Civilian T's to that Olive Green

I’ve liberated myself from the constraints of my luscious locks and am ready to trade in my civilian T’s for that olive green.

That olive green. The colour that inspires, and allows that blue and white to stay bright.

When I was in Australia I said, “Wherever I walk, I walk toward Israel”. When I got to Israel, I said “Wherever I stand, I sand in Israel”. Now, in my final hours of freedom I say “From tomorrow, wherever I stand, I stand for Israel”.

After my service I’ll say: “Shit, I gotta get a job.”

Friends who wished they had one last chance to run their fingers through my hair, or have one last beer with me ask me how I feel about it all. I thought I’d share it with you.

Firstly, joining the army, for me, is neither the realisation of political or religious agenda. It is a part of the reality in which I live. If a country is under threat, they need a defence force.

No idea why Australia has one.[1]

This is not to say that I want to go to the front line and monitor borders, or have to decide if someone should live or die. I would be happy to be behind a desk and not have any contact with weapons at all. There is no doubt that there a need for those kind of soldier, but those who know me, know that I’m not that kind of guy.

There are some things I am nervous about, and other things that I’m excited about.

Communal showers for example.

I’m no exhibitionist. I’d prefer to wash myself without being bathed by someone else’s gaze.

One thing that excites me is the chance to meet people from all walks of life who I would not have spoken to because of the city they come from or any number of reasons.

As much as Israel has abandoned the kur khitukh (‘melting pot’) model and has embraced integration over assimilation, there are certainly still elements of ‘becoming one of the flock’ when you pass under the shepherd hook of the I.D.F. It is an integral experience in being an Israeli.

No doubt it will be an eventful period of my life.

Stay tuned for stories.

Sgt. Jorje

"I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier. I've got ham, but I'm not a hamster"

Ethpanya! Aiy yai yai!

The best thing I ate

I know it’s been a while since I’ve made a post. I have been travelling the land of Spain the past two weeks, and then real life hit me in the face like a fat sweaty Middle Eastern man catapulted from three meters in front of me.

I’ve been a bit of a deer in headlights – excited by being back in Israel but confused about metaphoric trucks careering toward me.

Spain was beautiful. A dazzling European city. Clean with grand buildings and picturesque landscapes. You can taste where Picasso, Dali, Goudy and other artists received their inspiration.

While there, my main goal was to try and fit in. Not be an average tourist, but an Aussie/Israeli expat who had been in Spain for a while.

The first was the language. Of which I had none to start with. Well, I knew how to say “I am hungry, I want tacos”, but that’s about it.

I got their late at night with my “I am hungry” phrase and “where is” which I had learnt on the plane and used to find my way to the hostel. I wrote the word “right” on my right hand, and “left” on my left hand. My mastery of the body language got me there in the end; You see a nice old man shake both hands vigorously straight and say some things in Spanish, you learn that he is mostly saying “go straight”.

The next day I discovered that because of a King they once had, the Spanish still today speak with a lisp. I later found out that the lisp doesn’t appear on each ‘s’ sound. They can say “Espanya”, it’s not “Ethpanya”.

Once I got that down I learn to ask where the toilets where properly, without being blurred with a mouthful of ‘th’ sounds.

Then to complete my Spanish transformation I had to master a couple more things:

1.       Afternoon naps. Everything closes there for two to four hours in the afternoon. – Easy

2.       I had to start drinking beer or wine at 10am – manageable.

3.       And I had to eat a lot of a little.

Tapas and Pinchos are the dishes available in Spain, 98% of which are something with thin slices of ham they scraped off the legs they have displayed on their counters.

Tapas are small side dishes costing between EU2 for something simple like garlic bread, to EU6 for something elaborate. Pinchos are fancy little finger food, which in the north are customarily washed down with cider, and in the south, sangria.

Basically mouthfuls of deliciousness.

Being Jewish I found the eating thing to be the easiest way to fit in – in theory. Being vegetarian complicated things. “What do you mean no ham?!? What do you eat?”

In short I managed. I didn’t go hungry at all.

Segovia, Spain

I spent my days there soaking in fine art and sun, riding bikes through parks both Israel and Australia wouldn’t have the water to upkeep. Drinking enough, dancing a little, climbing mountains (hills), castles and cathedral walls. We saw everything Goudy and Jewish, and enough cathedrals to satisfy me for a long time.

It was a great feeling to arrive back in Israel and hear my fellow citizens saying how they hope Gilad Shalit will be able to return home soon too and the next day he did. What an experience, not a dry eye in sight, such a joyous day. 

Not an Ordinary Day

He sits at a wobbly table in his usual café in the heart of Jerusalem finishing off his third cigarette. He puffs away anxiously, eager to start the next one as soon as his tired lungs will let him.

He doesn’t usually drink espresso, but today he needs a good kick.

He wriggles in his seat, can’t seem to find a comfortable resting position. His insides are squirming as he reads the paper.

On an ordinary day he would nurse a latte while eaves dropping on his neighbours; a woman is pregnant, a couple breaking up, the state of the government. Today all the talk at the tables around him is the same.

A boy, who more than one thousand eight hundred and twenty five days ago, was taken from his home soil in an act of warfare or terrorism, and now, after all this time, his return looks within arm’s reach.

Five years. The man thinks about what has happened to him in five years. How the street he looks out on has changed. How the street language has changed. How people have changed.

For so long this boy has neither seen his family or his people. Does he realise there has been a worldwide campaign to bring him out? Does he care? Or does he just want to be with his parents who have sat in torment and torture in a purgatory where they can neither mourn the death of their son, nor hope for his return? That is, until now.

At long last, his nation’s protests, petitions and prayers will be answered.

The man read’s on, and his excitement is confused by the following paragraph explaining the price of the exchange. One thousand and twenty seven convicted criminals, each with at least one life sentence for acts of violence and terror. Hands dyed red with the blood of the innocent. They will be returned to their homes, some just minutes from the café.

Will this trade throw this city into an all too familiar wave of chaos where Molotov cocktails are the least of his worries?

The article says these prisoners are not only to be released, but to be given a pardon signed by the president. He doesn’t envy the president.

He lights another cigarette, a luxury the stolen boy has not had for so many years.

So many questions swirl in his mind. He sways with the ebb and flow of his moral compass.

This is not an equal exchange by any means, but we cannot leave a live man behind enemy lines. But doesn’t this encourage the militia to do this again? How many more lives will be lost from this trade off? In what state will we be getting him back? Is this just a political move for a government who is losing public support?

He concludes that the trade is irrational, but none the less it is what must be done.

He realises now that he is a part of a country that sees more value in the life of a stranger than he has for his own. He still shuffles in his seat, but now more so from anticipation than concern.

Today is not an ordinary day.