It’s only 9am and the earth is already scorched by the unrelenting sun. I look to the north: the beginnings of the mountains of Judaea. I look to the south: the dusty Negev Desert.
I’m sweating through the same uniform that I sweat through the day before, and the day before, and the…
Outlines of dried salt stain my clothes.
My shoulders ache from the gear and bag on my back. I’m carrying my weapon, 174 bullets, and all of my clothing and supplies for the week. Maybe it’s 30 pounds, maybe 40. I don’t know. All I can tell you is that it’s really heavy.
I’m by myself, between two groups of people. I close my eyes. I imagine I’m back in school, walking to class.
It’s October and the leaves are beginning to change. It’s a crisp 55 degrees. I have a cup of hot coffee in my hand. I’m wearing a flannel and have my backpack even though there’s only one light spiral notebook inside.
I scuffle over a rock and my eyes jolt back open.
All I can see is a khaki, thirsty earth. Above it a blinding bright blue sky.
How did I get here?
It’s been a while.
It had been a while before my last post too.
And it will probably be a while until the next.
I would say that I didn’t have the time to write but honestly, I did. I haven’t been disciplined enough to block out the time.
Anyhow, I’ve spent the majority of my time these past 8 months on a grimy IDF base near Arad. It is in a weird in-between desert. Not quite the Negev and not quite the Judaean. Bedouin outposts dot this unforgiving land.
I’ve learned so much and accomplished tasks that I never knew were possible. I have been transitioning from a spoiled American to an Israeli combat warrior. I have largely kept you in the dark through this process.
I will focus on three topics that offer a window into Israeli combat training: Shetach, Shooting, and Masaot.
Perhaps you will better understand what happens between my blog posts.
Shetach שטח
If you search the word "shetach" in Google Translate, it will come up with “surface,” “area,” or “territory.” These aren’t exact matches. The English equivalent would probably be “field” (as in going to the field).
Any time we leave the base to do drills outside, we say that we are going to the shetach. Essentially, this is the theater in which a war would take place.
We started off our training with the basics: walking.
In May, we spent a week in the shetach learning how to maneuver valleys, mountains, and forests. We brought all our food, clothes, and supplies for the week in military backpacks. The clothes for the week consisted of just the uniforms we came in.
We remained in full gear for the week, even when sleeping. This consisted of your longsleeve, thick cotton uniform, knee pads, vest, 174 bullets, water, backpack, and gun. Temperatures would near 100 degrees during the day and fall to 50s at night.
This felt like the hardest week of my life at the time. I remember falling into each step, delirious of my surroundings. They took our watches so we had no concept of time.
The week ended with a 4-hour competition between all the kitot (groups of about 12 who you live with).
And just like that, this never ending week, like all things, ended… or so we thought.
At midnight we began to drive back to base. Spirits were high on the bus. We finished our first week in the shetach!
The bus drove up to the base- and then kept driving.
In that moment you could hear a synchronized “fuuuu…” from every single soldier.
We arrived at a park and our officer stood up with a grin.
“Alright, you know what to do.”
We all exited the bus, put back on the full gear we so eagerly threw-off a mere hour before, and marched eight kilometers back to base.
This week was the most physically and mentally demanding week I had ever experienced. We continued to have weeks like this thereafter.
They were filled with much more complicated drills; however, they felt so much easier. We were becoming soldiers and these impossible tasks suddenly appeared not just attainable, but routine.
Our baby steps of walking during that first week transitioned into full fledged military formations with live fire.
The routine became multiple groups at different hilltops and canyons shooting their guns and advancing toward the enemy. Jumping over boulders and throwing grenades felt easier than walking with a backpack.
Shooting
I shot a gun once in my life before the army. I was around 14 and I went with my dad and one of his friends. I wasn’t quite good and didn’t know any technique.
I wouldn’t say that I was anti-gun but I was definitly not an advocate. I am a Jew from an affluent American suburb. It wasn’t in my repertoire. Guns were something dangerous. To be honest, I thought that the explosion when a bullet is fired came from the gun itself and not the gunpowder in the bullet shell. I would say statements like “I support a ban on the sale of assault rifles” but not be able to tell you what exactly an assault rifle was.
Over the last 8 months I have shot thousands of bullets, too many to count.
We use an Israeli-made gun called the Tavor X95.
I was nervous the first few times I went to shoot. I didn’t know what I was doing. Everything was explained to me in Hebrew and I had recently just learned how a gun even works.
