What a view. From the base, I can see the Med. From our work site a mile or two and around a thousand feet higher I can see Haifa. And the UN. And some guys who are probably Hezbollah.
I've fallen back into my green routine with ease. It took a day or two for the routine to really get going. Our first madricha had to bail on us because when she met us at the airport she was already fighting a throat infection which was only getting worse. The base medic took one look and told her to go home. She still stuck it out until another madricha arrived. I really admire her dedication to her job. Even though madrichot have what a lot would consider real soft duty, all these girls are real soldiers and every once in a while they show how tough they can be. Romi didn't quit her post until properly relieved.
Usually she would just leave us with the other madricha until another could arrive, but our other madricha is brand new. We're her very first group. I think she lucked out big time. If she got a group full of teenagers it would probably drive her into an Israeli version of a Section 8. Starting off after peak tourist season is probably a good way to ease her into the job.
I mentioned my friend from Spain, I'll call him “Madrid.” He and I continue to become really good friends, swapping photos of each other raising the flag, working together and talking about all kinds of things. His family goes back to before the Spanish Inquisition, after which they became conversos and hid their Jewish roots. In recent years some of his family has embraced their Jewish roots, converting back, while others remain Catholic. I think Madrid's out to find out more about his roots, and as he said, “Do honor to his blood.” Tonight I'm going to a service at the base synagogue one of the soldiers has been trying to get me to attend. Madrid's coming too.
At my previous bases it took the soldiers about a week to warm up to us, and another to really get close to us. The joking, poking fun and horsing around kind of closeness. The Band of Brothers kind of thing. It feels like here that's gone into fast forward. One of the soldiers who's been working with us, a Yemeni combat engineer named Ehud and I have become pretty close. We talk a lot as we work and at night. We even have a trick we play on some of the Golani soldiers we work with. Ehud prettends to be Argentine, Mexican or some other nationality and that he doesn't speak Hebrew. Since he does not wear his rank (3 bars and a felafel- Staff Sergeant) on his work uniform he just passes off his combat engineer stuff as souvenirs from another base. So far at least three soldiers have gone for it hook line and sinker.
On a more serious note, I've had some great conversations with those Golani guys. Today I talked a lot with a recent immigrant from the US- Manhattan actually about a range of things as he surveyed the border with binoculars in his bunker with a Tavor and a MAG machine gun. It was an odd sensation working on repairing an anti-sniper net (The outside of the net is white, the inside black. The end result is the person inside can see out, but no one can see in from a distance.) crawling underneath to attach it to an overhead cable and looking right down the barrel of a belt fed machine gun. It was even more serious because at that very spot a soldier had been killed by sniper fire during the Second Lebanon War.
OK, let's back up a bit. I found out last week I'd be going North. I mentioned that to my father in our last conversation. He said, “I just hope you don't get put on the Lebanese Border.” Here I am, working less than 50 feet from the border, Hashem only knows how many Hezbalonchiks looking at me through binoculars, cameras or worse. The soldier I was talking to today was wondering how the hell we were even here. This is one of the most dangerous borders on the planet. Especially with Iran's leader, Mahmoud Ahmadinijad visiting Lebanon RIGHTNOW things could get hot in a second. The soldier then pointed out a house occupied by the Lebanese army, “They probably have a bunch of rockets in there,” and two stopped trucks about a mile away. There was a guy in what looked like Jeans and a black shirt standing there looking right back a us. “They're not used to seeing people crawling all over this place. They're probably trying to see what you're doing, maybe taking pictures.” Shit man, that's my job.
I noticed bullet holes in the outpost's anti- missile fences. (A steel structure extending 50 feet in the air covered with several layers of chain link. The idea is to detonate a missile before it reaches the outpost.) I was on a direct line with the holes. I suddenly felt a chill and not just from the breeze on top of this mountain. I was waiting for the whistle of a bullet, for all hell to break loose, deciding which was the quickest, safest way to hard cover. Hey, there wasn't a whole lot else I could do aside from freaking out.
Yesterday I talked to another soldier who told me he'd lied to his parents about where he was posted. I asked if he thought they'd figured it out and just didn't let him know. He said they believed it, but I''m not so sure. Parents always figure that stuff out. That's why I'm just not telling mine where I am until after the fact. Sorry dad. I know you're reading this and I know you'd be worried for me if you knew right now. But right now, this is exactly where I belong.
