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June 14, 2002
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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