Thank You and Goodbye, IDF by Raanan Levy Jul 12, '04
[Dedicated to my 21,790 brothers and sisters who fell in Israel's wars and operations.]
Early on the morning of Monday, November 1, 1982, we said goodbye to my mother. An hour later, my father and I stopped in front of the Tel Hashomer IDF recruiting center near Tel-Aviv. I was 18, and I was joining the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) that morning.
In the Israeli common language, this is the nightmare of every parent - pride mixed with pain and worry for a child leaving the house for the first time. With wet eyes, the tough paratrooper Colonel who had been in all of Israel's wars kissed me, wished me luck, and tucked into my pocket a little book of Psalms, which I carry to this day.
Next month, I will be returning the IDF identification card I received on that morning. Getting to be 40 in Israel means not being wanted by the army. It is not easy not to be a soldier anymore. It makes you feel old. It makes you feel less a part of Israel's best kept "secret", its most unifying, most internationally adored creations - the IDF.
Since that morning in November of 1982, I had three and a half years of mandatory military service, and several reserve tours of duty. The one I would like to share more about was the one before last, in "Operation Defensive Shield" in April, 2002.
It was Saturday night, March 30, 2002. Just a little over two years ago. My wife and I returned home from a visit to our friends' house just before midnight. The phone rang. It was Lior, my deputy company commander from my reserve unit in the IDF.
"A code 8 has been issued for our unit, you need to report to the Dry Storage Base tomorrow morning. Prepare for several weeks, we are going to war."
I put the phone down and told Alma the news. It did not come as a surprise. Israel was still under the shock of the Passover Massacre in the Netanya Park Hotel, in which 30 people were murdered in the middle of the Passover meal, only three days earlier.
"Code 8", the nightmare of any IDF reservist, means you go to war. Not a tour, not a campaign, not training for a week or two with good ol' army buddies. It means combat. It means you may get killed. It means someone you know may get killed.
The previous times I remember a "Code 8" being issued was during the 1982 Lebanon War and in October 1973, during the Yom Kippur War. It was not something that happened often.
I made several phone calls to my army team members, those I had to call who would later be in my APC or infantry platoon. There was a heavy feeling in the air. I pulled down my army duffel bag from the attic and made sure all my stuff was in there.
It was hard to sleep that night. My mind was running fast. What will it be like? What if…? What would my father say had he seen this? Will my little son do this too when he will be 38?
Saying goodbye to my kids and to Alma the next morning was different than ever before. I have been doing this since the age of 18, but there was a feeling that this time was different. It was so different. I had three children. I had a pregnant wife. I was 38.
I called the Prime Minister's Office, where I was working at the time, and, after a brief consultation, the Chief of Staff of the PM's office gave me the "green light" to report to my unit. Other advisers to Prime Minister Sharon were recruited, too. How surreal. How alien this must be to other countries - a head of state loses some of his closest aides for a military draft that he ordered himself.
I arrived at the base in southern Israel shortly after noon. Within several hours, I was witnessing and engaged in one of the most powerful military experiences I have ever experienced. I saw scenes that reminded me of American movies of war - helicopters in the air; military police keeping the traffic flowing; thousands of cars of civilians, Israelis 22-40, like me, who had to leave everything they do on 12-hours notice, issued by phone, and become soldiers in a matter of hours.
I saw how a dead city of neatly covered armored vehicles became a monster of thousands of living, roaring machines, fully armed, fueled, and manned by experienced and fully motivated men. 37,000 men were recruited that day.
Late, at around 10:00pm, that Sunday, less than 24 hours after the "Code 8" was issued, the execution order took place. A group of businessmen, teachers, scientists, plumbers, truck drivers, shop owners and university students, mostly married guys with kids at home, became a fully armed, ready-to-go, armored mechanized division.
The Brigadier-General, the commander of my division, spoke clearly in front of the thousands of men: "We are to engage the enemy inside their cities, where the terror is coming from. We will have casualties, we will pay a price. But it's either they get us in our homes, buses and cafes – or we get them in their hideaways. When you ride in your APC or in your tank or in your Jeep tomorrow, and in the next few weeks, remember the Passover meal in Netanya, remember the Dolfinarium in Tel-Aviv, remember Sbarro's in Jerusalem, and all the buses." Then he went on about the details of our mission and briefed each battalion separately. It ended at 4:00am, Monday morning.
People started writing letters to their loved ones. Others just sat and meditated. Others prayed. Some laughed and made jokes about the whole thing, to release the tension. We started moving at about 6:00am.
Later on Monday, we entered into combat and literally released the force we were replacing under fire. My battalion was positioned in the central Gaza front, near the city of Al-Burej, about five miles south of the city of Gaza. Only 40 minutes away from my home, if you drove leisurely.