There's so much that I've seen and thought of in the last two days. It all blends together. Ehud lighting the powder from a 7.62 NATO bullet on fire in full view of of the Lebanese border. The group learning to sing Hatikva so tomorrow at flag raising we can all belt it out at the top of our lungs when the music plays. The beautiful morning and evening bus rides from the base where we live to the border outpost where we work. One of those rides being spoiled by the driver pointing out rocket damaged homes and the spot where Ehud Goldwasser and Elad Regev were abducted. The way my brain's record skips whenever the girls I call “Paris” and “Liege” speak. That accent, man oh man. And they're pretty cool to talk to as well. Paris is Jewish, but she's got a gentile boyfriend at home. Maybe I can get her playing for our team. Probably not with me, but I think she's already thinking about it.
I'm not really sure what I'm doing after this weekend. I might be going to Eilat with Ron, or returning to the group. The thing is, the group will only have one more full day of work after this weekend. There is a possibility it may extend, but short of a war starting, my departure date is set. So there's no confusion, I've decided that if a war starts, I will stay here and volunteer for the duration. Ｉ ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ ｈｏｗ Ｉ ｆｅｌｔ ｄｕｒｉｎｇ Ｏｐｅｒａｔｉｏｎ Ｃａｓｔ Ｌｅａｄ． Ｉ ｃａｎ’ｔ ｓｉｔ ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ ｏｎｅ ｏｕｔ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ Ｓｔａｔｅｓ， ｓａｆｅ ａｎｄ ｓｏｕｎｄ ｗｈｉｌｅ ｍｙ ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ ｆｉｇｈｔ ｆｏｒ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｌｉｖｅｓ， ｔｈｅｉｒ ｈｏｍｅｓ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｆａｍｉｌｉｅｓ． Ｓａｒ Ｅｌ ｉｓ ａ ｈｅｌｌ ｏｆ ａ ｌｏｔ ｓａｆｅｒ ｔｈａｎ ｔｈｅ ｒｅａｌ Ａｒｍｙ， ｂｕｔ ａｔ ｌｅａｓｔ ｉｔ’ｓ ｄｏｉｎｇ ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ ｒｅａｌ． Ｎｏｔ ｊｕｓｔ ｈｉｔｔｉｎｇ ”Ｒｅｆｒｅｓｈ，” ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｎｅｗｓ ｗｅｂｓｉｔｅｓ ｔｒｙｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｆｉｇｕｒｅ ｏｕｔ ｉｆ ｍｙ ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ ａｒｅ ａｌｉｖｅ ｏｒ ｄｅａｄ， ｉｆ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｆａｍｉｌｙ ｉｓ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｓｈｅｌｔｅｒ ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ ｏｆ ｒｏｃｋｅｔｓ． Ｗａｉｔｉｎｇ ｆｏｒ ｔｈａｔ ｅｍａｉｌ ｏｒ Ｆａｃｅｂｏｏｋ ｐｏｓｔ ｓａｙｉｎｇ ｔｈｅｙ’ｒｅ ＯＫ． Ｎｏ， ｉｆ Ｉ ｃａｎ ｂｅ ｈｅｒｅ ｗｏｒｋｉｎｇ Ｉ ｗｉｌｌ ｂｅ． Ｅｖｅｎ ｉｆ ｉｔ ｍｅａｎｓ ｔｕｒｎｉｎｇ ａｒｏｕｎｄ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ｄｅｐａｒｔｕｒｅ ｇａｔｅ ａｔ ｔｈｅ ａｉｒｐｏｒｔ． Ｉ ｈｏｐｅ Ｉ ｄｏｎ’ｔ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ． Ｂｕｔ ｔｈｉｓ ｐｌａｃｅ ｉｓ ｗｏｒｔｈ ｆｉｇｈｔｉｎｇ ｆｏｒ， ａｎｄ ｉｆ Ｉ ｃａｎ’ｔ ｃａｒｒｙ ａ ｒｉｆｌｅ Ｉ ｃａｎ ａｔ ｌｅａｓｔ ｓｗｉｎｇ ａ ｈａｍｍｅｒ ｏｒ ａ ｐａｉｎｔｂｒｕｓｈ．
Again- sorry about the font there. I really don't know what's going on with my little netbook sometimes.
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