It's April 2nd, and I'm now about three months away from my projected take-off. Here are the basics: I've applied for a couple of funds and one big awesome fellowship (for which I have an interview on Monday) which will take me to Israel for the next year. In all, I'll be in Israel for the next year or two, starting in July, after my job back in DC with Brit Tzedek. The exact length will be determined by how long Yonatan will take to finish his degree. Afterwards we'll travel--to Thailand, Cambodia, and India if it's in the winter; South America if it's summer.

I'm writing my new play, which is also my Div III, and doesn't yet have a title. I've got a major deadline looming and I trawl the internet for inspiration. In one of these efforts, poking around Facebook, I discovered that an inordinate number of my friends have moved to Israel to join the army. Ok, it's not exactly a huge percentage, and it's not really any of my close friends--mostly acquaintances from Young Judaea.

How strange, I think to myself, that I don't know anyone in the US army but more than a handful of Israeli soldiers--Americans, that is, who moved to Israel just to be soldiers. These are kids I grew up with over years at camp and conventions, who went through all the awkward stages of adolescence next to me. I once had a minor meltdown when I realized my childhood friends from Israel were going into the army. Now I'm faced with an even stranger situation, where my childhood friends from America are moving and enlisting in droves.

Since I left Young Judaea, eyes opened to the organization's one-sided bent, I've had a lot of time to reflect on why it is that I turned out the way I am, and most of my Young Judaea friends turned out the way they are. It seems like only a few have, like me, experienced Israel outside the lens of the traditional view and become open to Palestinian narratives. Most have become more and more militaristic, to the point of relocating thousands of miles to join a foreign army. Could it be that our upbringing in Young Judaea contributed to this pro-military world view? Searching back through my memory, I can say the general attitude within Young Judaea towards the Israeli army was deferential, even romantic. But I can't say that I--and I think my fellow Judaeans--ever actually thought of it as an army. IDF tee shirts were YJ chic, and to hook up with an Israeli soldier (in uniform, of course) would grant you the ultimate bragging right. But did we think about what it meant to be a soldier? Did we think about how the M-16 is not just for show, but is used to kill people? Children that we were, did we think about killing people as part of the job of a soldier?

We glorified the army. Yes. We did. And we never looked at it critically. In fact, we never looked critically at almost anything. And it was exhilarating--we felt like we were part of something special, a global movement where we, as Americans who grew up in the minority, could feel solidarity with our people. I can't help but think that this sort of upbringing is exactly the kind of thing that would cause a young American kid to become an Israeli soldier. It's that wanting to be a part of something, wanting to feel strong and secure.

Many of my friends in the peace movement went through radical personal transformations to get to where they are today, and there's a moment a lot of us have had where we realize the person on the other side of the fence--metaphorically speaking--could very easily be us. I'm having one of those moments in retrospect, thinking about the scariest encounter I ever had with Israeli soldiers. Below is an excerpt from the final and never posted Aaron/Wayne Update, written in September of this year as part of my Div II retrospective. As you read it, imagine the soldier is a kid I played spin-the-bottle with when I was eleven, or a kid I acted with in a play, or one with whom I played games or climbed mountains. Imagine I sat in a circle with them at the end of each summer, passing around a candle and saying we'd never forget one another--ever--and that this was the best time of our lives.

I had the opportunity, towards the end of my stay in Israel, to travel to the Windows office in the West Bank town of Tul Karem. Rutie set me up with two women from Machsom Watch, the organization of Israeli women who stand at the checkpoints to monitor human rights and advocate for the Palestinians. They were to give me a ride to Jibara, one of the closest checkpoints to the town and refugee camp of Tul Karem. Mahmoud would meet me at the other side of the checkpoint and take me to the Windows center. I’d spend the day in Tul Karem, and in the evening the women from Machsom Watch would pick me up and take me back to Tel Aviv.

There were a few things I did not know before I embarked on this trip. First of all, the women from Machsom Watch were not going to be monitoring the checkpoint at Jibara. This checkpoint was only for large freight vehicles; no Israelis or Palestinians were allowed to cross there. As a foreign national, I was allowed to cross where I liked, which was strange but, at the same time, convenient. Second, I was not the only additional passenger on this trip. The women had another charge, a guy about my age from northern Tel Aviv. When the women asked why he wanted to come with Machsom Watch, he said he’s currently in the Army, but he recently saw a film about some of the problems with the wall and the checkpoints, so he decided to see for himself. On the way, the women tried to explain some of the issues to him. The main point, they said, is that it’s basically a farce. No one trying to set off a bomb would bother going through a checkpoint. There are ways around the wall, places where it isn’t secure or isn’t complete, so the people who are actually affected by the checkpoints are the ones that clearly have nothing to hide.

