The Security of My Son

A few times, very well meaning friends, relatives, and readers have suggested that for security reasons, I should be careful. I want to assure you that I am. I never post where Elie is - other than to say north, south, on the Lebanese border, close to Syria. There are miles and miles of border and dozens (if not more) of bases.

Where Elie was (note the past tense), he was well aware of listening ears and often spoke to me in ways that I knew that he knew - someone was listening. No matter - it is no secret that we have troops on all our borders, covering all areas, protecting against every threat.

By the time I posted that Elie and his battalion had a day off, they were likely already back up north. In any event, while in training, Elie is not responsible for watching the border. I did not identify the location where they were to meet, other than, perhaps, to say it was a central location (which again covers thousands of points, dozens of cities, intersections, and more).


Nothing is more important to me when writing this blog than the safety of my son and the soldiers around him. I weigh each piece of information carefully, but know that there is little doubt our enemies know way more than me. I asked Elie's commanding officer at one point if something he was telling me was confidential. He was explaining the path that Elie would take through the army, the months he would be in training, advanced training, etc.

Or smiled the most charming smile and said, "if I'm telling you, it isn't confidential."

At one point, I wrote about how Elie had overfilled the water bottle that he brought to the table, causing his grandmother to spill a little simply by lifting the bottle. I told Elie to be careful and asked why he'd put so much water in. Habit, he explained. In the army, you don't want to fill a bottle part way and have the water sloshing around, making noise while you are on maneuvers.


I wrote about the filled water bottle and, in the same post, I explained that Elie had gone back to base early Sunday morning. Again, I didn't write where that base was, only that Elie left early to get there.


My brother-in-law, who has always had a soft spot for Elie and reads each post to help bridge the huge geographical area that separates him from us, wrote to say he was concerned that I was giving away too much. I had no idea what he was talking about and so I asked him to explain.


No - telling the Arabs that Elie was going back to base Sunday morning is no secret. The army sends as many of its soldiers home as it can. Those who are not in combat units often have the weekends off when all but non-essential tasks are postponed in honor of the holiday. The key there, is that our borders remain well protected, our cities, our streets. But there is no training on the Sabbath, no exercises done for the sake of learning or practicing. It is a proper fighting force that guards our country, while those who are not needed get a much deserved chance to rest. On Sunday, it is back to full operation and that means all those who went home have to return. The soldiers are on the move - from every point to every point. No secret there.


But the water, he challenged. It made me smile and so I explained. You fill the bottle, so the Arabs can't hear you coming. What difference does it matter why they can't hear our soldiers - only that they can't hear them. Are we teaching them something that they don't know? Arabs that attack us with rockets and mortars on a daily basis do so from within Gaza and don't carry water. Those that try to sneak into our cities to blow up a bus or a mall worry about how many bullets and bombs they can carry, not how much water. They try to appear as one of us, relaxed and not about to commit murder. And, in the north, Hizbollah units may try to infiltrate to kidnap more soldiers as they did two years ago. They too understand that they are not likely to return and most definitely don't worry about carrying water with them.

In all of these cases, they have glorified the act, calling it martyrdom and they fully expect to die. Success to these terrorists is not returning home to victory. There is little thought to actually returning home. They are bound for the heaven in their minds and the promise of 72 virgins awaiting them. They will make their way as quietly as they can, but water is not an issue for them. Long before they can experience dehydration, they will be dead. The only question will be if they succeed in murdering Israelis before that death occurs.


There are secrets in the army - but like Or, Elie knows the lines and knows what he can tell me and what he can't. To say he is in the south is to describe a vast geographical area, well patrolled and guarded and completely meaningless to anyone seeking to decipher great military secrets. To say he is on the Lebanese border says nothing beyond what is known to Hizbollah and the Syrians. It is no secret that we keep our soldiers there and no secret that the Arabs know where these bases are. For this too, our army is prepared.


I have said Elie is in the artillery division, but never written what he does within his unit. I have never said the name of his unit, its symbol or how many serve. I have said Elie is part of a g'dud - so is every combat soldier.

