco-heroine,” said Green, who noted that the character’s boyfriend, David, is also Jewish. “She’s not religious but both of her parents are Jewish – she mentions in No Entry how the South African traditional dish she tastes for the first time reminds her of her mother’s chulnt on the Sabbath and, in No Fly Zone, she has an Israeli-themed dinner with her parents. None of the other characters are Jewish…. I do like exploring different kinds of Jews though. If readers want a more obvious Jewish heroine in the sequel[s], please write to me.”

Green has finished writing No Fly Zone, the next book in what might become a series. In it, she said, “Yael Amar is back with her best friend Nadine Kelly, this time protecting Kruger National Park from the skies. But she is about to learn a big lesson when it comes to moral relativity and friendship.”

Green added, “I set out to thread the senseless loss of human life with the equally nonsensical destruction of animals in No Entry and I continue this in the sequel. I did this not because I’m trying to make a point about the connection or status between humans and animals – that’s the wrong way to understand my motivation. Rather, I’m trying to weave together the criminals who commit these inhuman acts: they’re connected.

“Often,” she said, “the same people willing to sell illegal blood ivory are involved in terrorism, human slavery and other acts that bring nothing but grief to the planet. I wish to emphasize this linkage, to shout it from the rooftops. But, in real life, I figured an exciting, adventurous, teen novel was a more effective way to go.

“I purposely made the terrorist event [in No Entry] happen in Canada because I want to get the message across that fatal betrayal doesn’t just happen in Africa or the Middle East. That attitude might allow some of us to feel off the hook. It happens everywhere and we all have to make sure we are part of the solution or there won’t be one and that thought is too devastating to imagine. I refuse to go there and No Entry ends on a victorious note for a reason.”

Though the sequel has been written, its publication date will depend on what happens in Australia and the bushfires that continue to destroy the country. Green shared, “I am very sad to say that my publisher Stormbird Press was on Kangaroo Island and has burned to the ground. The staff was evacuated on Dec. 20th. We are all praying for their safety and that they fully recover but, for now, everything is at a standstill and there is terrible devastation.”

Green is already working on her next novel. In A Prayer Apart, her main character, for the first time, is male, she said. “He’s an Israeli-Jewish teenager living through the 2014 war with Hamas, knowing he’s next in line for the front line. By the same token, he’s had it with his parents and school and his rebellious behaviour lands him in lockdown, one step away from juvenile jail.”

She said she will let readers know on her website, gilagreenwrites.com, when the publication details are finalized.

An avid reader since childhood and now a prolific writer, with four books published since 2013 and two more on the way, Green said, “Mankind cannot live without stories. Period. We are our stories. When people are down, what they are really saying very often is they don’t feel connected. Stories connect us.”

For the Jewish Book Festival lineup and schedule, visit jewishbookfestival.ca.

A time to learn who we are

For many kids, camp is the only time they find themselves in a less structured environment. (photo from pixabay.com)

I remember the days when going to camp was the annual ritual, part of the summer holiday agenda. In our Winnipeg Jewish community, camps were standard practice. It seemed to me that all of my friends were going to be there, but there were always new faces. Some of them would prove to be the companions of my growing up.

Camp was there to free us from the constraints of everyday life, school and parental supervision. For some of us, being out there, in a natural setting, was the only time we ever found ourselves in a less structured environment, as most of us were city-dwellers. And there were always elements of Jewish culture to be shared.

But what I remember most of all was the consciousness that I was alone in a way different from the ordinary. I was in a cabin or a tent where most of my companions were strangers, at least at the start of the summer. Parents were far away. There was a counselor, but he or she was more like a referee than a parent. Whatever issues might arise between my companions and me, resolution would require direct negotiation without intervenors.

Here was an opportunity to test out our interpersonal skills and discover whether we would be leaders or followers, and in what areas did we have knowledge we could share. Here we could discover what issues might be important to us in person-to-person relationships. It had a different feel than our relations with siblings but with the intimacy of living together. We might even have to get into a physical fight if a conflict were grave enough. Would we allow someone to bully us? I certainly had to develop my capacities in these areas in my home environment.

In my case, I went the whole route: camper, counselor, program director. I can honestly say that the camping experience was my personal proving ground for skills I would hone and embellish throughout my life. In retrospect, I realize how important these occasions were for me.

I had the good fortune to attend a camp in my teen years that included subsisting for a few days in a wilderness environment. We hiked. We canoed. We even spent some time in a lake waiting for rescue when our canoe foundered in a sudden storm. I actually have started a fire by rubbing two sticks together. I have slept several nights in a forest with my companions listening to all the mysterious night sounds. We never saw a wolf or a bear, but we got to use copious amounts of mosquito repellent. I have lugged in the groceries and I have cooked food over an open fire. Potatoes are easy, but eggs are more difficult. The experiences were unforgettable.

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

May there one day be peace

Operation Protective Edge, on Aug. 3, 2014. (photo from flickr.com/photos/idfonline)

Part 3 of a three-part series, in which the author shares his diaries from the homefront, providing a glimpse of daily life under missile threat during Operation Protective Edge in 2014. For Part 1, click here; for Part 2, click here.

July 23

Day 16. Iron Dome success rate at 90%. Missiles still get through. Today, an errant rocket hit a house. No casualties. This prompted yet again another lecture from Dad to his kids. Don’t be over-confident and continue taking the Code Red alerts seriously.

Six hundred and sixteen dead in Gaza. Mostly civilians. Locked in a war zone. A human catastrophe. Simply put, as American Civil War general William Sherman put it, “War is hell.”

Hamas fighters seen emerging from their hideout in an ambulance. Balancing war aims with the desire to avoid collateral damage, the Israel Defence Forces decided against bombing the ambulance.

More missile action in Rehovot. Spoke with our son while huddled in our protective room. He was out with friends at a nearby café. They talked with us from under a table.

July 28

Huge uncertainty. Again that word. Shuffling from ceasefire to ceasefire. Meantime, my Code Red app doesn’t stop beeping.

What is sure? The death and devastation in Gaza is tragic. The continued threat to Israel from Hamas’s missiles and terror tunnels is unacceptable. Two ends of a very sharp sword that Hamas must sheathe to bring quiet.

