A Soldier of the People

Yom revi'i, 27 Av 5772.

As much as I love writing this blog, guest posts from my sons are still my favorites.  Here, Yeshiva Bochur (aka Exiled Warrior) shares some feelings about another aspect of being an IDF soldier.

"I'm not a role model... Just because I dunk a basketball doesn't mean I should raise your kids."    (Charles Barkley, 1993)

  EPIC FAIL 

Today, while walking through the stone passageways of the Old City in my uniform, I was reminded of something. Something that a soldier sitting on the lonely border, counting the hours before he goes home again, can easily forget: my job as an IDF soldier.

Of course, I know that part of my job is to guard the borders of Israel from possible attacks. I know that part of my job is that in case of war I must set aside my individual safety for the continuation of the State of Israel. These things we are reminded of everyday.

What I was reminded of today, however, was the other part of my job. Possibly the part I draw the most pride from.

On my short walk through the Old City, two kids asked me to be in a photo with me, at least five people asked me directions, and a few old Yerushalmi women threw me blessings for safety.

Even though I've only been in the army a year and have seen very little of what would be called "action," to those kids I was Yoni Netanyahu rescuing hostages at Entebbe; I was Ro’i Klein leaping on a grenade to protect his fellow soldiers. To them I was a hero, and they were honored to be standing beside me.

It doesn't matter that I've only been in this country two years -- to those "direction seekers" I was a reliable source of information, because of course, I'm a soldier, so of course, I know.

Our job is to defend these people. Whether that means giving our lives in the field of battle or giving a woman a hand with her bags, our job is to help our fellow Israeli.

We are part of the very fabric of this Land. We are your sons and daughters. We are your brothers and sisters. We are your grandkids.

We represent this country and every human being who sacrificed his life for it.

It doesn’t matter what I was before, what I will be after, or what I am when the uniform comes off.  When I don this garb, I represent sixty-four years of rebuilding the State of Israel, sixty-four years of bravery, sixty-four years of brotherhood.

It is this part of my job, we soldiers tend to forget. And it this part of my job the Old City reminded me of today.

Sleep well Am Yisrael. Your family has got your back.

"What is the Jew?"

Yom shlishi, 27 Tamuz 5772.

The hot summer, involvement in hasbara (Israeli public diplomacy), and simple contentment with life, have kept me from writing much lately.  Fortunately, the hot summer seems to inspire Yeshiva Bochur, aka Exiled Warrior, to write about his experiences in the IDF.  Here is an especially sweet post.  If you enjoy this piece, you may want to peruse some of his other recent writing at his blog.


We all looked up surprised when a bus full of young children pulled into our base on the Israel-Lebanon border. We were working on our equipment as they poured off the bus with huge smiles and eyes filled with wonderment. A smile soon crossed every tired soldier’s face as the kids ran around firing questions faster than some of the machine guns that were present.

It soon became understood that the children were those who had lost family members in war and or terror attacks. The sergeant called for a break from work and gathered everyone into one big room.

Usually this particular room is used for briefings before patrols on the border, but today it became filled with soldiers and children, or more appropriately, younger siblings and older brothers.

The kids donned with pride the red berets of the soldiers, and listened intently as they explained about the different types of guns and equipment.

All the kids had prepared letters which they handed out to the soldiers.

Mine was written by two young girls named Talia and Mashi. This is what they wrote:

Dear Soldier,

Shalom, our names are Talia and Mashi. We are campers in the summer camp "Mishpacha Echat." A camp for people whose families have been effected from war or terror. 

Both of our families have all been effected from terror. 

I (Talia), my older brothers, Lidor and Oriah, were killed on a bus in Jerusalem on a way to a family event. My father was injured slightly from the attack and my mother was not injured. My uncle, his wife and two kids were also killed in the attack. 

It is hard for me to be without my older brothers. 

I (Mashi), my father was killed in a shooting in the North. He was already let off his work before because of an injury from another terror attack. After the first attack he became a driver. He was taking people to work when he was killed. 

My father was killed when I was a year and two months. To be without a father is very hard. 

Thank you for guarding us, look out for yourselves.

We love you.


Talia and Mashi

These are the heroes I had the pleasure to be around today. This amazing camp, "Mishpacha Echat" brings these children here and they strengthen us and we strengthen them. The nation is strengthened. "The Nation builds the army, the army builds the Nation." That is the army's mantra.

Mark Twain, after studying the "The Jew," became perplexed and remarked: "All things are mortal but the Jew; all other forces pass, but he remains. What is the secret of his immortality?"