I have written that Elie has a license to drive an armored personnel carrier, but never written more about the vehicle itself. And yesterday, when the army gave them a break and took them out for a day of culture, I waited until the day was over and my son and his unit were back where they were supposed to be (or on a bus in that direction) before even saying that they had been there.


Security is very important in Israel. We live with it every day to such an extent that it becomes second nature. I thank "Another Soldier's Mother from near Gaza" for worrying and caring enough to write. Her concern is justified and something we all must watch.


We must be very careful, as you very correctly write, to guard our sons and what they tell us so that we give nothing away to our enemies and those who would harm them (and us).


But we must balance this with the need to explain to others the fundamental realities of our life here in Israel. Our sons are soldiers, but they are each human beings, our sons, our babies. We must work to help others outside Israel better understand our struggle to live here in our ancient homeland and our modern state. We face an enemy that would rather sneak into a pizza parlor and blow up a family, than risk going to war against our army. They find honor in death, we find joy in life.

Hannan Nasrallah, head of Hizbollah said it so clearly, "We have discovered how to hit the Jews where they are the most vulnerable. The Jews love life, so that is what we shall take away from them. We are going to win because they love life and we love death."

Nasrallah is right - we Jews love life and they love death. But he is wrong - it is not what makes us vulnerable, it is what makes us invincible. This is the message we must send to our friends (and yes, to our enemies as well).

We accomplish this by showing you a side of our sons that you may not see in the media and elsewhere. But I will never risk the security of my son or any soldier in Israel. Elie is safe up "somewhere up north" and we are all safe throughout our country because all our sons sit where they are and guard us and what you have to understand, those of you who do not know my son and other soldiers like them, is that they are so much more than the uniform they wear, the gun they tote.

That is one of the goals I have set here - for everyone to understand that my son is so many things. He is a Jew, an Israeli. He is a young man at the beginning of his life. He is the son of parents who are so proud of him. He's got these amazing eyes and a wicked smile and yes, of course, he is a soldier in our army.

The Heart Sings

I could write about a great weekend with Elie home, and I will, when I'm not so tired and it's not so late, but as the day ends here in Israel, I'm left with one image that truly makes my heart sing. This morning, the army took Elie's entire "gidud" (don't ask me what that is or how many it includes - I don't know the English equivalent, but it's a large group) - except for the part that must stay up north - on a "culture day." I don't yet know where they took them, but Elie was to meet everyone at a central location at 9:00 a.m. It was probably a day in which they would go hiking, but it would likely include some historical site, something of significance to make the army take them there.

These sites are related to our history in this land. Over the course of Elie's being in the army, they have already taken him to Yad VaShem (the Holocaust Memorial in Jerusalem), the Kotel (the Western Wall that remains from the Holy Temples), the City of David (an archaeological dig that has uncovered our ancient connections to this land). The army has taken them to several memorial sites and museums and much more.

Last night, while driving home from the mall (where we went to buy Elie a new strap for his gun...yes, it's sold in a regular camping store in the mall), he got a phone call from one of his soldiers. The young man explained, as he seems to try to explain to Elie on many occasions, why he cannot possibly get to the designated meeting place on time. It's a regular occurrence. This time, his sister was coming to visit at midnight and so the soldier didn't think he could get up on time. Last time, he needed to stay home and get a hair cut, and another time, he had to help his mother.

It was, given the many other excuses he has come up with, rather pathetic and Elie had little patience. He listened, questioned and finally ended with, "In short, be there tomorrow at 9:00." (It sounds better in Hebrew) and was so Israeli (and Elie).

So, we woke early, left too early, and despite the traffic, arrived at the location (or where we thought the location would be) at about 8:10 a.m. and there, waiting at the bus stop, was one soldier with the matching beret of the artillery unit. He had a friendly smile that flashed as Elie came into view. Already, we could see several other soldiers from Elie's unit converging from nearby.

Elie asked if the soldier was sure this was the correct location and they spoke a few moments about various reasons why this might or might not be the site. All the time, both seemed so happy just to be there, relaxed, easy. Elie got out of the car, got his backpack from the trunk and came back to the front of the car to get his gun. No, he wouldn't give me a kiss goodbye, and I didn't insist, but it was a sweet smile he gave me and a thanks. I pulled out into traffic, looking where I could turn around, but had to continue on a short distance. Finally, turning into a parking lot (followed by three other parents who also were looking for a place to turn around), I made my U-turn and got back on the main road.