We got to Jibara and one of the women got out of the car with me to make sure the checkpoint commander would allow me to pass down the dirt road on the other side of the checkpoint. He agreed. The Machsom Watch woman pointed me in the direction of the dirt road and waited until I had crossed through the checkpoint to leave.

Unfortunately, it was at that moment that I realized that I wasn’t going down the right road. I asked a man on the sidewalk if this was the right way to Tul Karem, and he pointed me back towards the checkpoint and through a fence off to the side. Feeling more than a bit stupid, I walked back through the checkpoint and headed for the fence.

I didn’t get too far before a soldier with a huge gun strapped to his chest came running after me and shouting in Hebrew to stop.

Telling myself to remain calm, I turned, smiled at him, and said “Boker Tov” (good morning.) He told me I wasn’t allowed to cross there. I told him we’d already cleared it with the commander.

“It is forbidden for you to pass here,” he repeated in Hebrew.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you’re a Jewish girl. You’re an Israeli girl. You can’t pass at this checkpoint.”

I smiled innocently again and reached slowly into my bag to pull out my passport. “No I’m not,” I said, “I’m an American.”

The guy was bewildered. I was proud my Hebrew was that convincing, but not too excited to prolong the encounter. He examined my passport thoroughly. “You’re an Israeli citizen too?”

“No,” I said, “I’m an American.”

More searching for any sign of dual citizenship. Why I didn’t switch to English right there I just don’t know. “Are you sure you’re not also an Israeli?” he asked me skeptically.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I laughed. He handed me back my passport.

“OK.”

Mahmoud was waiting on the other side of the fence with a cab driver. He took me on a little driving tour of the refugee camp and the town of Tul Karem. To call it a town doesn’t really do it justice. Crumbling cinderblock buildings built all on top of one another, with the only noticeable difference between the “refugee camp” and the “town” being that the refugee camp was, if possible, even more densely populated than the town. Minimal furniture, if any, could be found inside the living spaces, with thin mattresses to sleep as many as possible on pretty much any interior floor. It was heartbreaking and fascinating. I had wanted to take pictures, but in the moment felt like a voyeur.

Mahmoud took me to the Windows center to meet some of the kids involved in Windows programs. We had an extremely interesting conversation, with Mahmoud translating between the kids’ Arabic and my Hebrew. I asked if they thought being involved with Windows had changed the way they think about things, and the oldest of the boys said that he used to think that all Jews were bad and if he ever met one he’d kill him.

“But now,” he said, “I have Jewish friends too. And I know they’re not all bad. So I don’t think like that anymore. I want to work with them for peace.”

One of the questions he asked them was whether they thought there could be peace while there is occupation. Predictably (and understandably), they all answered “no”. All until the last of the boys on the end had his turn to answer.

“Yes,” he said.

Mahmoud was taken aback. “If someone came into your house and took over your room, could you be friends with him?”

“It’s not the same,” the boy answered. “We don’t have the power to end the occupation. We’ve tried. It doesn’t work. We do have the power to make peace.”

Later that night, after a delicious meal at Mahmoud’s sister’s house, where the wall was no more that 100 meters away and a picturesque suburban town sat mockingly just on the other side, I realized it was getting late and probably time to go home. I called my contact at Machsom Watch.

“Oh no!” she said. “We forgot all about you! We’re already back in Tel Aviv. I’m so sorry, but you’ll have to get another ride home.”

Another ride? Right, like it’s so easy to hitchhike from a refugee camp in the West Bank across the border to Tel Aviv. I ended the call and, very calmly, told Mahmoud what had happened.

“Ok, no problem, you’ll stay with me,” he offered.

“No, thank you so much Mahmoud,” I said, “but I really have to get back.”

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you scared?”

Yes. I was scared. And it was completely irrational. I had seen far fewer soldiers and guns in my entire day in Tul Karem than I would normally see walking to the grocery store in Tel Aviv. The fear was entirely psychological, but it was real.

“No,” I lied. “It’s just that they’re expecting me in Jerusalem. I’ll call the Tel Aviv office and see what we can do.”

I couldn’t tell him. How do you tell someone you don’t think it’s safe enough for you to spend one night in the place he lives every day of his life? You can’t. I couldn’t.

The Tel Aviv office sent a taxi, and I caught the last bus back to Jerusalem. Three days later, I was back in America.

Labels: army, div ii, div iii, field study, hampshire, israel, palestine, usa