Like the title says, this is a wierd concept, its supposed to be a reflective peice of alternative history/fiction set in the very recent past (like this past summer) if my life had been lived only SLIGHTLY different and if I had been born slightly earlier (like 2 years) earlier than I had been. I hope it makes sense and turns out alright. Some of the events have actually taken place, if not in the complete historically accurate way portrayed here. This is not going to be heavy on descriptions as my writing normally is, as its supposed to represent like, personal reflections/journal writing. Enjoy.
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There were four of us when we left the states: Mike, Jonah, Gabe and me. Now, Gabe and Jonah are discharged due to injuries sustained, I walk with a limp, and yesterday we buried Mike. It is August 2, 2006. But I am getting ahead of myself. Lets start with the background information you need to know.
I was born in January 1985, in Ashkelon, Israel. My Dad was an Israeli-citizen, formerly of America. He had immigrated 5 years ago, right after he finished college. My mother was an American, through-and-through. She too, was Jewish and came from a fairly well-to-do family from Skokie, Illinois, a wealthy suburb of Chicago where most of the rich north-shore Yids lived. Thats probably where the problem starts. My mother was the premier definition of JAP (Jewish American Princess) with the exception that she married my dad, even though he was a socialist who lived on a kibbutz and couldn't provide her the things she wanted. I mean things literally, not figuratively or metaphorically. Thats probably the root of my resentment towards my mother.
In 1987, right when the First Intifada started, that was the excuse my mother was looking for, so she could bring us back to America, to live as richer, materialistic, assimilated American Jews. We moved "back" to America, when I was a little under two years old, without my permission. When I got older, I realized this was a large part of my resentment, and possibly hatred, towards my parents. I also resented their assimilation. I resented the way they treated me, both as a child, and as a young adult. I resented the way they claimed to be fair and even-handed with us (me and my sister) but in any and all situations it was clear that she was their favorite. She got to go to sleepaway camp when she was 14 and 15, while I had to work at that same point in my life. They jumped through hoops to get her things she wanted, but never did so for me. These things, plus the uprooting, and the lying about when I asked them about it later on in life had built up large walls of resentment and hatred in my psyche for my parents.
So, when I was 18, and my parents told me they couldn't afford to send me to a four year "real" University, and I would have to go to a community college and live at home for two years, and thus, get cheated out of the college experience, I decided enough was enough. I signed up for the Tzofim Garin Tzabar program for Israeli-Americans wishing to return to Israel without their immediate families (yes, there is a program like that!) that very day. Within two weeks, I had said my goodbyes, and was in Israel, getting ready for induction into the IDF.
As soon as I had boarded the EL-AL flight to Tel-Aviv, I had shed most of the contacts and remnants of my former life in America. I was no longer Dan Sanders, Israeli-American from Chicago. I was now Yaakov "Kobi" Aharoni, Israeli, and soon-to-be combat soldier, bound for Tel-Aviv, and then Kibbutz Degania Bet to settle into the country before induction (this was a four-month process). When I landed in Israel, I vowed never to speak to my parents again, unless absolutely necessary.
When we got to the airport, there was a large group of people waiting for us with signs that read in Hebrew and English: "Bruchim Habayim L'Baita" or "Welcome Home". I was so happy to be home for good, as opposed to a month here or there, that I teared up and cried, as I kissed the ground of the tarmac of my beloved country. The oil-covered blacktop tasted salty and bitter, yet sweet at the same time, because I was finally at home, and at peace. Once we passed through customs, we met with the program director who met us at the airport, before going out to the charter bus that was waiting to take us to our new home on Degania. He asked us many questions about our history, medical conditions, etc. All these things I answered promptly as well as we could. Then he came to the question that changed my life.
"As Chayalim Bodedim (lone soldiers) you are entitled to an "adoptive family" to take place of and fulfill all the roles of your birth family in their absense. These will be provided to you by the IDF and the Jewish agency and will all be on the Kibbutz. Would you like one?"