Israel cannot rest until the Hamas threat is eradicated. Or at least severely beaten. In the past 12 months, more than 200 missiles have been fired at our southern communities. Another 200 rockets were fired at the same communities in the 10 days leading to our military offensive. Since the start of Operation Protective Edge, a staggering 2,500 rockets fired at Israel. Yikes!

Exceptionally telling was a picture in our morning paper. Israeli soldiers carrying a wounded bomb-sniffing dog in a stretcher to a waiting helicopter. Contrast to Hamas terrorists firing from behind women and children.

Returning from Tel Aviv with my wife and daughter, a Code Red sounded. A known routine. Pull over. Exit car. Crouch down on roadside. Cover heads with hands (!). My wife huddled over our daughter and I huddled over my wife. Double protection for my daughter. Unbeknownst to my daughter, while the Iron Dome chased and intercepted its target overhead, I managed a quick and loving grope of my wife. Nothing like some comic relief. Another Love Is moment.

July 31

Driving home from work as a missile barrage hit the south. Three people lightly injured by falling missile fragments. Text messages from my loving family:

Wife: “Where’s Dad?”

Son: “Think he’s at work. Tough luck for him – ha ha!”

My son inherited my dark and cynical sense of humour.

A country at war: 65,000 reservists now called up; 18,000 pending call-ups. Flags strung up along our main roads. War jingles on the radio. Billboards supporting our troops. Famous Israeli singers touring the front (which is one city over!). Patriotic teenagers waving flags and dancing at major intersections.

Nonstop beeping of the Code Red app. Heard everywhere. Movie theatres. Restaurants. Grocery stores.

Soldiers’ funerals attended by hundreds.

Solidarity with impacted businesses in the south, holding market days in major cities. Large public service campaign to buy “blue and white.”

Aug. 2

Sixty-three of our bravest boys killed. Three civilians killed. One soldier, Hadar Goldin, captured. Dead or alive?

U.S. President Barack Obama asked Hamas – one of the most barbaric terrorist movements in the world, who flagrantly have violated six humanitarian ceasefires, who hide behind innocent women and children, who plant arsenals and war rooms in hospitals, schools and mosques – to please set the soldier free. Pretty please. With sugar on top. Don’t think the president gets it.

Aug. 5

Three times I told my son to get up for work. Each time, he mumbled OK. Each time, he fell back asleep. Then, running to our safe room at 7:15 a.m. with Code Red apps blaring, he finally got out of bed.

Leaving home this morning, I told my daughter that today should be relatively quiet. Entering another ceasefire. “Ya, like Hamas will respect that,” my 12-year-old quipped.

A tough day yesterday. More than 85 rockets rained on Israel. Terror attacks in Jerusalem. Terror alerts in Tel Aviv. Entering a 72-hour truce, which will hopefully usher in … something.

Preparing for the inevitable “day after.” Fists clenched. Hearts palpitating. Brow sweating.

Aug. 6

Halfway into the truce. So far, quiet met with quiet. Yesterday, I woke to the sounds of missiles and my Code Rep buzzing. Today, I woke to the sounds of silence – well, actually, to the sounds of my kids arguing and my dog barking. Beautiful noise.

There’s an atmosphere of victory. Our soldiers – our children – are heroes. Hamas was dealt a severe and long-term blow. Is more isolated in the Arab world. Some strategic shifts in alliances per the dictum “My enemy’s enemy is my friend.”

Will not forget those who fell in our defence, as well as the few civilian casualties. Saddened by the death and destruction in Gaza. Pray that one day soon Gazans will rise above Hamas, save themselves.

Hope our enemies are deterred from other misadventures. Pray that peace will be upon us. Am Yisrael chai.

Aug. 11

A bit premature with my last entry. Suffering from wishful thinking. Looks like victory has not yet arrived. While Hamas took a severe beating and is largely isolated, they continue their disregard for a real truce.

Both sides met in Egypt to negotiate a settlement while the ceasefire took effect, but huge gaps. Not surprisingly, talks broke down. Hamas resumed their missile barrage. Israel reactivated our air defences and continues to pound Gaza.

International condemnation of Israel totally disproportionate. Fierce anti-Israel and antisemitic rallies throughout the world, especially in Europe. Jews surrounded in synagogues (France). Jew-free areas (United Kingdom). A rabbi killed on his way to synagogue (United States). Jewish kids bullied in schools (Australia).

Still feel safer in Israel than in Europe. Even now. Think the mass immigration of Arabs to European lands and poor absorption processes taking effect.

Going to Italy next week for a family vacation. Need to minimize our “Israeliness.” English will be our language of choice. A bit scary.

Amid a second three-day truce, am doubtful the truce will last.

Aug. 13

The truce ends at midnight. Lots of anxiety. What comes next?

Didn’t Netanyahu once say he would never negotiate with terrorists? The world looks different at the top, when the decision is yours.

Am working late tonight. If the truce ends early, I hope it lasts at least till I get home.

Aug. 17

Waiting on the outcome of an extended ceasefire. Expires midnight Monday.

The solid backing and relative discipline Netanyahu enjoyed from the government is starting to crack. Lots of conflicting postwar opinions, positions and plans. Two Jews, three opinions.

Heading to Italy for our long-awaited family respite.

Aug. 26

Back from Italy. Fiftieth day of Operation Protective Edge.

While away, we tried, as best we could, to unwind from the tensions of our little shtetl. You can never really escape the reality of your country being hit by missiles. Especially with the Code Red app going off when eating pizza in a town square, when visiting the Coliseum, when at the Vatican, when touring the medieval hamlets of Tuscany. Could have just turned off the app but, for a sense of identity, some twisted need to remain connected, didn’t.

After 50 days, Gaza is burning. Death and devastation are immense. But Hamas – like that Duracell rabbit – just keeps going.

In a Sisyphus-like manner, another ceasefire is in the making.

Israel is awash in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. Escapism of any kind, however temporary.

Aug. 29

Waited a few days before writing this entry. Wanted to be sure this ceasefire held. It has. But gaps remain wide. Hamas remains a wild card.

Discussions in Israel are intense. Significant introspection. If Netanyahu thought the Gaza battlefield was tough, here comes the national post-mortem. This soul-searching (self-flagellation?) is indicative of the Israeli psyche, our democracy. This constant search inwards may be the secret to our success as a people, as a country.