Our enemies have tried to destroy us time and again. They believe that they, like a mighty wave, will be able to extinguish the Jewish flame. But they, like all their predecessors, sink back into the sea, forgotten. The Jew however, is still standing. You have killed my older brothers, my father, my uncle, my nieces and nephews. But you have killed only their bodies. Their souls are eternal, we are eternal.

I am so proud of my Nation. When I see those bright-eyed kids that the enemy tried to destroy, wearing paratroopers’ red berets, I am reassured that we will never be defeated. We stand together, as One Family -- as a " Mishpacha Echat."

That Mr. Twain -- that is our secret.

A Soldier's Bird's Eye View from Outside the Plane

Yom chamishi, 23 Shevat 5772.

This is a long post, but worth the read if you've ever wondered what it feels like to fall from the sky.  Yeshiva Bochur (aka "Sage," aka Exiled Warrior) writes beautifully, from the heart.  Share his adventure.

"The more fears one overcomes, the more alive he becomes." - Sage 

I have recently had the unique opportunity to parachute from a plane at 400 meters as part of my military service in the Israeli Airborne Division (חטיבת הצנחנים). 



At the request of my mother, and for the sake of not losing those precious moments beneath the sands of time, I will attempt to describe the indescribable.

The hour is 12:00 noon when you arrive at the runway. They have already canceled so many jumps that you don’t even feel any anticipation. You strap on the large parachute, close the clips and tighten the straps. You now wait to be checked by one of the instructors. A few minutes go by; he checks you; you sit and wait for the plane.

Pre-flight confidence:  "Everyone's brave while he's on the ground."

12:45 – Still nothing. You start to wonder what it will be like. People around you are guessing and telling rumors of what they have heard. Some are afraid, some are excited. You start to pray. Not out of fear, but out realization of how much we depend on His protection.

13:30 – You start to doze off. The soldier next to you is already saying how he is positive they've canceled another jump. By this point you just want to do something.

13:45 – Suddenly, the first plane appears, and with it, a large wave of reality. You are set to be on the next plane. Is this really going to happen? You watch the first group march into the unknown, and your heart starts to beat a little faster. The plane takes off; and it is quiet again on the runway. But everyone is awake. Preparing himself.

14:00 – The plane – your plane –- arrives. The instructor, with a smirk on his face, tells everyone to rise and begin to march. You start to walk slowly, staring at the helmet of the soldier in front of you. Someone puts a hand on your shoulder. You turn around, it’s your friend from your barracks. He smiles at you, and you both raise your eyebrows as if to say: "What the hell, let’s do this." Just seeing him comforts you.

Before you know it, you’re entering the plane. Your eyes dart from place to place. It looks the same as the one on the video; but in a way it looks completely different. Time stops. 


Your mind is focused. The thought of what you are about to do, the danger, the fear, the uncertainty, stay concreted in your brain.


You sit. Another person sits across from you. You have never seen him before; but suddenly, he is your best friend. You look at each other. You see he is sweating. You tell him, uncertainly, that it'll all be fine. He mumbles something; it doesn’t matter what, and you smile at him. You are in this together and you can feel it. You pull out the תפילת הדרך לצניחה (the Wayfarer’s Prayer for a safe jump). You recite it. You look up at your new friend, and hand it to him. The prayer is handed from soldier to soldier, each connecting in his own way. It’s the last time you see that little piece of paper.

The plane starts down the runway. You feel the wheels churning and the powerful engine working, kicking into full gear. Guys begin to sing and shout. You join in. It helps.

The plane lifts off. You have left the security of the ground. Higher, higher, higher... You are given the command to stand. You are the third in line. By this point, you have to stop worrying: there is no time for that now. You focus. You know what you have to do. You trained for a week for this very moment.

The doors open. The wind rushes in. You can see the ground below. You close your eyes, but then almost immediately reopen them. This is it. You’re going to jump. The red light is on. The first guy in line steps up to the door. He is stricken with fear. Everyone waits for the green light, giving us the go ahead. You stare at the red light. It stares back at you as if with an evil grin.

Green light. You hear the instructor tell the first one to jump, and he is gone. The second is at the door; and then he, too, vanishes. It’s your turn. You were told that by this point your brain would shut off. It hasn't. You move quickly to the door, pushing away fear.

