I can’t talk about it.
Not because I
don’t want to but because I’m not allowed to. Not in an if-I-told-you-I’d-have-to-kill-you
sort of way – I’m not privy to classified secrets. But I do
live here, and when things go boom around us, unless they’re on the news (which
means they were cleared by military censors), even ordinary citizens are
forbidden to talk about – pardon the pun – the “where, what, and when” of what
just happened.
As the old
saying goes: “Loose lips sink ships.” It’s a legitimate concern. The fear is
that enemies could learn where rockets landed and adjust their aim. The last
thing we want is better aim next time.
It’s no
secret that a direct missile strike hit Beit Shemesh and killed nine people, in
what we hope will have been the deadliest incident of the war with Iran. My
cousins, who live nearby, felt their house shake. My wife’s coworker, who lives
even closer, heard windows shattering in the homes around her.
Other
incidents have happened far too close to home, whether it be from shrapnel
damage from intercepted missiles or outright hits that got through the
formidable defenses that help protect us from the daily barrage hurled by our
enemies.
* * *
If I can’t
talk about it, let me talk about something else.
Following
October 7, 2023, my eldest son, Avi, an alumnus of TA and Rambam, was desperate
to find ways to help the war effort. Since he had not lifted a rifle in the 13
years or so since his service in the Israel Air Force, the IDF wasn’t so
interested in him at the time. So he joined his dear friend, Avi Goldberg, and
worked day and night helping the shell-shocked, displaced families from Israel’s
south, whose lives and homes had been overturned – sometimes quite literally.
There was no
shortage of work – furnishing apartments, buying clothes and bedding, and
helping families navigate medical and emotional crises in a new city. But the
gnawing feeling of longing to rejoin the IDF in one capacity or another never
faded. Avi kept replying to postings for open positions, trying to get his foot
in the door. I know Rambo-type guys who might love to burst into enemy
territory and blow things up. That’s not where Avi was coming from. Shooting
something – or someone – was never on his bucket list. Most of his friends had
been called to serve, and he just wanted to help in whatever capacity he could.
After a
couple of months, he answered a posting for a vacancy in the Military Police,
and his application was accepted. He was warned that he might very well spend
his days opening and closing gates or directing traffic. No matter. He was in.
The service
proved far more meaningful than he had anticipated. Among other things, he
guarded terrorists who had been taken into custody, before they were
transferred to prison. Somewhere along the way, Avi felt that he could use his
head better elsewhere in the army and applied for a transfer to Pikud Ha’oref, the
Homefront Command. Their job is to protect civilians during emergencies – war or natural
disaster. It manages sirens, sets safety
guidelines, conducts search and rescue operations, and assists with civilian
resilience.
Specifically,
Avi’s unit was assigned to get the word out to communities who are less
connected to popular communications, including, among others, the chareidi
world. His outreach work in that community has been fascinating, as he learned – and
is still learning – the ins and outs of navigating the
hierarchy of leadership and enlisting the support and trust of those who don’t
necessarily endorse the work of the IDF. That topic could occupy its own set of
articles, but they’re not mine to write.
* * *
I
think that the sports gene in our family must have been a recessive one – it
skipped a generation. My father, a”H, was a huge sports fan and played
baseball and basketball in his youth. I believe he was still playing softball
on his shul’s team until he turned 60. However, my forays into the world of
sports were graced, shall we say, with spectacularly modest achievements. If
there was an MMP Award (Most Mediocre Player), I would have been a shoo-in. After three
years on the JCC basketball team, I had accumulated
a career total of two points.
But
my kids? That’s another story. Star pitchers on their baseball teams, valued
members of their basketball teams, etc. That love of sports is still there. At
one point early in the war, my wife and I brought chicken wings down south to a
base, where my boys joined other Americans watching a Ravens game.
That same
drive to help others would soon manifest in another form. There was some lag
time between Avi’s transfer and his unit’s first activation last June, when the first direct conflict with Iran ignited. But
Avi did not sit still in the meantime. He tapped into his love for mountain
biking to help soldiers who have been struggling with the effects of war. He
and a member of our shul here in Ramat Beit Shemesh, Dov Frohlich, developed a
program that takes groups of off-duty reservists biking each Friday in the
beautiful mountains around Israel. Accompanied by a mental health specialist,
they ride, they inhale the fresh air, they talk, they bond. It’s a costly
endeavor, as it entails purchasing quality mountain bikes and other expenses,
but the soldiers who have participated found it has given them a sense of
renewal and positivity. There are now groups in five cities around Israel. (For
those interested in learning more about this remarkable program and providing support, you can visit www.geerz.site/en/)
There’s
a second recessive gene in the family: military service. My father
served in the U.S. Army Air Corps during World War II. He was a radio operator
and never had to ship overseas. My generation was never called. My children – now proud
Israeli citizens – stand arm in arm with their friends protecting our
homeland.
My
younger son, Arky, was the first to draft. It is traditional to hold a mesibat
giyus, an enlistment party, before a child goes into the IDF. On that
occasion, Avi spoke eloquently about growing up as an older brother, complete
with all the annoyances that having a little brother entails. “Today,” he
declared, “with Arky’s enlistment into the Army, our roles have switched, and
he takes on the title of being the older brother.”
He
didn’t even have to trade him for a bowl of lentil soup!
Despite
Avi’s tear-inducing sentiment, he remains an example to the rest of the family
in his leadership, creativity, and wisdom.
* * *
With
the opening of Operation Roaring Lion and the massive battle now underway
against Iran – multiple daily sirens, closed schools, changing assessments of
the situation on the ground – Pikud Ha’oref has had a very full plate. Avi is
on duty 12 hours a day, every single day. His work in Pikud Ha’oref has been
eye-opening, often rewarding, at times frustrating, and always valuable. As he
proved himself indispensable, he has been “rewarded” with more and more
responsibility. This past week, he texted us that his group was in Beit
Shemesh, touring the site of that deadly missile strike. They were there with
Beit Shemesh municipal leaders, learning from what happened and guiding them on
proper emergency response procedures. In an echo of his activities with the
families from the south two years ago, they also met with those who had been
displaced from the buildings that had been damaged or destroyed, with the dual
goal of helping them manage the crisis and improving future response.
* * *
Beit
Shemesh has since been hit again. And again. From the safety of our safe rooms,
we hear the booms. Sometimes they are close enough to even feel them. It’s
reassuring to have Pikud Ha’oref communicating with us, alerting us when it’s
time to seek shelter, and informing us when it’s safe to come out. It’s nice to
know that Hashem has given us the IDF to watch our backs…and our fronts. It fills us
with pride – and humility – that our children are ready to stand up for us, and for
our nation, in whatever ways they can.
There’s
so much more to say.
But
I just can’t talk about it!
