False Dichotomies

Let me try and place a fly on the wall. I rise at five o’clock in my flat in Jerusalem. The murmurings from Café Bulinat, a secular enclave in the heart of this holiest of cities, spill over from last night. I yearn to be where I was the day before – sitting there with my breakfast while reading the paper. Instead, I am donning the uniform, ready to return to my base. Looking immaculate, I head out. Aside from the hiloni [secular] dilettantes, the only other people out at this hour are the Palestinian street-cleaners and cabbies. I imagine a look of contempt on their faces as I stroll past.

At the central bus station I flash my soldier ID and am waved straight through security, feeling immortal. Before boarding the bus, I purchase a pizza bureka and an apple juice. I forget the Heebs for what I want in the innards of my pastry, but there is no switch to English. In uniform, no matter what, I am always spoken to in the holy tongue. The bus pulls up; the soldiers rush it. I am determined to get a seat this time, and I succeed. I switch on the iPod, and drift off.

***

After changing buses in Afula, where I run into one of our mefakdot looking like a scowling school-child, I arrive at the meeting-place. My comrades trickle in, gossip from the weekend is shared, while some get a few minutes shut eye. Finally our deadline arrives, and we must formally make the transition back to army mode. We gather in our tsfatim [teams], and are briefed about the week ahead. Then, after a brief delay, it’s onto the bus for the short ride to the base.

Once back home, we are sent to reclaim our guns. We stand in lines of three [shlishiot], gently swaying in the heat, waiting. Perversely, I think to Roman Polanski’s The Pianist – the Jews of the Warsaw Ghetto falling like flies as they stand waiting for their deportation. But we are Jews who fight back, and our M16 is soon back in our hands, like an albatross. The guns are checked and declared free of bullets, and we are on our way to lunch.

Face-off: We are standing outside the dining-room in shlishiot. A mefakedet [commander] accuses a comrade and I of moving ahrei sof ha’zman [after the end of the allotted time]. Zazta muli she asks incredulously. You moved in front of me? He confesses. I do not, for I know I am innocent of the charge. She pauses, not used to this dissent. In stilted Hebrew, I explain myself – any movements that she witnessed were entirely natural, exactly the same as anyone else standing in this line. I expect a come-back, but she chooses instead to launch into a morality tale about the importance of always telling the truth. I stand my ground, escaping punishment. Then our samelet emerges, and – yet again – I get into a Chaplanian pickle whilst trying to tuck my hat under my shoulder-collar in the allotted ten seconds. As I wander to the back to do my twenty press-ups, I detect a smug satisfaction on the face of the mefakedet who had first tried to bring me down.

***

For those that are seeking Zionist mythology, this is the moment. We are sitting in the auditorium to hear various luminaries. For the first time, we meet someone older than us. I am not sure exactly what his position is, but he is like something out of Uris’ Exodus. This is rabble-rousing New Jewism at its finest. He tells us that one in four and a half IDF soldiers is an immigrant, that we are extremely important to the army, and that nobody should tell us that we are anything other than full Israelis. He tells us that there should be no place in Israel for those that do not want to serve, unless they are pacifists. He gives us his view of the region, albeit from behind the barrel of the bayonet. The next speaker is the complete opposite – rambling, inaudible, unbearably dull. Our enthusiasm has been quickly diluted.

First-aid training. Our mefakedet spits out Hebrew medical terms at an M16-fire pace. I learn that the recovery position is different in Zion than it is in the UK, I learn that ‘English flag’ is the name for one of the methods for tying on a bandage. But throughout the day, I keep getting into trouble. I am forgetting that this is a game. We are sent to change into a different uniform; I am unable to finish in time. Confusion abounds as to the precise regulations for requesting more time – my mefakedet reprimands me for not doing so, I explain that I thought I was not permitted. I remind her that our inspirational speaker that afternoon had told us we were supposed to be treated like the mevugarim [adults] that we are. She tells me that one more mishap will lead to me spending an hour after bedtime in the company of the mefakedet, which is not as pleasant a prospect as it might be were we not in the army.

The twilight hours are spent doing various sports activities. I have not yet purchased trainers, and look rather peculiar in my shorts, t-shirt and boots. Pitying me, my mefakedet gets me to guard the guns from marauders. Then, the final disgrace. As ever, while waiting to be sent in for dinner, for one reason or another, I get sent to do thirty press-ups. Somehow, someway, while engaging in this activity, I manage to mislay my water-bottle, although I don’t notice the fact until I am about to break bread. I alert my samelet to this devastating loss – she asks my comrades if anyone has seen it, to no avail. I spend dinner time (ten minutes) pondering what to do.

The samelet returns, ready to free us for our break. As she begins to speak, a comrade appears behind her, clutching a water-bottle. I look on yearningly, and then I glance over at a former school-chum who is also in the army with me. As ever, we descend into hysterics. The samelet asks the eternal question – is something funny? – and I try to direct her attention to the water-bottle. It is placed on the table, where I am unable to work out if it is mine. I put my head down as far as possible, so as to avoid further outbreaks of laughter. We are dismissed, and I reclaim my chalice.

***

In the end, I receive the one hour punishment, although it is postponed until another day. At ten o’clock, after our shatash [free time at the end of the day], we gather again and are sent off to bed. Within minutes, I am lying on my scabius (term for army blanket – yes, from scabies), and drifting off. I will be up at half past four, ready for another day of excitement, more regimented wasting of time. For now, I spend my final waking moments reflecting on the fact that the game is starting to wear thin, although it really won’t be lasting for much longer. I am already half-way through basic training, and the end is in sight. That, though, is for the future. For now, this day’s done.