Different wars, different causes

JEN WRIGHT SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH BULLETIN

As images of war in the Middle East make their way to our Canadian homes and newspapers, I cannot help reflecting on the time I served in the Israeli army during the 1973 Yom Kippur War.

I had been hired by Zim Lines, the Israeli shipping and cruise line, to perform on a luxury cruise ship for five days. This would have been my first big journey alone but the trip was cancelled when the Yom Kippur War broke out unexpectedly, closing all Israeli ports.

With time on my hands, I searched for something meaningful to contribute to my country. Daily, along with thousands of volunteers, I trekked to the local hospitals, waiting patiently to offer anything they might need. I listed my skills with the Israel Defence Forces and, one day, received a telephone call from an IDF administrator: "Would I be willing to perform for soldiers recuperating in a convalescent home in Acre?"

I eagerly accepted, and joined a talented magician named Moshe and a whistling guitarist called Shmuel. This marked the beginning of an unforgettable experience.

The second phone call from the IDF administrator came a few days later. She asked if I would like to go to northern Israel and perform "aysham" ... "somewhere." In the military, soldiers are not permitted to mention their whereabouts.

An army truck picked up Moshe, Shmuel and me, to begin our performances "somewhere" north of the ancient city of Safed.

Our small group was named Tsevet Havai Pikud Tsafon – the Northern Command Ensemble. Wearing our newly ironed khaki uniforms, carrying guitars and equipment, no one could tell that just hours ago we had been civilians.

The morning after arriving in Safed, we learned we would not be going home after all. We headed north to an army base deep in the Golan Heights. Roads were empty except for army tanks and trucks. Crumbled buildings, deserted streets and abandoned possessions surrounded us. We reached the army base and were led to a noisy room packed with soldiers.

During my introduction, I was baffled by an overzealous welcome as I climbed on stage. Why the wolf whistles and loud applause.... I hadn't begun to sing? Then I understood. There were only a handful of female soldiers. I was a novelty for the males. The performance, good or bad, was an extra perk.

We performed at two more bases before returning to Safed. I had spoken to hundreds of soldiers, some of whom had been on the front for two months, many expressing concern for their families. So began the first day of many where I jotted down telephone numbers of family and fellow kibbutzniks. Our music ensemble became the soldiers' contact with the outside world; a source of relief for loved ones at home. Safed was blacked out and I would muddle through dark narrow streets to the cluster of public telephones, grasping a handful of asimonim (telephone tokens).

Nightly, we would line up for what seemed like hours to deliver innumerable long distance messages. Clutching matches for light, I would begin the conversations. The tokens dropped rapidly into the phone box as relatives probed: Did he say when he might come home? How did he look?

Returning to Safed after a few days off, we drove past a medical base where a good friend was stationed. Zvika and I had met in boarding school, in Grade 7, when we both were newly landed immigrants. Our mothers were friends and, being true folkies, we had jammed together. Zvika had the added talent of being a natural comedian. I begged him to join our Northern Command Ensemble and sing with me. Zvika's commander gave his consent and we again headed to the Golan, this time with Zvika and I rehearsing skits and melodies.

We performed in territories taken only days previously by the Israeli army. It was horrifying to see the charred and abandoned body of a young Syrian soldier. Were his parents waiting anxiously for news of him? Did he leave a wife? Children?

One particular day we performed in a makeshift army camp located at the edge of a valley where two dozen parachuters slept in command cars. I recognized one of them as the teller from my Haifa bank.

It was a difficult to perform lively, cheerful songs when all around us was shelling, injured soldiers and death. We set up our stage by the ammunition boxes and did the best we could. Peals of laughter echoed as Zvika strutted around doing his imitations of international airline stewardesses. I found it uplifting that, in the middle of war, humor was still essential.

A few days after we left the base, we learned that the camp had been shelled. There were no survivors.

On another occasion, we entertained by the Lebanese border. Our show could not begin until after the 5 p.m. katyusha attack on a small Lebanese village. Peering through binoculars we could see black-clothed women and children calmly walking through their village as if a mere thunderstorm had struck. Someone explained to us the reason behind these nightly attacks: to discourage the villages from harboring terrorists. Returning to Safed became a welcome refuge despite the darkness.

Our most eventful day occurred when our driver was instructed to pick up an officer, Tsvia, en route to the Golan. Tsvia was carrying a large birthday cake, to be delivered to a commander based near the front. She navigated and, as we neared the front lines, it became evident that her directions were incorrect. Despite numerous pleas to turn around, she insisted that we continue.

On one side of the road ran a tall barbed wire fence indicating the border. There were tanks, jeeps, command cars and soldiers. Tsvia barked an order to turn left at the intersection. Our driver obeyed. We travelled two miles down the road when our van drove over a white thread lying across the road. Our driver refused to go on. White thread, he explained, is a warning sign for land mines. In the distance, bombs were being dropped.

Panicking, we reversed back to the main turn off. An irate major was frantically flinging his arms up and down. "Are you idiots?" he exclaimed. "You were headed to Damascus. Didn't you see the Syrian bombs? If not for the Hebrew slogan on your van we would have bombed you too." Tsvia looked a little sheepish as she explained the situation.

"Well," he responded. "Seeing you are already this far, you might as well come into the bunker and entertain our unit."

The major put us into a small bunker room, where we presented one terrific show. At times, the shelling was so loud our voices were drowned out. We were escorted to another front-line base, a tank leading the way and a command car at the rear. We were gratified to redeem ourselves musically, but I don't believe the commander ever received his cake.

Our performances continued for a another month. In July, Zvika was called back to his base and we were sent to the Sinai.

I continued performing until the end of the war and it never crossed my mind to take the Zim cruise when the ports reopened. I had participated in a journey more meaningful than a trip overseas.

The past years of bloodshed and pain for Israelis and Palestinians are immeasurable. If I continue to make my home in Canada, it would be unfair to make harsh judgments. I took pride in serving in the military when it was a defensive army. Israel had no choice but to protect its borders. However, today, if I was called to perform, my participation would lack the eagerness it had in 1973. After the death of Yitzak Rabin, I believe the struggle for genuine peace has declined and the IDF has evolved into an offensive army.

My deepest love and loyalty for this country will always prevail and Israel has the right to defend itself, but to what extent?

Jen Wright is a freelance writer and professional children's performer living in Vancouver. She works part-time in social services.

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