Across the way, as I approached the growing group of soldiers (all with backpacks, blue berets and guns), I saw them greet each other, and Elie. On the one hand, I have seen it so many times already and on the other, I never get tired of watching. It's a quick joining of the hands, a slap on the shoulder, a moving slightly together. They are so at ease with one another, truly brothers in so many ways and I feel so relieved to give Elie back to them. I trust them to watch out for Elie. It's a silly thing to say, to feel, considering that Elie is one of the commanders and is responsible for them. Silly because Elie has the same training (or more). Silly, but still true - Israeli soldiers feel a connection and show it in the joy with which they greet each other after only a day or two or three apart. They show it with the smiles, the slaps of greeting. It's there in their eyes and I felt such joy in being given the chance to see it.

I slowed the car, hoping Elie would look up, and sure enough, just as I passed Elie looked, waved and smiled, and, in the simplest of terms, my heart sang. He looked so happy, among friends. It seems so silly - surrealistic, if you will. My son is a soldier in an army that has been at war with our neighbors for more than 60 years. At any moment, in all honestly, war could break out on any one of three fronts (and that is being optimistic).

While boys in his age are going to college in America and worrying about cars and girls, my son is learning how to attack our enemies with pinpoint accuracy; how to defend himself and his country. He's learned how to shoot a gun, throw a hand grenade, navigate in the dark and more skills than I can think about - and today, among his friends, he smiled with such joy. It was pure and simple and reminded me there is no where else I would have him be.

There are worries - and I've written about them. There are fears in the past and likely in the future and silly tears I've shed at night. And there is such joy that my son could be so much a part of this incredible thing called the army of Israel. The smile as he greeted and was greeted took me through my entire day. Right now, my guess is that Elie is on a bus somewhere driving north to rejoin the others so that training can resume tomorrow. Today was a bit of a break for them - well deserved and hopefully well enjoyed.

Lebanon is tense as Hizbollah and the Lebanese army battle for control over various areas. The US has confirmed that Israel hit a site where a nuclear reactor was being developed in Syria and relations are very tense there. The Syrians will want revenge, for that and more. Hizbollah wants to attack, and might if they feel it will better their position in Lebanon. The Palestinians murdered one innocent man yesterday in a shower of rockets and mortars and while things with Egypt and Jordan seem quiet, one never really knows what will happen in the Middle East as summer approaches. In short, it was a typical day in the Middle East, but none of that mattered to me today.

All of that is for tomorrow and the weeks to come - but for now, I'll go to sleep with the memory of the smile between friends that I was lucky enough to intercept and remember the look of simply belonging that I saw as Elie stood joking with his friends, soldiers in our army.

The Switch

It's just after 6:00 p.m. here in Israel. Memorial Day is fast coming to a close. I lit a memorial candle last night. It burns for 24 hours. It is mostly gone and soon it will go out. At 8:00 p.m., Israel will do what it does each year at this time - a most amazing and hard to believe thing. It will, in an instant, switch from our deepest sadness to our greatest joy.

Before we can celebrate our Independence Day, we honor those who made it possible, by commemorating our Memorial Day. Soon, all over the land, we will go to parties, barbecues, and fireworks. We did not have Elie home for the first days of Passover, but he is home now and will go with us to see the fireworks and celebrate.

As hard as this Memorial Day has been, I can only hope that's how happy Yom Ha'Atzmaut (Independence Day) will be.

Happy Birthday, Israel - may you go from strength to strength.

Who He Stood Beside: Eyal Tsarfati, Aged 19

Eyal Tsarfati was only 19 years old when he was killed defending Israel. His parents came to his grave today, one of 22,437 families who mourn for their loves ones who died since the State of Israel was founded.

So little, do I know about this young man. He died in 1990 and today, Elie stood by his grave as his family came to pay their respects. Each of Elie's soldiers was assigned a cemetery and a name and had to call Elie when they arrived. Elie can tell me how many artillery soldiers died during their three years of military service, and how many died while doing reserve duty in the artillery division. By each, a soldier in the artillery division stood today.