This was my second chance, I thought. One more shot at a family, this time one that was mutually chosen, with people I liked, and could consider my family. Who I wouldn't be ashamed of, or embarrassed, or have feeling of hatred towards. I readily agreed.
Once we had settled into Degania, we had some time to ourselves to get acquainted with ourselves (the four of us from Chicago) as well all the rest of the garin from across North America. Twenty three from New York/New Jersey. Thirteen from Philadelphia area, of which Mike was technically a part, but some of his family lived in Chicago, so he left with us. 12 from Canada, and twenty five from the west coast, both Los Angeles and other Californian cities, as well as Pheonix, Arizona and the rest of the southwest and the greater Seattle area. Then, that night, it was time for those of us who chose to to meet our "new" families. My family was a nice family originally from Hungary, who had been living on Degania Bet since the split from Degania Alef in the early 1900s. They were the Ben-Moshe's and they were great people. In their home on the kibbutz lived 6 people. The father, Uri, a tall, muscular man, who looked like he could break your spine just by touching it. He walked with a limp, and he told me it was from fighting in the Yom Kippur was on the Golan Heights. He had taken shrapnel in the leg, and it had severed some ligaments as well as nerves, and now he limps. But he didn't seem to be doing any worse for wear, as every day he'd go out, and work in the fields or the dairy or wherever the Kibbutz asked him to, for as long as he was needed, resulting in a dark, deep sun bronzed skin. The mother, Liron, was tall and gangly, and looked as if she was part Yemenite, her skin was such a dark olive, and her hair was long, black and straight, and her eyes had a slight almond shape to them. They had 3 sons and a daughter. I had always wanted brothers, and now was finally my chance to be part of a large family that I got along with where I could have brothers. The oldest brother, Avi, was a commander in the Nahal Commando unit. He was 27, and lived on the Kibbutz with his family when he wasn't with his unit. The next oldest was Itai, who just turned 22. He just got out of the army and was in armour. He was a commander of a Merkava MK4 tank, and he told me he loved it, but now he wanted to go back to working on the farms and fields and various other industries of the Kibbutz. The youngest was just a year older than me, 19, and had just finished his basic training in the paratroops, and his name was Roni. All the brothers looked very much like their father, tall, muscular builds with proud, pronounced faces. They had their mothers' skin, however, and unlike their father, they still had thick, full heads of hair. The daughter, Rona, was the spitting image of her mother, or more accurately, what I assumed her mother looked like when she was younger. She was 16 and a half, and would be entering the army in a year and a half. They welcomed me into their home the minute I knocked on the door, and immediately accepted me as a member of their family. Over the course of the next couple of years, we would truly grow together and become a real family. But I am getting ahead of myself. They never treated me unfairly or made feel uncomfortable and really did treat me like a family member. The children accepted me as their brother, and the parents accepted me as their son. I finally felt I was somewhere where I was wanted, and belonged.
I bonded with Roni the most. We were very much alike. We both had a little rebel streak in us, but were raised with more than enough pride and patriotism and sense of purpose in us for three people. While we were both slightly rebellious, smart-ass kids with a penchant for getting into trouble and rubbing on the "wrong" side fo the law for minor things, like traffic violations and small possessions of soft drugs, we knew when enough was enough and when he had to do as we were expected, for the "Greater good" as we both acknowledged, loved, and worked for the betterment of, something more than ourselves. Over the next few months, we truly became close like brothers. I did with Avi and Itai too, but I had a special bond with Roni. After four months of adjusting, the whole Garin and I were finally inducted into the army.
When we went to the Induction Center, after going through all the necessary medical, psychological and other various tests, I recieved my profile. I was assigned a profile number of 82, which was good enough for all combat units except for combat pilots and super-elite commandos. I opted to go to the paratroopers as my first choice, and Golani infantry as my second choice. Luckily, I passed all the necessary tests to be accepted for the partrooper course after a long day of physical and mental tests. When Roni found out, back on the kibbutz we had a big party, both for me and all the other Garin members who got accepted to elite combat units.