A contrast to the other side. Celebrating their “victory.” Dancing in the streets. Shooting in the air. Proclamations of battles won that never happened. A lack of critical introspection that will, unfortunately, keep our enemies from making any real progress in developing a strong, forward-looking society.

Former National Security Council head Ya’acov Amidror: “One of the main differences between Israeli and Palestinian societies is that, if Israel has a glass of water three-quarters full, it will complain about and search for the missing quarter. If the Palestinian glass is only one-quarter full, it will celebrate the one quarter and even imagine a second quarter.”

What was? What will be? I defer to our pundits and leaders. To hopefully bring, if not peace, at least quiet to this wonderful, ever-challenged, always robust, constantly developing and very happy country.

May peace be upon us. As-salumu alayna. Shalom.

Bruce Brown, a Canadian-Israeli, made aliyah 25 years ago. He works in high-tech and is happily married, with two kids. He is the winner of a 2019 American Jewish Press Association Simon Rockower Award for excellence in Jewish writing.

The missiles continue

Weapons seized from terrorists who infiltrated Israel through an underground tunnel to carry out a massacre in an Israeli community. This photo was taken on July 19, 2014. (photo from flickr.com/photos/idfonline)

Part 2 of a three-part series, in which the author shares his diaries from the homefront, providing a glimpse of daily life under missile threat during Operation Protective Edge in 2014. For Part 1, click here; for Part 3, click here.

July 13, 2014

Day six. Woke up at 4 a.m. Browsed the headlines on my smartphone. Some talk about talk about considering talk about a truce. Fell back asleep. Rudely awoken at 6:11 – I angrily checked the time – by a siren. Incoming. So much for all the talk. My wife and I groggily made our way to our daughter’s room, our protective room.

Son Dor is enjoying Eilat. Returning by bus this evening. Maybe it makes more sense to take the afternoon bus. Think the skies are quieter in the daytime.

Sides still too far apart for a truce.

When Prime Minister Netanyahu talks about a long-term truce, what does he mean? With my son going into the army in two years, I don’t want another ceasefire like we had in 2008 and 2012, which allowed Hamas to rearm and wage new wars so soon after. Not acceptable. Our cabinet reconvenes today to further consider a ground offensive. What a job our prime minister has!

So much damage in Gaza. How can Hamas not cry uncle? Despite its macho threats, its salvos of rockets – more than 100 fired over the weekend – the impact to Israel is minimal. Largely due to a poor-quality arsenal. The constant pressures of our offensive. Our amazing Iron Dome. And the well-prepared and trained homefront (that’s us!).

July 15

Ceasefire to take effect at 9 a.m. Final terms to be agreed. Somewhat ass-backward. Shouldn’t terms be agreed first? What do I know? Hope it brings quiet. Peace.

Gazans needs new leadership. The classic choice of guns or butter, they need to decide if they want to continue being human shields in a war they cannot win.

My son returned from Eilat. Without incident. With a great tan and funny stories. But frustrated. Tossing the morning newspaper aside, he growled, “We’re crushing them. We need to continue until they are clearly defeated! This truce is bullshit. We’ll only face more missiles next year. You don’t stop when on the verge of victory. It allows your enemy to retrench and rebuild.” The rashness of youth has a point.

I left for work with a delicate sense of calm. Maybe I can worry less today. Alas, an hour into the ceasefire, missiles were again fired at Israel. Errant missiles? Or continued, self-defeating defiance by Hamas? Previous operations also had a number of false truces. Then there was quiet. To paraphrase from Sting, I only hope the Gazans love their children, too.

But another beat prevails. More and more missiles fired by Hamas since the ceasefire went into effect. The kids, alone at home, went scurrying to our safe room for a third time in the last hour.

From her Tel Aviv office, my wife sounds somewhat flustered. A mother’s distress. Loud booms heard overhead from the Fab in Kiryat Gat. My daughter called from the protective room. Safe. Frustrated. Not understanding what Hamas doesn’t understand about a ceasefire.

In the meantime, Israel is holding its fire. Hoping for the best. Preparing for the worst.

Anyway, I need to complete a report for work.

July 17

The war continues. The truce that wasn’t never took hold, despite Israel’s willingness. We’ve agreed to a five-hour unilateral, humanitarian ceasefire, to give Gazans a respite. Effective 10 a.m. today. We continue building our military reserve – 50,000 soldiers patiently await their orders.

We thwarted an infiltration. Thirteen terrorists heading towards a border community through an underground tunnel were stopped.

We continue rendering the Hamas war machine ineffective, while Hamas continues to subject Gaza to suffer Israel’s might. Uncertain where this leads.

Received a pretty frantic call from my wife and son. On their way to Tel Aviv, they witnessed an Iron Dome sound and light show – we shot down four missiles. They could almost feel the heat of the sky-high blasts. Scattering out of the car, they held each other as they ran for cover in a nearby shelter. Talking to me, their voices a mixture of exhilaration, excitement, fight. Then they continued their drive to work.

The true hero of this war is the Iron Dome. Probably one of the greatest military defence breakthroughs of the last hundred years. Can’t imagine the situation without it.

July 18

Fearful. Hopeful. Last night, at 10:38 p.m. (precisely), Israel embarked on a long-anticipated ground operation. For peace. I am fearful for our sons, brothers, fathers, some sisters, too. Trusting our nation will soon hammer Hamas’s swords back into plowshares (Isaiah 2:4).

We fell asleep around midnight, huddled in our den watching nonstop news. Reporting was spotty. Events happening very quickly. Full disclosure not a privilege. Lots of uncertainty – that word again – adding to fears and hopes.

Also concerned about our neighbours in Gaza, caught in the crosshairs of Hamas insanity. I like to think the majority of Gazans are innocent pawns, fiercely used by Hamas to terrorize Israel with crude and indiscriminate missile attacks. Israel makes a clear distinction: this war is with Hamas, not Gaza.

Hamas waited not a second after the humanitarian ceasefire ended to resume its barrage of missiles. They also fired a few during the ceasefire.

July 20

Updated my smartphone. Another brilliant Israeli application. Designed under extreme pressures. Called Code Red. Brilliant. Beeps with every missile attack, even advising the location. Seems everyone downloaded this app – the office can be quite noisy at times.

Went to Tel Aviv with the kids for lunch yesterday. Needed a break from our pressure-cooker existence. We hung out along Rothschild Boulevard. Lots of cool cafés and shops. With 50,000 reservists down south fighting for our security, quite a contrast.