Elie called his commanding officer when all of his soldiers had checked in. That commanding officer called his commanding officer and on it went. Today had to be perfect, from a logistics point of view, so that beside each soldier that has fallen, a soldier in today's army would stand. No family would arrive to an empty grave. Each has a soldier, a flag, a token of this nation's ongoing commitment to honor and remember their sacrifice. So little in return for such a great service given.

It was my hardest Memorial Day ever, my brain searching for appropriate thoughts as the siren wailed. I had already known Eyal's name because I asked Elie yesterday, though I didn't know he was only 19 when he died. In the two minutes that I stood and listened to the siren, I thought of Eyal and of a friend's son who was killed during the Second Lebanon War two years ago. I thought of Elie, begging God that I never live to mourn a son or a daughter.

Today isn't about Elie and the boys who serve in the army now. They stand as a quiet backdrop to the real heroes of the day, those who could not stand, could not comfort their families today. It was a hard day for Elie's younger sister too. She cried last night when she heard the siren and began listening to the memorial ceremony. We talked and I knew that she too, at only 8 years old, is projecting her fears and worries onto the day.

At schools around the country, after the siren sounds at 11:00 a.m. for two minutes, there is a ceremony. I felt it would be too much for my daughter; too great the fears she already faces. Each time something happens to a soldier, she asks if Elie is ok and last night she asked if she could stay awake to see him when he got home. Too close for her, this year, I thought. I called a friend, who told me to follow my heart. I called the school counselor, who told me to do what I felt was right and that she would have years to face memorial days. Eventually, she would have to, the counselor told me and as she knows our family, she knows that I have two more sons who will some day become soldiers (God willing).

Yes, I answered the counselor and my heart. Many years ahead to face, to give respect, to honor. But eight is young and the fear is great. Children deserve a chance to escape things that parents have to face and so I let her skip school and come with me to the office. She stood by me as the siren sounded; quiet and listening. In the morning, when we dropped Elie off at the national military cemetery on the way to the office, my daughter asked if we could go into the cemetery. "Not today," I told her. She wanted to prolong being with Elie, and she was curious. But today, the cemetery belongs to the families and I didn't feel it was right. She is young and full of questions.

I'm always amazed (and grateful) for the comments I receive (ok, not the one about how the writer accuses Israeli soldiers of being "responsible for killing young children, kicking millions of Palestinians out of their country, and raping thousands of young women!" (See: Eyes Closed by Hatred.) )

One fellow technical writer in Israel wrote to me and we've been having an ongoing discussion. He's right according to my head, but I can't seem to get my heart and fingers to listen to him. I thought about our discussion today as well. "My son didn't die," a bereaved parent told this technical writer, "he was killed." And so, this friend wrote to gently suggest that perhaps I should use the word "killed" and not "died" when referring to the deaths of soldiers.

He's right. Each of these young men (or women) was killed. Dying is a gentler word, I argued back. In my head, I know that he is right. Old people die, having lived a long life. My mind whirled with the words and I realized that my heart is fighting to give them in death what they were denied. It seems more peaceful to say someone died.

Denied peace during their lives, having fought our enemies and sacrificed their lives, I can only hope they have found peace now. May the memory of Eyal Tsarfati be eternally blessed and may his family and all the mourners of Israel find comfort in knowing that the deaths of their loved ones enables us to close the first 60 years of Israel's re-established history...and begin the next.

Israel's Memorial Day: Who Elie Stands Beside

Late last week, Elie commanded an armored personnel carrier as it moved his soldiers into the Golan Heights for a renewal of training. I was a little concerned about the drive - these vehicles have been known to turn over and as the commander, Elie would be standing and helping to guide the driver. I asked him to call me when he arrived, knowing that this time, he probably wouldn't. When he takes our car, he's very good about calling to say he arrived. It's a time-honored tradition handed down by each of the mothers in my family - the concept that you will only arrive safely if you know you have to call your mother at the end. Sure enough, by Thursday evening, Elie hadn't called. I knew he was fine (another of those accidental calls in which I could hear him talking in the distance told me he was alive and well), but I wanted to hear his voice, so I gave in and called.

