I made aliyah 19 years ago this week. It was a homecoming in more ways than one traditionally associates with being a new immigrant. My father was a Palestinian Jew who became Israeli on May 15, 1948.
Even though he left Israel as a teen, he remained an Israeli. When it came time for me to come home with my family, I arrived not as a new immigrant but as a returning citizen.
Because of my different status from that of my family, they all arrived as new immigrants with full rights. In lieu of a passport, they were issued a teudat ma’avar (“temporary travel document”). I received an Israeli passport and teudat zehut (ID card) number different from my family’s; however, my passport was only good for one year. Because I was a returning citizen, I was told I needed to clarify my military status before getting a 10-year passport.
Trying to join the IDF at the age of 40
I wasn’t sure why, but that was among the least complicated things I dealt with as a non-new immigrant/returning citizen. At 39, I was sure that I would be contacted by the army in short order. Four months passed, then five, six and seven. I wondered how it was possible the army hadn’t yet contacted me. They must be busy, I reasoned. But I was traveling for work from the first month in Israel, and my passport was about to expire. Now 40, one lovely spring day, I made my way to the Jerusalem lishkat giyus (“induction center”) with all the papers I imagined I needed.
Someone directed me to a room on the fourth floor, and I walked up the center staircase. Arriving a little winded, I found the room and presented myself in front of a man in uniform about half my age. I explained what I was there to do, assuming this was the first step to being drafted for some important position in the IDF.
Looking puzzled, the young soldier looked down at my papers, up at me, then down at my papers again. Then, looking at me with a seamless motion as his right hand reached for a rubber stamp, he stamped my papers twice while declaring “Ba’gil ke’ze?” (“At this age?”), ending my military career before it even began.
I was relieved and disappointed at the same time. As I walked down the same four flights I had ascended a few minutes earlier, I thought of an adaptation to Groucho Marx’s line that I would never want to be a member of an army that would have me as a member anyway. Seriously, if the IDF needed me “at my age,” then they were in a much worse state than I could imagine.
A normal person, anticipating the arrival of his sixth child, would have left it at that. I have been called many things in my life. “Normal” is not at the top of the list.
A few years later, I was at a reception where I spotted the IDF chief of staff. I introduced myself and told him why I wanted to be in the army, and that they should draft me into the spokesman’s unit, where I could use my native English, knowledge of Israeli and Middle Eastern history, and communication skills honed over a career in advocating for Israel, to fight for Israel in the battlefield of public opinion. He took my card but dismissed me, presumably the end of my military career a second time, without any remarks about my age.
But that was not enough. No. I wanted to serve. How could the chief of staff not see, much less seize, the opportunity? Maybe he was preoccupied that night, or maybe he lost my card. So, I wrote him a letter making the case about what should have been obvious to him when we met: The IDF needed me.
A few weeks later, I received a call asking me to come for an appointment with the deputy spokesman of the IDF. Finally, they got it. I made my way to the Defense Ministry in Tel Aviv and was accompanied to the Deputy Spokesman’s Office. We talked for half an hour or so as I shared my resume and why they needed me under his command. He actually seemed to agree and said they would be in touch.
As I waited for them to follow up, having lost my mother a short time earlier, I joked that not only would I be drafted, but I would be a hayal boded (“lone soldier”). I waited. After months of hearing nothing, I assumed that they had changed their mind or had better and more important things to deal with. I tried to offer my services to the IDF three times. Three times rejected, I was resigned to enjoy my civilian status, knowing that my children’s turn to serve would take place soon enough.
As my youngest son is sorting out where he will serve next year, I still look at military (and national) service as an honor.
As I watch thousands of reservists declare that they will no longer serve, I am saddened to see military service become politicized to the extent it has been. Military service is not just an honor, it’s an obligation. If the Right and Left can use the rallying cry that “we have no other country,” we have an obligation to defend our country, even when the politicians are behaving in a way that’s not as we might like. Military service cannot be based on who is in office or their legislative agenda, right or wrong. Right or Left.
I don’t know what will come of all this, but now, almost two decades after coming home, I am still ready to serve if called upon, with honor. They might not want to put me in the cockpit of an F35 or in the driver’s seat of a Merkava, but I’m ready.
Dear Chief of Staff Halevi, you’ve got my number.