There was a missile attack as I was leaving Rehovot this morning. I was outside the mall – running a quick errand – so sought cover in a doorway with five others. My daughter home alone. Called her. Asked if she wanted to come with me to work. “No, Dad, I’m fine. Be careful.” How quickly they mature.

My son is still going out evenings with his friends. I’d prefer he stay home, but teenagers will be teenagers, even in wartime.

July 21

Yesterday was a tragic day for Israel. Thirteen of our best, killed defending our country. Now 18 soldiers killed since the start of hostilities. A collective weeping. Each soldier someone’s child, sibling or parent. Taken from routine to defend life and country from this insanity from Gaza.

Again, Israel found Hamas terrorists attempting to infiltrate the country from their tunnels of hell. Intending to carry out a terrorist rampage in one of our border communities. Targets not soldiers, but innocent, unsuspecting families. Grandparents. Children.

Israel goes to great lengths to protect civilians in Gaza. When Israel targets terrorists hiding and firing from a civilian building, it first warns the local population by dropping leaflets, blaring the message on loud speakers, even making phone calls and sending text messages. Or, does a “knock on the door” – shoots small, precise, non-explosive ordinance at a roof to urge inhabitants to vacate before attacking. Israel aborts an attack if noncombatants are in harm’s way.

Hamas has different values. Not rational. Not humane. They urge and sometimes force Gazans into targeted areas. Hamas counters Israel’s pre-attack announcements by threatening retaliation, even execution, to those who heed the warnings. Hamas strategically locates command-and-control operations within hospitals, schools, mosques. This is their defensive shield. As our prime minister said, “They don’t give a whit about the Palestinian people.”

Our war is not against the people of Gaza, but against the terror organization ruling and subjugating Gaza – Hamas.

A mother was quoted today: “Knowing my son is entering this strip of land governed by such demons is frightening enough. Aware that he is doing so with a weapon in one hand and a law book in the other – representing the Israeli approach to asymmetrical warfare – is beyond my capacity as a mother to bear. Israeli parents, famous for over-protectiveness at the playground, must make their peace with such parental cognitive dissonance. It is a feat I wish on my enemies. Only then will there be hope of genuine coexistence.”

Operation Black Belt diaries

A missile from Israel’s Iron Dome is fired to intercept a missile coming from the Gaza Strip, in November 2012. (photo by Nehemiya Gershuni-Aylho/IDF)

Interesting. Sad. Frustrating. Predictable. Some five years after Operation Protective Edge, there are the same tensions and military conflagrations between Gaza and Israel. As my three-part homefront diaries from 2014 is being printed as a retrospective in the Jewish Independent (see other article on this page), Israel continues to defend itself from indiscriminate missile fire from Gaza. With this diary, I hope to capture the same sense of homefront resilience. From the mundane to the philosophical, this is how I experienced it.

Tuesday, Nov. 12, 2019: Again. A little bit tedious. This business of war. Woke up just after 6 a.m. to a siren. Incoming. Oh well. Time to get up anyway. Just a few hours earlier, Baha Abu al-Ata (try say that while standing on your head) was assassinated in a targeted killing by the Israel Defence Forces. He was a top Palestinian Islamic Jihad (PIJ) commander in Gaza.

Not much later, a text message from the school district. School canceled. My daughter happy. Twenty minutes later, several of her friends show up for breakfast. Their conversation: missiles, sirens, stress levels, locations hit. Where is the giggling? The talk of boys? Of parties? OK, there was also that. Teenagers in the homefront.

Missiles hitting as far north as Tel Aviv. Several months ago, this was a red line. An exception. Now, the norm.

My wife called her mom, who lives just outside Tel Aviv. We’re bringing her here until the missiles stop.

Wednesday, Nov. 13: Two hundred missiles slammed into Israel. Remarkably, very little damage. Did the PIJ ever hear of GPS? Shhh. Don’t tell them.

The enemy is the Palestinian Islamic Jihad. Not Hamas. Not sure the difference. Or how important it is. Both radical Islamic parties. Both fire missiles at Israel. Both want to destroy Israel. Both want to kill Israelis.

Thursday, Nov. 14: A very quiet night. And then, around 6 a.m., the missiles started again. Raining on the south. By late afternoon, another 100 missiles fired on us. Yikes.

Told to brace for several days of fighting. Most of the missiles fired today fell around the Gaza periphery. PIJ not ready for a ceasefire. Acting as if they own this game. Maybe they do. Where is our might? Our deterrence? Our “make my day” attitude? Must put an end to this constant threat. To the PIJ. To Hamas. To their ability to fire indiscriminately and nonstop at Israel. It’s not fair. “Fair.” Like that’s a concept in war.

My big question, somewhat rhetorically, but also looking for answers: how did Gaza develop so many darn missiles? Shouldn’t we have stopped this stockpiling before it got out of hand? Same mistake in Lebanon, where Hezbollah has 150,000 missiles aimed at my home. Double yikes!

Regarding the current threat – 42 missiles fired at us in last 15 minutes. Triple yikes!

And, as I was sleeping in our apartment up north, where I stay occasionally during the week because of work, a missile was shot down over Rehovot. My daughter was woken at 11:30 p.m., alone at home. She excitedly recounted the difficulty she had shutting the fortified window in our protective room. The recently replaced screen is the culprit. By the time she finally got it shut, boom! The missile was shot from the sky by our trusty Iron Dome interceptor.

I need to fix that screen for next time.

Friday, Nov. 15: The fighting has been called Operation Black Belt. A ceasefire agreement reached. Not surprisingly, the ink not yet dry, more missiles fired into Israel.

Just wondering. When ceasefires agreements signed, does the PIJ – not Hamas, I remind you – and Israel sit around a table, sign a document, exchange pens, take a few selfies? OK, silly thought. But, if they did, might be a way to reduce animosity. They could even share a drink at an “after event.” Ha.

How does Operation Black Belt impact Israel’s political woes? Still a country without a functioning government.

And Gaza has a functioning government? A rhetorical question I couldn’t refuse to ask.

More than 400 missiles fired into Israel since Tuesday. Fifty-eight Israeli civilians injured, but none seriously (I think, I hope). Not sure our number of retaliatory attacks but reportedly significant.

Our ability to pinpoint attacks is just amazing. Baha Abu al-Ata (and his wife) were taken out while sleeping in his apartment. No other deaths or damage.