I would line up my sights to the target, turn off the safety, and my heart would pound.
I didn’t want to hurt anybody, or myself. What if I didn’t understand something? What if my hand accidentally slips? What if I can’t hold back the recoil?
And just like the shetach, shooting became routine. What started off as a suspenseful endeavor became something I didn’t think twice about.
You can fire hundreds of bullets in a full day's worth of shooting. You stop worrying and just, well, shoot.
Orderly shooting in a man-made range grew to shooting in different positions, shooting after sprinting, shooting while moving, and eventually shooting in the open shetach.
Ironically, I shoot pretty well. I would say that I am a well-trained shooter and I know quite a bit about my gun now.
I’m still that Jew from Bexley, Ohio. I embarrassingly know only about the Tavor X95. If any American gun enthusiast began an in-depth conversation with me about other guns, I would be lost. Not to mention that I learned everything about my Tavor in Hebrew.
Nevertheless, I am proud of myself. This was probably the biggest step out of my comfort zone during training.
It’s only when you pull that trigger that you understand the power behind a gun, and therefore the power that you possess. Damn me if I ever misuse that power.
Masaot
It is through the masaot that I have learned the most.
A masa translates to journey. In the army, a masa is a march. Often, these marches are conducted to earn status in your unit.
Israeli combat recruits usually start off their training without the beret of their unit. Each unit has a different colored beret. My unit is green. This symbolizes the agriculture that we historically established throughout the land.
Soldiers must complete a Beret March (Masa Kumta) in order to receive their unit’s beret. It is usually the last thing you do in training.
We started off training with a mere 3km march. It only lasted about 30 minutes. We worked our way up during training for the final 50km Masa Kumta after 8 months.
You carry the same supplies that you would in the shetach (gun, vest, 174 bullets, water…). Additionally, one person in your group of 12 has to carry the stretcher. Another person has to carry a 30-pound backpack full of more water.
You have to carry 40% of your body weight as you start to reach longer distance masaot (marches). The supplies like the gun are included in the weight; however, this does not weigh enough. We would just throw rocks and jugs of water into our backpacks to reach that 40%.
We started to do marches of 18km, 25, 30, 40, and then 50. The last 5km of each march were with stretchers open. The officers would pick a couple soldiers to put on the stretchers, often the heaviest soldiers to make us work. You take turns schlepping the stretcher. Four people, one in each corner. You place the metal bar on your shoulder and walk until you can't walk anymore.
The longer marches took hours to complete. We would leave at night and come back just as the sun was rising in the morning.
As difficult and painful as they are, I love masaot.
While completely necessary for training, I dislike the uncertainty of the army. Commanders can burst into your room at any time and announce that we are going into the shetach in 7 minutes. During masaot, the objective is clear. You need to get from here to there.
It may take a while, maybe even all night, but we will accomplish our task. I knew that no matter what unknown hills and valleys layed in my way, the sun would rise tomorrow, my body would ache, but we would complete the masa.
"Ain matzav" (there’s no situation), the commanders would bark. There is no situation in which you do not finish. Soldiers would sprain their ankles but it wouldn’t matter. You keep marching. Unless you are physically unconscious, you keep marching.
The masaot are always at night. You cannot speak. Dark silence- except for the footsteps and moans of my fellow soldiers.
It’s in those moments that you can truly learn.
I have walked the Land of Israel in darkness. The stars and moon illuminate just enough of the desert to see. You focus more. The smallest rock could trip you and you end up on your face. You notice every dip, every branch, every pebble. Your body begs for relief. You tip your head back and see the millions of stars above. Every few hours a shooting star goes by. You wish that there are no more hills. You wish that there are no more canyons. But there are. You may not be able to see them far away, but you feel them with your crippling legs and imploding shoulders. You learn the earth beneath you.
It is only then that you can truly understand this land: In the darkness.
I think a lot during the masaot. I complain, I feel sorry for myself. But then I think about why I’m here. What a miracle this is. The grandson of Holocaust survivors marching in the Israeli army, in an Israeli uniform, on Israeli soil. I remember those 23,600*. This is exactly what I need to be doing.
The last 5km of the masa greets us like a tax collector on Tax Day.
We open up the stretchers and begin the mutilation of our bodies. The metal bar digs into your shoulder so much so that often, you feel like you just might split in half.