I spent four weeks in the army during Operation Defensive Shield. Basically, all of April 2002. It was the toughest and most dangerous military activity I was engaged in since my mandatory three year service, which I did when I was 18.
My battalion performed very well. The motivation and morale was very high and all of us really teamed up to make this happen. It was the most powerful camaraderie, military discipline and professional soldiering that I had ever seen. No one complained, no one asked to be dismissed, no one, all of a sudden, had any problems at home to whine about. There was that historic feeling - we are here for all the victims of terror.
We earned the respect of the highest IDF commanders, and the Chief of Staff himself, today's Israeli Defense Minister Sha'ul Mofaz, came personally to my company to thank us for the uncompromising and professional job we did as an infantry company. Thank G-d, my unit did not suffer any direct casualties from Palestinian gunfire. We were shot at about 20-25 different times during this four-week operation, we took hits on our armored APCs twice from roadside bombs, and we prevented at least ten different efforts, that we know of, to penetrate into Israel to commit mass shooting and killing in the villages and kibbutzim that were a mile or two away from us.
In the middle of Operation Defensive Shield came Israel's Independence Day. No one was allowed to leave to go celebrate with their families. We were spreading ourselves very thin in terms of manpower, and the tasks which my unit was ordered to do made it impossible for even three guys to leave for home at one time. Everybody was 'grounded'.
On that night of celebrations all over Israel, we got "hot" intelligence about a potential group of Hamas infiltrators who were planning to raid our own post, the actual barracks of our company. An attack like that took place three months earlier, leaving seven of the soldiers we replaced dead.
For obvious reasons, I can not go into too many details, but I can say that it took very creative thinking and dangerous measures to be able to defend that post in the next few days. The challenge was deploying a small force inside a heavily populated area without the enemy noticing us. It would become a danger to us and it would also give away the fact that there are even fewer men remaining at the original target they had picked.
After we established our positions inside PLO/Hamas/Palestinian Authority/Islamic Jihad territory, we waited patiently, hoping to engage the infiltrators.
Suddenly, at around 11:30 at night, after sitting for hours in totally silence, we heard huge explosions coming from the north. In seconds, we realized they were fireworks, coming from the Israeli city of Ashkelon, just 8-9 miles north of us. It was the traditional city-sponsored Yom-Ha'atzmaut celebrations, which attract huge crowds. Everyone goes to see the fireworks in Israel on Independence Day. The fireworks were outstanding. They were beautiful, colorful - and so ironic. Where else in the world would you find a group of 12 men dug in the ground as soldiers, waiting to engage in a life-threatening combat situation as they see with their own eyes their neighbors or families celebrating? My wife and kids, I knew, were at my sister's house, having a great BBQ out in the backyard, only 45 minutes, by car, from were I was.
The mission of that night was accomplished, thank G-d. To the disappointment of some of my team members, it ended with the help of one of our tanks, which was covering us from three miles away. We didn't have to do much.
On April 25, 2002, Operation Defensive Shield ended. Israel lost 40 men during that operation, mostly reservists. We had over 100 wounded.
Since that experience, I often think of my fellow reserve unit team members. I often think of that detached-from-reality experience, of throwing your frantic schedule away, and going to the army for an unknown period of time to fight for your home. Not a war across the globe, not a war of principles, but a war, a race, against the next bus bombing down the street.
I wonder how many times a government can issue "Code 8"s? What is the "energy" that exists there, to give the order and know without a doubt that everyone will not only show up, but come eager, motivated, determined and not say a word - until it's all over.
I almost feel like I want to thank the IDF for allowing me to serve all those years. The duffel bag at home, the high boots, the dog tag will not look the same anymore. They will become nostalgia. Something to look at with historic romance, not with the concern of getting another phone call.
During my 1,450 or so days of being in IDF uniforms in the past 22 years, I have obeyed many orders, and had a chance to give a few here and there. I participated in various types of activities, all over the Golan, Samaria, Judea and Gaza, as well as in Lebanon. I participated in too many funerals of fellow soldiers from my battalion.
I was never given a reason to doubt anything that I did, or any order I was given.
These coming weeks, as I leave the IDF, I feel very fortunate. I feel fortunate to have completed a front-line duty in one piece, despite all the dangers. I feel satisfaction with my training and the benefits it gave me for my life experience.
But I also feel very, very thankful for one order I was never given. When you are a soldier in Israel, there is one order you pray you will never be given.
As I leave the IDF, I want to wish my colleagues who are still serving and those who will serve in years to come the following:
May you be as fortunate as I was, and may you never, ever be given that horrible order – the order to break into the house of a fellow Israeli family, some of whom may be reserve soldiers just like you, look them in the eye, and then take from them everything they've got, their home and their integrity.
If this terrible day will come for you, and if, G-d forbid, you will be given this terrible order, do what your heart tells you. Do what a good IDF soldier would do.
Do it with no hesitation. Fall on your face, and cry for your country.