Saturday, Nov. 16: My morning news feed: “Intermittent Rockets Continue to be Launched by Palestinian Islamic Jihad.” Now, isn’t that lovely. Actually, it’s difficult to distinguish the morning thunderstorm – finally raining – from the sounds of missiles and anti-missiles clashing overhead. A boom is boom is a boom.

This is a ceasefire? Middle East-style, anyway. The proverbial beat goes on.

Protective Edge retrospective

Drivers take refuge from rockets in Tel Aviv, July 9, 2014. (photo from flickr.com/photos/idfonline)

Part 1 of a three-part series, in which the author shares his diaries from the homefront, providing a glimpse of daily life under missile threat during Operation Protective Edge in 2014. For Part 2, click here; for Part 3, click here.

July 8

Operation Cast Lead, 2008. Operation Pillar of Defence, 2012. Now, Operation Protective Edge, 2014.

Naïvely, I disassociate the unraveling events from the grisly murders of teenagers Gilad Sha’er, Eyal Yifrach, Naftali Fraenkel. Then the murder of teen Muhammad Abu Khdeir. Gripping the country in horror, fear and dismay. I hope a sense of normalcy will prevail.

It doesn’t. Last evening was disrupted by 15 rockets fired over Rehovot, my little shtetl. Our Iron Dome intercepted several of them. The rest missed their targets, falling into open land. Two hundred missiles fired at Israel over the past week.

The attack took us by surprise. Pizza ordered, my son just finished his shower, my daughter hanging in her room, which doubles as our reinforced shelter. The siren sounded. Together with our dog, we ran to join my daughter in her room. A bit invasive to a teen. But she forgave us.

I took a few extra seconds. I had 30, after all. Grabbed a large bottle of water, some chocolate, a few asthma inhalers. “Dad! Get your ass in here!” my son shouted as I was scouring the kitchen for more goodies.

Then. All clear. We left my daughter’s room. I mean, the protective room. The doorbell rang. Pizzas here.

Amazed the delivery boy was still doing his rounds. I admonished him for not seeking shelter. He says he waited out the attack in our stairwell (also a reinforced area). Quite impressed with his delivery skills, gave him a large tip. The pizza arrived in less than 30 minutes, as advertised. Great job.

Went to bed a few hours later. My daughter had a difficult night. Couldn’t fall asleep and came into our room a couple times. Did our best to comfort her. But what can we say? We were attacked with missiles.

We promised our daughter she wouldn’t have to stay home alone, that she could join me at work. Not sure this was a wise promise. My office is located more south. My big worry – the drive to work. Driving there, I imagine myself in an episode of Wagon Train.

Looks like we are moving into a major ground offensive. A pending call of up to 40,000 reservists. Imagine the impact this will have on our economy, on our society. Fortunately, my son’s army duty is two years away. Somewhat reassuring, but not much, as these operations tend to repeat themselves every couple of years.

July 9

Visited our safe room twice last night. Hamas fired missiles as far north as Tel Aviv. Even targeted our capital. Didn’t expect such a quick escalation. We responded. Pounded 150 targets inside Gaza. I pity the poor Gazans suffering the slings and arrows of their leaders.

Heard another siren while walking my dog this morning. Poncho and I ran to the nearest shelter, the stairwell of a neighbouring building. Waited the mandatory 10 minutes with a mother and her child. Adding to an already complicated situation the child had cynophobia – started panicking at the site of my dog. Poncho and I chivalrously moved one floor up.

Poncho also feels the stress. Waiting in the stairwell, amid the booms and sirens, he started crying, pawing me.

I think about my son and his friends, who have a trip to Eilat planned for tomorrow. They are debating whether to go. Tough call. My wife and I also are struggling with this. That dang security factor! But there is also the heroic, stoic pizza delivery guy message. Life in Israel.

July 10

Operation Cast Lead cost $50 million a day; total cost, one billion bucks. Pillar of Defence cost $2 billion. Where is this money coming from?

We’ve destroyed more targets in the last 36 hours than in all of Operation Pillar of Defence.

More than 90 missiles were fired at Israel yesterday. Thirty were struck down by the Iron Dome. Rehovot was pretty quiet, with only one evening siren. I was home alone while my wife and kids were at the mall, which they said was totally empty. So, why were they there? Great question. One I ask every time they’re at the mall. Missiles or not.

Yesterday, we received an automated call from our mayor. Rehovot, along with other southern municipalities, has declared a state of emergency. Not sure what this means. Think we need to stay within 90 seconds of a protected space. Try factoring that into your busy day!

Morning papers filled with instructions on how to stay safe. Definitely a well-prepared country with this sort of thing. Facts speak for themselves. No casualties, despite more than 300 missiles fired at us since hostilities broke out.

My gym routine at work was disrupted by a double siren (one after the other). While waiting in the protected area, I positioned myself for a dash to the bench press once the all clear was sounded. Priorities!

The situation was becoming routine. How quickly we adapt. Calling home, I asked the standard questions. What’s up? What are you doing? What’s for lunch? Any missiles? Reading your book? A totally ordinary conversation.

My son and his friends went to Eilat, which is outside the battle zone. So, in the meantime, just the regular parental worries for a vacationing teen.

On a patriotic note, I hung a flag on our balcony today. Nothing like a good war to bring out the blue and white in me.

That night, the 1970s comic strip Love Is came to mind. Discovered a new one – love is … being alone with your wife in a bomb shelter.

July 11

A siren went off this morning while I was driving to the supermarket. Always dreaded being in a car during a siren. Seems the least safe place. There I was at an intersection, a little jittery, looking for a place to pull over and exit the car – then run for fortified cover … or lie down with my hands over my head. Spotted a place just down the road. Reminded myself I had 90 seconds to get to relative safety.

The red light took forever to change. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Green! A car zoomed out from behind. Cut me off. Took my coveted spot. Dang! Most drivers stopped on the spot, like when the sirens sound on Remembrance Day, so I did the same. Then bolted from my car. Crouched down. Put my hands over my head and hoped for the best.

Crouching next to me was the guy who cut me off. He also didn’t get to “the spot” in time. He apologized. We exchanged pleasantries about the unpleasant situation. And then, moved on.

