Why IDF’s Immigrant Lone Soldiers Are on the Brink of Suicide
Straight from the donkey’s mouth (courtesy of Archive.org):
Before I left America, my boss told me, you must start a blog for the younger girls of the community. Their camp counselor, a soldier in the IDF — you’ll be such a role model!
I was 17, bags packed for Israel, my homeland, on my way to join the Israel Defense Forces — an Israeli-born, American-raised idealist with a vision of reclaiming her Israeli identity while rocking a uniform and an M16. I was beyond thrilled.
My aliyah experience itself was meaningful, and very positive. It showed me that I was right about how much I loved this crazy country, and although a language and culture gap were always present, they were the last things on my mind as I traveled and learned in Israel for my first year.
August 17th, 2015, my draft date, finally came, and I was ready for whatever was coming. I generally describe myself as someone who likes to hit the ground running. The commanders can yell, they can make us run all day and night, I will train and I will fight and I will prove myself. Of course, what I didn’t know was that I was heading to 02 training (noncombatant) for all of three weeks on an Air Force base next to Eilat, with a pool and a gym; I didn’t know that the real challenge there would be not getting sun-burnt on the walk to the cafeteria. So I played soldier, I stood at attention, shot a few rounds under careful supervision, and got home in time for supper. My post basic-training, specialization course was a similar experience. After a total of three months of training, I was ready to finally prove myself as a soldier; I was ready to be the person I had told everyone in America that I was going to be.
The job I was assigned to was in the chamal, the operations room, of that same Air Force base I trained at. On paper, the job is to run the ground defense of the base; from an underground bunker we were to be the eyes and ears of the entire base, the guard posts, the fences, etc. In reality, the job is to sit on a broken rolly-chair in the bunker for hours at a time, watch the blank cameras and deal with the guard duty soldiers’ complaints. I was let down. I felt like I could do so much more, and I didn’t understand why the army didn’t want me to. I moved here for this? I asked myself, heartbroken.
So I decided I would prove myself anyway. I worked very hard in that tiny chamal, with twelve hours shifts — either all day or all night — I learned everything there was to learn. I memorized phone numbers, I reread orders, I watched the cameras closely, and I slowly became an achmashit, the one in charge in my shifts. It was the fastest promotion my commanders have ever given, they told me. Simultaneously, I put in a request to join the officers course, a prestigious six month training with a rigorous testing process that gives you the rank of a commander and the start to an army career. I didn’t have the scores, but I put in an appeal. I would prove myself yet.
The next six months were the hardest of my life. It is the part of the aliyah story that you didn’t read on Ynet and didn’t see on Facebook. It is not the part my boss from Atlanta wanted me to share. Nonetheless, but with some hesitation, I am sharing it now.
As an American Zionist, I thought that joining the army was an answer, like volunteering or giving charity, to a problem that I felt was mine. Yet I didn’t see it as just giving some money to charity — I saw it as giving the final $100 that builds the shelter. I was sure that this was step one to integrating into Israeli society and more importantly proving myself useful. Well, integrate I did, but only in the sense that I finally learned what all Israelis’ thick skin was made of- armor.
Every day in the army felt like a day wasted. There was next to nothing to do in my shifts — I stared and waited for something to happen, for hours and hours. I felt useless. I kept testing for the officers course. I passed, I failed, I appealed, I passed, I failed, I appealed — for months. I put in a request for a new job. I found my dream job, I even got an interview, and even more incredibly, the commander there loved me. Yet by then I had been in the army for almost a year and they didn’t want to take the time to train me — the army is a bureaucratic system after all. Every day in the army took so much out of me; I truly felt broken. With every rejection, my commander reminded me, it’s nothing personal, you’re just a part of the system.
Nothing personal is exactly what I then became. I was losing myself. I felt like Ariel when she traded away her voice for legs. The army sat me in front of a screen, gave me some eyes, took away my heart and said, Honey, you don’t need that where you’re going. It was like growing up thinking I was a lion, and waking up one day and seeing in the mirror nothing more than a street cat.
I became depressed. I cried, more than I ever have. I couldn’t sleep more than a few hours in a row. I stopped eating. Food nauseated me. I could go a week eating just one box of cookies. I fought with my family, I canceled plans with my friends. I kept fighting to advance, putting in appeals, meeting with high ranking officers to show them who I am, but in the back of my head I began to ask myself, who am I? Why would I deserve this?
I love Israel. I love being Israeli. You wouldn’t believe how Israeli I’ve become over the past years, running a tight ship in my bunker. I know that Israel needs the IDF, and I know that being a part of it is important in the big picture. But I wasn’t ready for this. I was a naive immigrant, and I was only invested in my own story. The army is a system, and with all its accomplishments, it has its flaws. Something I learned, together with my fellow soldiers who suffered from boredom and disappointment with me, is that the army doesn’t need you specifically. It needs a body to fill a space. They don’t know you, and they don’t want to know you. This all sounds fine and reasonable from the outside — and of course it is — but going through that process, the process of separating yourself, the you that thinks and cares and wants, from the you that obeys and does and works, can be heartbreaking. When you put an 18-year-old with dreams and passions in a small box and tell them this is their world, it can break them. My motivation was my vulnerability, and the army made a big crack.
I was able to get out of my depressive state. I was able to find myself outside of just being a cog in the machine. I’m a relatively happy soldier now, who hates her job, just like every other soldier, but does it anyways, just like every other soldier, and goes to the pool and the gym with her friends on breaks. I have had my share of important shifts, where I’ve done a great deal, as well as shifts so boring I started counting speckles on the ceiling tiles. I have set my naïveté aside and learned that the biggest challenge – the one nobody prepares you for – of being in the army is staying out of it, mentally and emotionally.
So, this isn’t the blog post of a young American making it great in the army. Nor is it meant to deter young idealists from enlisting in the IDF. It is a soldier wanting to raise awareness, to bring another perspective to the conversation, a perspective people are less comfortable talking about. It is a soldier wanting to open a dialogue about the sacrifices we make to serve, the ones you don’t hear about at ceremonies. Health is not only physical, it is also mental and emotional, and being a soldier in the army takes a great toll. Unfortunately, it comes without a warning. We as a culture – immigrants more so than Israelis, but Israelis as well – whitewash the army and the meaning of service and bring young soldiers into the harsh system unprepared.
So, to my American friends posting their aliyah pictures on Facebook, to each and every one of you, I am proud of you. I wish you a meaningful, safe and healthy service. Remember though, that even if it isn’t, you are not your uniform.
To the American Jewish community, the black-and-white Zionist rhetoric won’t make the fall any easier when you get here.
To my fellow Israeli immigrants, we came here on a mission, but we need not give ourselves up for it.
To my past self, on August 17th, 2015, wear lots of sunscreen, pack socks, and don’t let them take away your laugh.
To my future self, on August 17th, 2017, when you get home, don’t forget to unpack your strength, your confidence, and your smile. They’ve been at the bottom of the bag for a long time, but it’s time to take them out. They could use the sunshine.
Last week a commander from Tel Aviv HQ called me to tell me I was accepted to officer training. It’s been over ten months since I first applied. I politely declined the offer. The army isn’t the only thing one can do to be active in the country.
It is time to take off our rose-colored lenses. The pink is much more beautiful if you can also see the gray.
Source: here.