Every Israeli and
Palestinian has had their first war. My first war was the Yom Kippur War, in
October 1973. David and I were married in August, 1973, 15 months after my aliya.
I wasn’t even 21 when we got married. I wasn’t even 21 when the war began.
Joe, a fellow kibbutz member, who had been in the army
with David, convinced him that they should go to their unit soon after the war
began. Even though they hadn’t been called up, Joe was insistent that it was
the right thing to do, that they were needed. I don’t remember exactly when
they took off for their unit; it was a few days into the war, after many young
men from my kibbutz had been called up, and after it turns out, some of them
had already been killed. The guys went north to their unit that was stationed
in Haifa, came back after awhile, and then went to the Sinai desert, near the
Suez Canal.
All in
all, during my first war, and during my first year of married life, David was
gone for 6 months, rarely coming home for short leaves.
I was new on the kibbutz, and had begun making friends –
mostly former Americans who had made aliya around the time that I had,
preceding that war. But I pretty much felt alone and terribly out of my depths.
I was scared to death. After all, it was my first war.
In October 1973, there was only one public telephone on the
kibbutz, and it was located in the dining room. But that was okay since David rarely
had access to a telephone when he was in Haifa or when he was stationed in the
Sinai. There was, of course, no email, no cell phones, no Skype. There was one
public television in the kibbutz moadon (club house) that showed a
little bit of news (there was only one station, and that was the government
station, and it was only on for about 4 hours during the day). I also remember
going to Naomi and Haim’s (both senior kibbutz members who passed away a number
of years ago) with friends – mostly other young women whose husbands who had
also marched off to war – and watching television at their house in the early
evenings to see the news about the war. My Hebrew wasn’t so great at that time,
so I am sure that I missed a lot of what was being said. Most of the people who
sat with me in that living room have either died or moved away from the
kibbutz. Truth be told, most of that period is a blank for me, and I don’t
think it’s only because it happened 40 years ago.
Communication
between my husband and me was extremely rare. I think I sent him some ‘care
packages’ during those months (that was the time when women from the kibbutz
got together and put together care packages – paid for by the collective – to soldiers
once every two weeks or so), but can’t remember if he got them. I think we put
in sunflower seeds, chocolate, socks (?). Maybe we added some canned goods as
well.
I remember
having no clear idea what was going on, and how scared I should really be. We
had a few air raid sirens and had to run to the bomb shelters a few times and
remain there for awhile. That was the first time in my life that I had been in
a bomb shelter. I remember thinking that I did not know what ‘bomb shelter etiquette’
was. I hoped I wasn’t making any faux pas. And even though, since that
war, I have lived through two Intifadas, the First and Second Lebanese
war, two Gulf Wars (gas masks and all), Summer Rain, the Gaza War and Pillars
of Defense, and many, many rounds of Kassam rocket attacks from Gaza, I still
really don’t know how one is supposed to act, or what one is supposed to do in
a bomb shelter. I have come to understand that this one skill I refuse to
learn. My children have lived through most/all of these wars. David served in
reserve duty for 22 years, also sometimes during these wars.
We were
your ‘typical’ Israeli kibbutz family from the Negev – enjoying lawns and gardens,
a swimming pool, communal dining room, children’s houses, wars, gas masks, air
raid sirens and fear.
Yom
Kippur was my first war. A first war is sort of like a first child. You have no
clue what you are doing, but just hope that you aren’t making too big a mess
out of it. You are scared to death that you will make the wrong decision, not
take enough care, not follow closely enough the instructions that you have been
given by the war/baby experts, and plod along like everyone else. You wonder
why you put yourself in this position, and if wasn’t really a terrible mistake.
You feel responsible for other’s lives, scared for your own, but try to go on,
as if everything is cool. And somehow one war turns into many wars, and you
have more children, and even grandchildren, and it becomes a way of life.
Like
your children, in some ways, you become addicted to the wars. I can’t explain
how it happens, but know that it happens slowly, and you find that you somehow ‘need’
the adrenaline rush of the war, and wonder when it will come, even though you
hate the feeling. But you can’t help it, because most/all of your life has been
tied to one war, or another. You can’t imagine your life without them (children
and wars).
The Yom
Kippur War was my first war. I so much wanted it to be my last. I was wrong
about that… Even though I have lived through all of the wars and terror attacks since 1973, I am
a novice compared to many other Israelis. I sometimes wonder – when will enough
be enough? When will we give up our ‘need’ for our ‘war fix.’
The Yom
Kippur War was my first war. In many ways, it shaped my perception of my
kibbutz, my region, my country, and my fellow countrymen and women. For my 40th
wedding anniversary, I wish to give myself and all Israelis and Palestinians/Arabs
a meaningful gift - the gift of no more war, no more bloodshed.
