AN ARMY TRAVELS ON ITS STOMACH

Marcia Saper
August 15, 2006

There is nothing about war that is enlightening, nothing that raises the spirit. But for this 60-something retiree with a painful knee, the week of August 7, 2006 in Israel was one of the most exciting and fulfilling of my life.

In July, Hezbollah entered Israeli territory and kidnapped two Israeli soldiers, killing two others. This act of war touched off a month long battle between the Hezbollah terrorists and the Israel Defense Forces. While the media went into a feeding frenzy mode to portray the fighting and the devastation, little in known of the inside efforts by Jews and non-Jews who flocked to Israel to voluntarily aid the IDF in its drive to weaken Hezbollah. This is not just Israel's fight. Hezbollah is the second (only to Al-Qaeda) largest killer of Americans by terrorist acts.

I have never been satisfied to watch from the sidelines, and I was completely frustrated by being limited to yelling at the television reports of the war. Fearing for the lives of Israeli soldiers and civilians, Michael and I began looking for something more we could do to make a more substantial contribution to Israel's efforts.

With little preparation and only the thought that we needed to be in Israel standing with our Israeli brothers and sisters, two weeks later, Michael and I found ourselves standing in the Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv after a restless 15 hour trip from Chicago. We were looking for the Sar-El representative who would send us on our way to one of the largest Israel Defense Force bases in Israel. Dazed and confused was an understatement.

We were part of a sub-group of about 46 people from all over the world who had come to work at the base, the only ones from the Midwest. We had no idea of what kind of work we would do or any other details of our trip. We met a young female soldier named Haddas who would be our Madrecha (teacher, mentor, friend, and guide). She was a stunning beauty, but all business, tough as nails.

We dropped our luggage in a hot, airless barracks room which had 4 bunk beds, 8 lockers (metal boxes, no locks) and 1.5 inch mattresses. By now I had my doubts about the accommodations. But at least the community facilities were inside the building, even though toilet paper and shower curtains seemed to be unavailable. Why didn't I bring any?

Only 3 other women were assigned to my room and we bonded in a discussion of the mattresses. Maya, who I guess was in her late 40's plus, and her daughter Maatya age 15, (she used Marsha because no one pronounced Maatya well) from rural southern Holland, and Giti who is 17, is an orthodox girl from Long Island to whom I lost my heart.

We went to the supply room to get uniforms, khaki green pants (I had trouble keeping mine from falling down because belts were not available) and a shirt/jacket. Nothing formal. I was glad I didn't bring my pearls. Mike, a 6'8" fellow from the US got what looked to be Capri pants. Cute!

Then we piled on a bus and were driven to a warehouse to work. By this time dazed and confused became the norm. We had a briefing from the soldiers, Fernand and Gil (reserve officers) who ran the operation. Since the war had escalated so quickly and thousands of reserves had been called up and moved to the Lebanese border, food for them was in short supply. Our job was to package meals to be trucked north. We formed a primitive production line.

My bunkmates and I and a young man named Illon from South Africa took on the labeling function at the head of the line. We put 4" by 10" labels on flattened boxes and passed them on to be date stamped and assembled, filled, taped and moved to pallets. Michael was at the other end of the line assuring that the finicky tape machines had adequately closed the boxes. He, Illon's father Selwin, Henry, a professor from Yeshiva University and several others worked in the hottest part of the warehouse, stacking pallets. So Mike and I had the line covered from end to end.

Hot! Did I mention the heat? I don't know exactly what the temperatures were, but I don't think it went below 95 degrees. And there was no air conditioning on the base, saved for a few offices and a modest attempt in the mess hall. We were pushed to drink water to avoid dehydration and heat stroke. But after awhile, it no longer mattered. It was what it was.

We worked as fast as we could and while we worked we complained. It was too hot. Some of the boxes were broken. Water, we needed water. The Madrachot passed out water and directions. Everyone knew how important it was to get this food to the Lebanon border.

And then came the realization that we, Michael and I and our colleagues from all over the world (France, Italy, Holland, Germany, the U.S., Canada, South Africa, Argentina, Jews, Christians, etc.) were working and sweating and singing and laughing together for one reason, so that Israel could remain free and safe from attack. WE WERE FIGHTING IN THIS WAR.

We were doing more than watching and praying, although we did enough of that as well. But we stood with our brothers and sisters in Israel to fight terrorism and injustice. Our bodies ached, our hands and arms were cut and bruised, but our hearts were full to overflowing with the notion that we were actually fighting the good fight. We are part of Israel.

The next few days were the same. Same warehouse, same boxes. On the second day the generals started to visit. We stopped briefly to talk to them, hungry for word of what was happening in the north. And to my surprise, they thanked us repeatedly. And we thanked and hugged them, for putting their lives on the line every day to keep Israel safe.

As the week went by, we got to know more of the soldiers. They were so young. In the canteen one night we met Avi. I don't remember his rank, but I will never forget his handsome face. Avi had been getting treatment for a shoulder injury and was just about to return to his unit, the famed Golani Brigade. He was anxious to return to his men but had been seconded for a few days longer to represent the army at military funerals in
Tel Aviv. Tough duty. We have him our email address and asked him to let us know when he returned home safely. We pray for him daily.

I am at home now and that week seems like a dream. My heart is still in Israel with those soldiers and volunteers. I never realized how much a single experience could affect me.

Michael and I want to encourage others to volunteer to work with Israel. This was our fourth trip to Israel, and our most meaningful. Even though the war appears to be over, Israel needs her friends.

VFI, Volunteers for Israel® (www.vfi-usa.org ) does the recruiting for volunteers on army bases and for hospitals and nursing homes through Sar-El.

Am Yisroel Chai!