What’s with the covering our heads with our hands stuff? Will that protect us from burning debris falling from the sky? I told my daughter I’m going to start driving around with her bike helmet. Though not a bad idea, it was quickly nixed. If I did that, she warned, she’d never drive with me again. Too embarrassed I guess. Teens. Even during war. Go figure.

Yesterday afternoon, the Iron Dome intercepted several missiles over Rehovot. Parts of the Weizmann Institute of Science were covered with bomb fragments. Especially by the pool. The lifeguard had ensured the kids were out of the water and ushered to safety. A miracle no one was hurt. One panicked child ran back to reclaim his sandals. The lifeguard ran after him. Unable to drag him back in time, he covered the child with his body. Bomb fragments littered the ground around them. Another Israeli hero. Like the pizza delivery guy.

A missile was fired towards the Upper Galilee from Lebanon this morning. We fired back. Hope our Lebanese friends are deterred. Certainly prefer not to open another front.

The Israel Defence Forces also has struck 1,100 Hamas targets in Gaza: 210 targets over the last day, including 81 underground rocket launchers, 21 command and control centres, 15 attack tunnels, 10 training centres, seven administrative buildings. And a partridge in a pear tree.

July 12

Woke up this morning to find my daughter watching the news. Instead of her usual Saturday morning teen programs, she was actually watching the news. One of the first tragedies of war is innocence. On the positive side, we finally got our daughter interested in the news.

Another casualty of war? Certainty. We are no longer certain about so many things. Things that affect today, things that affect tomorrow, things that affect next year. Small things, large things. Lots of things. Not certain.

Two missile attacks on Rehovot today. Surreal. Scary.

Trying to keep a normal routine. Went to a matinée today. Still planning our summer vacation. Busy with work. Busy at home. Baking chocolate chip cookies. Watching Friends reruns. Doing everything with this horrendous situation in the background. Or the foreground.

A bit despondent today. Want this to end. But what’s the end? What about the economic fallout of a $2 billion bill? What about the political and diplomatic fallout? Waiting for some good news.

On return to Canada, life changes

Victor Neuman (photo from Victor Neuman)

In this eight-part series, the author recounts his life in Israel around the time of the 1973 Yom Kippur War. The events and people described are real but, for reasons of privacy, the names are fictitious.

Part 8: Epilogue

In a backhanded, minor way, I was a casualty of the war, too. The lack of help during the conflict meant I had to work alone trying to preserve the banana crop. One day, on my tractor, I was in a hurry, carrying several sacks of fertilizer to the fields. They had to go into the distribution tank before the irrigation timers flipped a switch and began irrigating another field. Someone at the kibbutz had helped me load them onto the hood of the tractor, with the idea that, at that height, I could drop them easily into the tank at the other end.

It didn’t work out that way. I hit a rut in the road and all the sacks slid to the ground. As fast as I could, I reloaded all the bags – which were 50 kilos each – lifting them from the ground to the tractor hood, and carried on. I felt OK at the time but I had herniated a disc in my back. The pain started later that day and got worse over the next few days. I saw a doctor in Hedera and got a daunting prognosis. My back might need surgery but no surgery would be possible in the near future. Wounded soldiers had priority, so only life-saving procedures were available to civilians. Had I been lucky enough to have been shot as well, they could have done something for my back.

I had to return to Canada to get the operation and, although I didn’t realize it at the time, my time in Israel was coming to an end. My plan was clear in my head. I would go home, get the surgery, return to Israel cured, become a kibbutz member, marry Tamar and live happily ever after. As the saying goes: “Man plans and God laughs.”

Away from Tamar in Canada, I had the growing realization that I wasn’t going back to Israel. The best explanation I can give is to repeat what a friend once told me.

He was a rude bugger but he had the right of it when he said, “Millions of years of evolution have turned men into slobbering idiots around women. Our problem is that we’re always thinking with the wrong head.”

Whatever Tamar and I had going on, it wasn’t happening between my ears. As beautiful as she was, I couldn’t imagine spending my life with her and I had to end things. And, if I ended things, I could never return to the kibbutz after jilting their darling firstborn-on-kibbutz child. And that particular kibbutz was the only place in Israel where I could imagine a life for myself.

It was over in every sense and way. I wrote a painful letter to Tamar. She wrote an even more painful letter back to me, using English expressions I didn’t know she had. She hated me. That made two of us. Lost another woman. Lost a country. Lost my purpose in life. How careless can you get?

Ironically, my back injury, which had started the whole process of turning my life on its head, simply healed itself. No surgery and no pain after just a few months. My life had completely changed direction because a few sacks of fertilizer fell off a tractor. Once again, life turning on a dime.

As much as I loved English literature, I still had no notion of how to use my master’s degree. Teaching wasn’t my thing and, with that degree, there wasn’t much else. I had to change gears – drastically. Then I recalled something from my time doing archeology.

While we tourist-volunteers struggled in the heat and dust, digging endlessly to uncover the ruins of Tel Beersheva, a surveyor stood over us and used his instrument to map out the location of walls as they were discovered. To do it, he spent most of his time staring through his instrument at his survey assistant – a woman in a two-piece bathing suit who was holding the survey rod. I started thinking an archeological surveyor was the job for me. You may think of me as a shallow person. In my defence, I am.

To make a long story short, I began studying survey technology at the British Columbia Institute of Technology. That morphed into surveying fish hatcheries, which morphed into surveying logging roads, which morphed into designing logging roads, which morphed into a lifelong career designing highways for the Province of British Columbia and an engineering firm called Binnie Engineering Consultants. Nowhere along the line did I ever do archeological surveying, and the only survey assistants I ever had wore flannel shirts, jeans and hiking boots.

In time, my road design work left me feeling a little parched, culturally. I decided to join the Vancouver Jewish Folk Choir. There, I met the gal who has been the love of my life for the past 31 years and counting. After meandering through life for what seemed like an eternity, what I wanted was crystal clear to me. I wanted her. And I learned something about finding my purpose in life. The main deal is to find the right person. The rest is just commentary.

We had our first date on New Year’s Eve. We were engaged by February and planning to be married by May. Her family was apoplectic about the timeline so we pushed the marriage date to September. I’ve stuck by her and she is stuck with me. And so, more than 30 years after puberty, I was finally all grown up. And you know what? By all I hold dear, she is the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Time is a river, they say, and this river may have almost run its course to the sea. But I remember the stream that became that river. I can never get Israel out of my mind, after all this time. And my leaving that country to lead the easy, secure life in Canada will always haunt me. It was 1974 and I still remember, clear as a bell, the sign I passed in Lod airport on the way to my plane home. In Hebrew and English, it said: “Will the last one to leave the country please turn off the lights.” Even believing I was soon coming back, I felt like a traitor.