I remember a story my Babushka told me (If it's your first time reading my blog, click here). After their miraculous escape to Uzbekistan, my great great grandmother fell while getting off the train. She broke her hip. They carried her 8km on a stretcher with the help of generous strangers.
My family did this under starvation. They were running from the Nazis. You better believe it that I can walk these 5km.
And just like that it’s my turn to take the stretcher. Nothing matters anymore. I’m in pain, I scream, but I march. By now we have been walking for so many hours that the sun has risen. We have marched through the darkness. You can see the hills and the canyons again. And suddenly, you see a little dot over the ridge. It’s the base. That disgusting hole in the middle of the dusty desert. Our beloved Nahal base.
I march with the stretcher until the end. I throw my gear to the ground, shower, wrap tefillin, and go to bed.
Mission accomplished.
My whole life has brought me to these moments. I worked harder than I ever had during those months of training. How did I get here?
It’s the spring of 2019 and I’m finishing up my Junior year at Miami University. I’m active in Hillel and Chabad. I hear that a fellow student shared antisemtitic messages on Venmo. You can read about the full story in an article the school newspaper published (article). Basically this loser requested money with comments like “toasted bagel (gas chamber jews).” Sick shit.
That loser actually contacted me this summer, years later, on LinkedIn of all places. He continued to spew antisemitic garbage. I found out that he has also contacted our Hillel and threatened the Jewish community of Miami University.
But back to the spring of 2019.
So this loser shares antisemitic messages on Venmo and I had an idea. I remembered learning about the Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson of Chabad. He would pass out one dollar bills on Sundays and ask the recipients to donate that dollar to charity.
The logic was two-fold. One, the recipient would probably be compelled to donate his own money along with that dollar. Two, it takes a lot more effort to physically go to a charity and donate the money. You learn about the cause and form a personal connection. This is much more powerful than if the Rebbe were to just collect money from individuals and Chabad would donate on their behalf.
As a student intern at Hillel, I decided to take the very same platform that that loser used to spread hate to spread the opposite, love. I had Hillel publicize that they would give students $1 through Venmo. They could then donate that dollar (and hopefully some of their own money) to the anti-hate charity of their choice. We provided the ADL as an example.
It was a success.
Simultaneous to this loser posting the antisemitic messages online, I was in the process of becoming more connected with the Jewish religion. I was interested in getting my first pair of tefillin. I was not aware that they could cost upwards of 500 to 700 dollars.
My friend Rabbi Yossi Greenberg, the Chabad Rabbi at Miami University, sent the school newspaper story to Chabad in New York. They were happy to see a student learning from the Rebbe.
I am forever blessed that Chabad offered to purchase me tefillin.
I wrap those tefillin every single day that I am commanded to under Jewish law.
My faith has grown stronger and my curiosity, larger. I began to learn more about Judaism and our customs. I developed an even stronger sense of Jewish pride.
It are moments like those that got me to…
It’s only 9am and the earth is already scorched by the unrelenting sun. I look to the north: the beginnings of the mountains of Judaea. I look to the south: the dusty Negev Desert.
I’m sweating through the same uniform that I sweat through the day before, and the day before, and the…
Outlines of dried salt stain my clothes.
My shoulders ache from the gear and bag on my back. I’m carrying my weapon, 174 bullets, and all of my clothing and supplies for the week. Maybe it’s 30 pounds, maybe 40. I don’t know. All I can tell you is that it’s really heavy.
I’m by myself, between two groups of people. I close my eyes. I imagine I’m back in school, walking to class.
It’s October and the leaves are beginning to change. It’s a crisp 55 degrees. I have a cup of hot coffee in my hand. I’m wearing a flannel and have my backpack even though there’s only one light spiral notebook inside.
I scuffle over a rock and my eyes jolt back open.
All I can see is a khaki, thirsty earth. Above it a blinding bright blue sky.
I’m walking back to pray. It’s time for Shacharit (morning prayers).
I get back to our camp and grab my tefillin. Yes, those same tefillin that I got from Chabad.
How ironic?
So if you’re reading this, loser, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for strengthening my Jewish pride. Thank you for those tefillin.
I wrap my tefillin and begin to pray. The darkness of my world is illuminated by the spark of my Jewish soul. Like the masaot, it is only through the darkness that you can understand the beauty.
These last several months have been nothing short of a challenge.
Both the Land and myself are better for it.