On armies, war and an aging Israel

The next morning I have an appointment, close to the Ministry of Defense in Tel Aviv, with Capt. Benjy, an Army spokesperson. (Most soldiers will give only their first names.) Benjy was born in Sydney, Australia, and emigrated to Israel a few years ago. He took a job with the army's information service because he felt that his new country did not market itself well abroad. Sounding slightly concerned, he asks me why the new Israel correspondent for NRC Handelsblad, a Dutch newspaper for which I write regularly, has not yet come to see him.

During the next few days an army recruit will travel with me everywhere I go. Officially, to translate for me when necessary, but in actual practice, to monitor the flow of information. "Tomorrow Mirika will be going with you," Benjy says. "If you want to send her personal messages, would you please not do that on her army cellphone?"

"I don't even know Mirika," I say, surprised. "Why would I want to send her personal messages?"

Seeing as the army is unable to provide transport, I arrange a taxi for myself. The Israeli driver has a Filipino girlfriend he calls his "third wife" and says he is in touch with only one of his children, a son who runs a hair studio north of Tel Aviv. The driver is armed. He tells me that he is able to shoot both right- and left-handed. Along with him and an army escort, I will travel back and forth across Israel for the next few days. Never before have I had such an overwhelming sense of having been dropped into a fictional world.

Mirika, I discover, is a 19-year-old recruit. Her mother is a novelist, her father a prize-winning mathematician. With her she has a plastic bag of fruit, which she is willing to share. The day's destination is Bat Egat, an elite officers training school in the Negev Desert, just south of Beersheba. Capt. Avi, the training-school commander, welcomes us. He is 34, is married and has one child. His looks match the cliché of the war hero. Israel may spend a lot of money on weaponry, but when it comes to accommodations and furniture the army gets a raw deal. Avi's little office makes it look as though the state of Israel were established about three weeks ago.

"I fought in the second Lebanon war in 2006, and I took this job in order to apply the lessons learned during that war," Avi says. "We were poorly trained. Israel has become a land of shopping centers, of life's little luxuries."

Avi points to what looks like a series of mimeographed sheets, stuck to the wall with thumbtacks. "Those are the values of the Israeli army," he says. "First you are an individual, then a commander, and only after that are you a warrior. But the army's most important value is completing one's mission."

"Even if that means your own soldiers will die?"

"Yes," Avi replies. "Completing the mission has top priority."

I'm reminded of the son of Israeli writer David Grossman, who was killed during the last war with Lebanon.

"How can you prepare your soldiers for death?"

Avi sighs. "You can't. All you can do is train them. So they know what they have to do, even when they're petrified with fear. And I lead the way. I don't look back; I know they're going to follow me."

"Do you think another war will come, with Hezbollah or with Syria?"

Mirika interjects: "You can't ask that question."

Avi ignores her. "Every army prepares itself for the next war. We are preparing ourselves for a war on the northern front."

"Do you remember the first time you were shot at?"

Avi laughs. "You might as well ask whether I remember the first time I kissed a girl."

I go out to watch artillery exercises, with small and large weaponry. An officer in training with a yarmulke and a beard comes over and asks worriedly who I am. Mirika explains to him that I am not a spy, but I can tell from the look on his face that he's not completely convinced.

On the way back to Tel Aviv, Mirika takes an apple out of her plastic bag.

---

That evening, in a tiny Jerusalem cafe, I am scheduled to meet with Itamar Shapira, a representative from Combatants for Peace. Combatants for Peace was officially set up in 2006 for the purpose of bringing together Palestinian militants and Israeli soldiers who have had enough of fighting and are interested in peace. The meetings are held in both the Palestinian territories and Israel. The official languages are English, Hebrew and Arabic. Often enough, English is the only language shared. Still, it is extremely difficult for Palestinians from the occupied territories to get into Israel, and Israelis are not officially allowed to enter the Palestinian territories at will.

At the bar of the cafe, frowning in concentration, a youth is playing billiards on a computer. At first I think this might be Itamar. But Itamar himself shows up 15 minutes late, a friendly young man in his 20s who looks older than his years. He has a quiet voice.

"Actually, I'd like to stop with Combatants for Peace," he says. "What we've achieved has been a success, but now I feel like concentrating on my music."

"Are all your participants either soldiers or guerrilla fighters?"

"No, only about 30 percent of them," Itamar replies. "There's a lot of money available for organizations like ours; dozens of NGOs want to support organizations like Combatants for Peace. But the problem is that some people are more interested in power and money than in the goals of the organization."

I ask if he'd like a cup of coffee. He declines, noting that he actually works in this cafe. "I was raised on the same kinds of slogans as a lot of people here. 'A land without people for a people without a land.' That kind of thing. But when I started taking a closer look at it, it turned out to be all wrong. That was the first disillusionment. My father was a pilot in the Israeli air force -- a real patriot. Later, he became an arms dealer. But now he supports my organization too."

"Do you work full time in this cafe?"

"No," Itamar says. "I give guided tours in Spanish and English at Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Museum. That's why I work here in the evening. To escape all that misery. To meet a few everyday people for a change."

We say goodbye. Outside, in the street, he says I can always call him for more information, but that from now on he really wants to concentrate on his music.

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