A long time ago, when I was courting the dear lady I married, I did something very old-fashioned. I wrote her love poems. She may have married me because of them or in spite of them, I’m not sure which. I reread one of them recently and something dawned on me. It wasn’t a poem just for my beloved. It was also a poem for everybody in that land; everybody trying to hold onto their place in the sun or everybody trying to find it. It’s called “Magic”:

On this shattered summit / Over plains flooded red by sunfall / Where insect armies sullen, blooded / Crawl craters in search of victim’s missed / We perch uneasily / And wonder at a lethal world

But then, conjured by you / I felt for one bedazzled, high moment / We were magicians such as none before / And with our silk top hats / And our crimson capes, love-woven / We could pluck rabbits out of a hat / Launch birds out of a box / Or trick the world into decency.

(Previously: “Learning the lay of the land”; “When Afula road went quiet”; “Tending the banana fields in war”; “Weapon training begins”; “Near tragedy on guard”; “Fighters return to kibbutz”; “The fire-like impacts of war”)

Victor Neuman was born in the former Soviet Union, where his family sought refuge after fleeing Poland during the Second World War. The family immigrated to Canada in 1948 and Neuman grew up in the Greater Vancouver area. He attended the University of British Columbia and obtained a BA and MA with majors in English literature and creative writing. Between 1968 and 1974, he made two trips to Israel, one of which landed him on a kibbutz at the time of the 1973 Yom Kippur war. Upon his return to Canada, he studied Survey Technology at BCIT and went on to a career of designing highways for the Province of British Columbia and the firm of Binnie Civil Engineering Consultants. When he retired, he reconnected with his roots in creative writing and began writing scripts for Vancouver Jewish Folk Choir concerts and articles for the Jewish Independent. Neuman and his wife, Tammy, live in southeast Vancouver and enjoy the company of friends, their extensive extended family and their four sons.

The fire-like impacts of war

Life for many kibbutz members changed after they served in the war. (photo by Victor Neuman)

Part 7: The Ceasefire

The ceasefire came on Oct. 25, 19 days after the war had begun. It was a short war, if you look at it one way. In another way, it was a short episode in a long war going back to 1948 and stretching forward to a distant and indiscernible point. With the Yom Kippur War, we came to realize that Israel’s enemies could fight and lose many wars and still exist, while Israel could not afford to lose even one.

Still, we were grateful for the end of hostilities and longed for the return of all of those who had gone to fight from the kibbutz. Remarkably, they all survived to return. Remarkable because kibbutz soldiers had a reputation for aggressive leadership and devotion to duty. At that time, the statistic most often referenced was that only five percent of the population of Israel lived on kibbutzim but 20% of the officers in the Israeli military were kibbutz members. Correspondingly, they routinely made up a high percentage of war casualties.

But, just because no one was dead did not mean that nothing had died.

Tzvie and Ari seemed unfazed by the experience. They were back in the bananas with me and back to their joking ways. We were all sitting around having lunch, heads down in our plates when Tzvie popped up, threw a banana peel at Ari and then pretended to be eating like everybody else. Ari first faked a return throw and then threw it in earnest, hitting Tzvie on the side of the head.

“Hey! Why do you think it was me?” said Tzvie.

“I didn’t know at first so I just pretended to throw back. Only you ducked. The one who ducks is the guilty party.”

When they weren’t pranking each other, they were happily preparing for their return to Europe. The kibbutz had voted to give them another vacation to replace the one they had cut short to help in the war.

Others who returned were not the same. Yossi, a quiet youth, was a medic in the war. I had never worked with him nor had a close friendship with him, though, as I did everybody on the kibbutz, I saw him around a lot. Now, I was not seeing him around much. Not in the dining hall, not in the recreation room, not in any of the places kibbutzniks normally gathered. I passed by his flat and noticed a tray of food outside his door. When I asked a friend of his what was going on, he told me that Yossi hadn’t come out of his room since coming back. His friends decided that, if they couldn’t coax him out, at least they could make sure he didn’t starve to death. They would leave a food tray and he’d retrieve it when no one was around, and then put the empty tray out to be picked up. This went on for two weeks before Yossi finally began to appear and made the attempt to begin living again.

Yossi on the one hand, Tzvie and Ari on the other. I suppose war is a fire that can melt some metals and harden others.

Then there was Aryeh, one of our youngest who went to fight. He was still undergoing the three-year service requirement when the war broke out.

Aryeh drove an armoured personnel carrier and had been patroling in his vehicle near the ceasefire lines in the Golan. Night-driving conditions on the border required that headlights be cut or suppressed to reduce the vehicle’s visibility to the enemy. A member of Aryeh’s crew pestered him to let him drive the vehicle. The man was not an experienced driver but Aryeh let him take over the wheel. In a short time, the new driver lost control of the carrier and rolled it off the side of the road – Aryeh’s neck was broken and he was rendered a quadriplegic.

Aryeh was released from the hospital when they had done all they could for him. He required ongoing care but his doctors felt he needed to be home, where his family and friends were. They equipped his bed and room with every gizmo known to mankind and left him to make what he could of his life.

We all were horrified by what had happened to him and it became a kind of required pilgrimage to visit Aryeh and pass some time with him. Tamar was particularly determined to be at his side as much as she could. When we visited him, we were all so damned cheerful.

“Try to keep his spirits up,” we told ourselves. So, we joked, we gossiped, we kibbitzed, we pretended. Tamar was better at it than I was. She was naturally talkative, inherently upbeat and she carried on beautifully.

Aryeh was like Tamar – relentlessly cheerful. He never complained about his condition, never even talked about it. Those were conversations that were kept in his own head and I could only imagine the price he paid for what he couldn’t say.

Thinking about it later, I came to realize I’d do the same in Aryeh’s situation. Here you are, 20 years old, with no working arms or legs, no future to speak of. Perhaps no wedding or kids or life. All you have are your friends. Do you really want to drag them into your abyss to the point where they start avoiding you? Lose the last thing that gives you any semblance of contentment? And so, you let the tears flow when you are alone and the jokes flow when you have company. As I said, relentlessly cheerful.