"Jump!" You feel the slap on your back. As if in a dream, you are transported into open space. You don’t remember jumping; it’s more like you just appeared there. The world is flying around you. Your body is being hurled about at the will of the wind. You count: "Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three." You feel a jerk, and everything stops.

You look up. Your parachute has caught wind and hangs above you peacefully. You laugh. Not a simple laugh. A deep-rooted laughter comes pouring forth from your very soul. Laughter of salvation. From darkness to light, chaos to redemption.

You are now alone. You can hear your heartbeat in the silence of this eternal moment. Your friends fill the sky around you. You feel like you are on top of the universe. Everything is still.

You look down. You see now the direction you are being carried. This is an important fact you will need in order to execute a perfect landing. You now can feel the sensation of falling. The ground begins closing in.

Thirty meters above ground, as you were trained, your prepare your body for the ground’s impact. You begin now to see the speed at which you are falling. The ground is getting ever closer. You glance down at your feet to make sure they are straight. Your knees are bent. Your hands tighten around the parachutes straps. You are ready. The ground now looks as though you are looking at it from within a moving car. Your body tenses. You are very close. The ground is only a meter away.

Impact. Your body slams into the ground. Your eyes are shut. A second passes. You open your eyes. You feel a jerk on your shoulders as the parachute tugs at you, as the air leaves its massive belly. You stand up. You’re fine. Thank God! Soldiers are falling all around you. You see one guy not press his legs together. He'll probably hurt a little; but he'll be fine. Happiness is all you feel. You pack up the chute, brush off the twigs and sand that you landed on, and start heading for the meeting point. You see the soldier who sat across from you in the plane. Without a signal or a word of any kind, you both embrace, full of joy. You ask him how it went; he tells you his story; you tell him your adventure. And you part. Maybe for good – but the moment is cherished.

As you're piecing together all that has just occurred, the images rush through your mind. You feel just a bit taller. Like a new man. You have crossed over a border, a limit you used to have. Fear bows his head before you, conquered. You are freer now. The next limitation, the next dread awaits you, and you are ready for it.

Ready for any new challenge

Most aerial shots taken by the proud father of the Tzanchan.

How much can you buy with a hundred shek?

Yom sheni, 2 Tamuz 5771.

As it was the first Sunday of summer vacation, the bus was typically very full.  Soldiers, giggling girls, mothers shlepping several little ones.  I sat down next to a young female soldier who was busy texting.  (I wish I could type that fast with just my thumbs!)

At every stop, the seats filled up, until eventually a young mother sat down on the steps with two small children.  I looked back to where they sat behind me, and noticed a hundred shekel bill on the floor near them.

I picked it up, and offered it to the mother.  She said it was not hers.  No one near her claimed it either.  As it was folded the way I fold my own, I checked my purse to be sure that it was not mine.  My bill was folded right where I had left it.  So, I got up and walked to the back of the bus, trying to remember who had boarded after me.

I offered the bill to everyone as I made my way through the bus.  A young solider in the back row of seats turned to his seat mate and said with exaggerated surprise, "Ohhhhhh, you remember that hundred shek bill I dropped earlier?" Even though I knew he was playing, I held the bill out to him; but he laughingly refused it.  "Staaaam!  Just kidding."

I went back to my seat.  I asked the soldier next to me to remind me of the grammar:  "How do I say "dropped" in Hebrew?"  She quickly went through a short lesson in Hebrew grammar, working out with me if I wanted a passive verb, or an active past tense verb.  (Everyone in Israel seems ready to be a teacher, if I ask.)

I walked up and gave the bill to the bus driver, explaining that someone had dropped it.  Thanks to my soldier-teacher, he understood me, and took the bill.  Of course I cannot know what became of it after that.  Did someone come forward, grateful that money was not lost after all?  Did the bus driver pocket it, turn it into lost and found, drop it into a pushke?  I don't know, and I don't especially care.

Right now, the value of a hundred shekel bill is close to $30.  If the behavior on the bus is not something you are accustomed to in your part of the world, you will understand why I never tire of "only in Israel" stories.  If it is something you are used to, then you are very blessed.

I would like to dedicate as much of that busload of honesty as possible to a refua shelaima for my dear friend Tzuriya Kochevet bat Sara Imeinu.  May we do as many acts of kindness and honesty as possible, and may they help us to pay for a healthy, whole, completely-repaired world.

Haveil Havalim #320, the Summertime Edition, is up at Frume Sarah's World.  Yeshiva Bochur, writing as "Exiled Warrior," has an excellent post published there.  Please shep nachas with me!