"That's it, Elie, you didn't call when you got there. This is the last time I'm letting you take my Nagmash" [Hebrew abbreviation for the APC]. I was rewarded with his laugh and a comment about my car.

Elie has been looking forward to the training period. It's an easier, more relaxed schedule. The weight of the protection of the State is not on his shoulders. Other than securing their individual base, they do little but test and train themselves. That's on the higher level. On the simpler, more human level, it means that on Shabbat, when the army does not train, Elie and his soldiers can come home most weekends.

This week, Elie comes home tomorrow (Tuesday) and will be home until next Sunday. Starting Tuesday night at 8:00 p.m., a siren will sound throughout the land and again the country will go into mourning. Last week, it was for the six million Jews murdered during the Holocaust, and, in a more general sense, for all Jews who have died simply because they were Jews during the long exile that started in the year 70 CE and continued until 1948, with the re-establishment of the Jewish State of Israel in our ancient homeland. During the two minute siren in the morning, Elie stood, as did much of Israel, remembering and honoring those who died during the Holocaust.

This week, a uniquely Israeli event will happen. We will remember and then celebrate; we will mourn and then go from the deepest depths of despair to the greatest celebration our country has ever seen. On Wednesday (beginning Tuesday night), we will commemorate our Memorial Day to remember the tens of thousands of Israeli soldiers (and many thousands of others who have died as a result of terror attacks), and on Thursday (beginning Wednesday night), we will put aside our mourning to celebrate that for which they fought. Our independence, our freedom, our country. Israel has reached the age of sixty - sixty years since our founding, sixty years in which Jews all over the world have felt a sense of home, a sense of relief and security. Sixty years in which we have sent our sons to the army, and dreamed of peace.

Many countries mark a memorial day in which they honor their soldiers. In some places, it is a day of mourning; in too many places, it is a day of work or holiday sales. In Israel, we are so close to our soldiers, so close to families whose lives were forever changed by the worst news a family could imagine. In Israel, on Memorial Day, our places of entertainment are closed, our theaters and amusement parks shut for the day.

Our television and radio programs speak of those we have lost in somber and sad tones; even the music makes us cry. One station each year, scrolls the names of soldiers and victims of terror for 24 hours. All stations interview bereaved families to tell the stories of their sons and fathers and husbands. Each year, more names are added and the rate the names scroll just a little more quickly so that all will have their brief time of acknowledgement.

On Tuesday night, when the siren sounds, there will be ceremonies all over the country and on Wednesday, there will be more ceremonies and families will quietly go to the graves of their loved ones. On each grave, a flag has been placed - a reminder of why they were taken from their families, what they stood for, why they fell.

Last year, I read the story of what the paratroopers division does to remember their own. The article in the newspaper spoke of how beside the grave of each fallen paratrooper, a soldier in the current paratroopers division stands. The families come and see that their sons have not been forgotten. I couldn't imagine what goes through the head of that young man, whose job it is to simply stand there, in honor and in mourning. I can't imagine what the family thinks, seeing this young man stand so proud and straight, beside the grave of their son.

Last year, when I read that article, I didn't know that the artillery division does the same. I didn't know that my son would be asked to go and stand beside the grave of a fallen artillery soldier. I don't know what will go through Elie's mind as he stands beside that grave. How old will that boy be, that young man who died protecting our country.

I want to protect my son from such grief; such serious thoughts as death and families who come to mourn. Silly things come to mind - Elie, bring water against the heat and don't stand in the hot Middle Eastern sun for too long.

And as I concentrate on my son, I realize that someone will come and see my son standing beside their son, who cannot stand. I don't know how old their son was on the day he died; I can't imagine what they feel each year going to visit him there in that place where he will never grow older. I hope they will know that Elie is there to honor him, there to remind them that we remember. They will see the uniform their son wore; the color of the beret.

My heart hurts, just a little, for Elie too. It is just another thing I wish I could do for him, wish I could help him do, and yet another thing he must do alone.