Our next door neighbour, Shmuel, came home to his wife and two kids. I was incredibly glad to see him. When Shmuel was called up, he was in the middle of a birthday party for one of his two daughters, the 9-year-old. He finished the party, got into his uniform, grabbed his gun and then stopped in to see me before he headed north.

“I have a favour to ask, Kanadi.”

I knew that, in two hours, he would be on the front lines in the Golan. And that, three hours after his daughter’s birthday party, he could be dead. I was ready to give him any damn thing he wanted.

“I understand your parents in Canada shipped you a crate with a stereo system – the one you have on Tamar’s bookshelf. I was wondering if I could get the wood crate from you. I want to make a wagon for my kids.”

“Yes, take it,” I said. “And take the stereo, too.”

He treated it as a joke but I was only half-kidding. In that moment, there wasn’t enough I could do.

But Shmuel came back. I wanted to give him a bear hug when I spotted him walking up the path but his family called dibs.

The war was over. Or, to put it more accurately, this war was over.

(Next Time: Epilogue)

Fighters return to kibbutz

Stacking the banana bunches in the wagon required a type of superpower. (photo from Victor Neuman)

Part 6: War Comes Home

My first inkling of how fighting is done in this region of the world came in 1969, when I was working on the pipeline near Arad. Our crew was encamped at a motel and so were some Israeli soldiers. At that time, there were infiltrators crossing from Jordan into Israel and planting bombs wherever vehicles were likely to pass. Tourists like myself were warned to hitch rides while standing on the paved part of the road – never the soft shoulder. Similarly, the cars picking you up never pulled over; they simply stopped in the travel lane and waited.

The Israeli patrols were setting up ambushes in wadis in the area. When they came back to the motel to warm up, I talked with them about what they were doing.

As darkness came, the soldiers drove out to a wadi that showed signs of human activity, positioned themselves and waited. It was damn cold, they told me, especially when you had to remain still for a long time. Their jackets and leggings kept most of their bodies warm but their hands became very cold. You can’t properly operate a weapon with gloves on.

“So, what did you do to keep your hands warm?” My question got laughter in response.

“Shall we tell him?”

“Yes, who cares? Tell him.”

“Well, if you must know, we all sit around with our hands in our crotch. That’s the only way to keep them warm.”

Still the greenhorn, I asked them if they had any luck or taken any prisoners. Again, they looked at each other – in more seriousness this time.

“It’s dark and you can’t see what they have in their hands even when their hands are in the air. We just kill them all.”

I had no more questions.

Now, it was 1973 and the war had been going on for two weeks. The tide had turned. Syria had been pushed back from the Golan and Egypt had been cut off in the Sinai. To the relief of all of us on the kibbutz, Jordan’s only contribution to the war had been to send some soldiers to fight alongside the Syrians. There was no Jordanian third front in the war.

A trickle of kibbutz members – mainly the older reservists – began returning from the front lines. One of them was a good friend and a fellow banana worker named Moti.

Moti’s talent in the fields showed itself during our time of kateef (cutting, or harvesting). Moti received the bunches and quickly stacked them in the wagon, usually about eight rows high. His superpower was being able to do this in a way that the row would not collapse before the next row shored it up. I tried it once and produced a banana avalanche. It was one of those things that is funny in hindsight – at the time, we had to empty the whole wagon and start over. Time was wasted, bananas were bruised, Lev was pissed.

Moti told me he hadn’t been on the front but had heard stories from those who were. They told him that they had retaken outposts that were overrun in the first days of the war. They found Israeli soldiers tied to the four corners of their bunk with their bellies cut open. I asked him if he had seen any of this; he told me he hadn’t. They were just stories he had heard, but he believed them.

Having Moti back was like old times. Moti, Lev and I were all back in the bananas, along with a number of tourist-volunteers. We were able to properly tend the fields again and we wished to think that life was returning to normal.

Still, the war came home whenever someone else came back on furlough and brought their stories. Next to return were Tzvie and Ari – good friends who, in peacetime, worked the fields together and, in wartime, shared a tank. Just before the war, they had completed their three years of military service and were off on a tour of Europe. No one on the kibbutz could afford to do such things, so the kibbutz rewarded everyone who completed their army stint with an all-expenses paid trip to Europe. It was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see the world before settling down and all the kibbutz kids dreamed of their time abroad.

Tzvie and Ari were two weeks into their trip when the news reached them that Israel was under attack. Ari wanted to carry on with the tour, arguing that the war would be over before they got home, but Tzvie would have none of it. He told Ari that he would go insane if he were walking around Europe while his country was at war and he became so agitated that Ari agreed to return.

One of the war stories they shared was that, on one of their forays, their tank was hit by a wire-guided missile – a portable device enabled the operator to fire the missile and control it in flight by means of a wire that played out as the missile flew on its path. The Egyptian army had many of these missiles and they took a deadly toll on Israeli tanks in the opening days of the war.

When Tzvie and Ari’s tank was hit, it was immediately disabled and the entire crew had to abandon it quickly. With the enemy nearby, they couldn’t exit from the top of the tank so they dropped the hatch at the bottom and escaped using their tank’s track-and-wheel assembly as cover. They were tripping and stumbling over anti-tank wires from an earlier battle but managed to haul their guns and a box of ammunition to a nearby hill. They were grateful to be alive but less so when they realized they had brought the wrong ammunition; it was compatible with one of the tank’s machine guns but none of the weapons they were carrying. In despair, they hunkered down and waited to be attacked. Then they began to notice how quiet it was. In fact, there was no one around but them. They came down from the hill to investigate and found that their tank had actually hit a land mine.

Ari said of the experience, “Yes, it was scary, but at least our job is driving a tank. It’s worse to be a paratrooper. There they tell you that, if your chute doesn’t open, point yourself head down toward the ground. That way they can reuse your boots.”

At this point, Ari and Tzvie smacked each other on the back and laughed their heads off. Seeing our cue, we all laughed as well.

Now I had the whole range of it. War, murderous and savage. War as slapstick.

(Next Time: The Ceasefire)

(Previously: “Learning the lay of the land”; “When Afula road went quiet”; “Tending the banana fields in war”; “Weapon training begins”; “Near tragedy on guard”)