(I will add more detail to this section later)*
After the 11-month long training course, during which time, I had lost almost 40 pounds before putting on 60 poudns of muscle, and really learned how to be a responsible man, as well as a trained killer, back at the Kibbutz we had a celebration before I went to report for full-time official duty as an honest to god paratrooper. As it turned out, Roni and I would be in the same unit. He was recently promoted to platoon commander, and after only 11 months in the army, I was already a sergeant. I was good at being a soldier.
Soon after I went on active duty, we had to go deal with terrorists in the territories. During these operations, Roni and I distinguished ourselves as easily some of the best soldiers in the unit, if not the battalion. He and I were quickly promoted until each of us was the same rank, leuitenant. During this time, I also strengthened my freindship with my fellow garin member, Mike Levin, formerly of Pennsylvania. We fed off each other, I pushed him, and he pushed me, and together, we all became the best soldier we could be.
By around 2005, things were winding down, and most of us were in our last years of our service, although Roni and I had to serve two additional years because we became officers. Mike was in his last year, as was the rest of the garin. Things were relatively peaceful, and we started getting leaves, and "Afters" to go visit people across the country and the world, more than before. In late 2005 Mike took a couple month leave to go visit his family and freinds in the States. He wasn't due back until September of 2006. But then HAMAS kidnapped Gilad Shalit, and Hezbollah attacked and killed soldiers from the northern border, taking Eldad Regev and Ehud Goldswasser hostage. Our unit was called up to perform front-line combat in the war that was to ensue. Mike, being the great man and soldier that he was, left his leave early to come back to be with his "brothers" in arms and to be with us as we fought in the front lines.
Just before we went into Lebanon, I did a lot of soul searching. I searched my thoughts and heart about my life thus far, my relationship to my birth, or "real" parents, and what drove me aaway from them, as well as many other things. I wrote all of what I felt down in a letter, and especially about my parents and my relationship to them. I wrote an apology to my parents for everything hoping they'd understand, and explaining that this was me, and this is how I felt, and how I chose to live my life. I hoped they would forgive me and someday maybe come back to Israel, but in the meantime, I would stay happy with this family now. I put the letter in a stamped, and pre-addressed envelope to my parents house, and sealed it. I gave it to Roni and said to him "If anything should happen this war that would result in my death, I want you to mail this to my original parents" He agreed, but said that I shouldn't be so morbid, and that I'll come out perfectly fine.
But he wasn't quite right. In the end of July, we were already in Lebanon, and we were fighting our way through Aita Al-Shaab, trying to clear it of Hezbollah terrorists. Through the course of the fighting, I was wounded in my leg, from both shrapnel and bullets, and was medivaced to Hadassah hospital in Jerusalem. Also, right before I was evaced out, in front of my very eyes, my good freind, Mike Levin, a great man and sodlier, and a veritable hero, was shot in the head by a terrorist weapon. He was dead instantly. He died in front of my eyes, and there was nothing I could do about it. I felt like a failure as a freind and a commander, although now I know I'm not.
And now that the war is over, and its just the end of August, I'm still limping and on crutches, but Mike, he's still dead. We buried him yesterday. Now, I'm supposed to serve two more years of mandatory service to the Army, but they are allowing me to delay it for a couple of years (and Roni too) and Roni and I are going to go to America to study at the University to see how we can best help our Kibbutz and our country.
(I know the ending sucks, but I'm a little tired, and I didn't think it through. Gimme you're thoughts on how to fix it)
The Mike Levin character is a real person, who really did fight and die in Aita al-Shaab Lebanon this past July. He was a good freind of some of my freinds, so please show him the respect he deserves. I tried to stay as true to his history when involving him as possible. He is truly a hero.
