What army has anything to do with deserters?
This is one in a series of stories that have no specific beginning and no intended end. Its working title is “Funny stories of a sad life.” I consider myself an optimist and am happy in my life. Apparently, not everyone thinks that way. This is what makes me curious to keep exploring the ideas and details behind the mysterious face of life.
“There isn’t much that the army can do with people like you,” the officer said. He looked and sounded informative, matter-of-fact kind of informative. This was the last stop on my journey to be formally released from reserve service. In Israel, men typically become soldiers after reaching the age of 18 years. After three years of service in the army, they are scheduled to contribute roughly a month each year until they are 40.
Growing up, I wasn’t questioning the need to have four and a half years of my life dedicated to being a combatant. Pacifism was not a strong concept of my existence. I just knew that my life would involve this civic duty. The idea of war was always remote, in the sense that one only needs to go to war in crisis. Participating in martial activities is mostly a matter of practicing for something to be avoided. A very strange concept indeed, when considering the wording needed to describe it: but the realities in Israel make war a too frequent fact that needs to be dealt with.
In that sense, I am definitely lucky. During my first three years in the army, I was involved mainly in standing in front of soldiers like me and teaching. As part of being one in a team of electronic warfare equipment operators, my duty was also to train new recruits. If any war erupted, I would be operating that equipment from a helicopter, away from the enemy lines. Although not risk-free, I never made much of the prospect of one day having to participate in war. I never felt close to being a combatant. At most, I was an instructor. No war or major tension took place within the mandatory three years of my service.
I enjoyed my time in the army. We were a group of highly skilled young adults, all planning their future after being released. Some of us were more enthusiastic about our military service than others, but hardly any of us considered the army as the center of our lives.
In 1982, when I was in high school, the Sabra and Shatila massacre in Lebanon raised significant tensions in Israeli society. The sense of trust in our government was seriously eroded. However, I was still very much like many others, ready to join the army in whatever role I managed to be signed up for. I ended up in my role as an instructor and was pretty good at that.
My doubts about the vicious cycle of conflict-driven militarism began to seep in after I rejected the push to become an officer. “The army needs people like you. You are highly capable, driven, and in a position to become a future leader.” My commander was very persuasive. But I was already planning my application to Bezalel, the Academy for Arts and Design in Jerusalem. At that time, I knew I wanted to become an automotive designer. So, serving more than three years in the army looked like a huge sacrifice to me.
After my release, I took a few months to prepare my submission for Bezalel. My first choice, industrial design, didn’t work out. With my second, I was invited for an interview and was left out. I knew I would try again. But before that, I took a break and flew to Australia.
Like many of my generation, I too was drawn to the excitement of exploring the world in various ways. Taking time off was very common, and still is among people in their early twenties. The first Intifada — uprising in Arabic — started in 1987, while I was in Australia.
One day, the headlines talked about the jockey who won in the racetracks. The name of the horse was prominently shown. Who knows, maybe it was Kensei, maybe Jesabeel. Another day, the headlines talked about Bradley Hughes, or maybe it was Greg Norman. I had no idea how golf was played, and the grading system was beyond me. But the contrast to headlines I was used to from Israel kept slapping my face.
Then Australia “defeated their arch-rivals England by seven runs in the second-most closely fought World Cup final to date in Kolkata’s Eden Gardens stadium” (Wikipedia). Ads on TV showed a life that I knew about, but were not so common in Israel at that time: a softly shaped bar of soap rests on the exquisite edge of an expensive bathtub; planks of wood are being varnished with deep stains; a circle of brie is turning in the center of a few happy models. Lo and behold, the models grab a piece of cheese and stuff it in their mouths as they are holding a cracker loaded with yummy-looking sliced meats.
How easy does life need to be? Being secular, my family enjoyed non-Kosher food quite frequently. However, in public and even on TV, showing the combination of dairy and meat together was frowned upon at best. In many cases, it was even controversial.
On the more existential front, terror attacks are still to this day part of the routine. From the outside, the immediate question would be “What is the point of the endless fighting in the Middle East?” This battle makes us all blind to the fact that we are all the same. What would I have become had I continued the typical journey of an Israeli soldier, turned officer, turned commander, turned leader?
As I am writing this, in 2023, about a year of Israeli government reaches a crucial moment of its tenure. A deadly strike by Hamas fighters has wreaked havoc on the lives of thousands of Israeli civilians. The Israeli military is reacting with deadly counterattacks. I’ve already been living in Canada for more than twenty years.
But 1987, was the year that for me, the need to continue my life in Israel was properly questioned.
It was my time to prepare for higher education in either design or engineering. I completed my travels and returned to Israel in 1988. Would I design functional devices that make no sense in battle? Should I avoid being involved in the development of warfare? In 1989 I started my life as an Israeli student to become an industrial designer.
In 1992 I reached out to the Air Force sergeant of my unit and informed him of my intention to avoid my duties in reserve service. I wasn’t expecting much. I knew I would be marked as a deserter. I was aware of the risk of being sent to jail. When my unit’s sergeant made efforts to accommodate my decision I was pleasantly surprised. There were steps to take that he duly informed me of. He then scheduled meetings for me with various personnel, among them a social services officer, a psychologist and eventually, the Deputy Chief of Staff for Personnel, the highest rank in the army who could sign a document and seal my release.
We had a serious yet polite confrontation. He challenged my points and tried to understand how serious I was.
I told him “I know that if I was a Syrian citizen I would be executed. But that doesn’t change the disconnect I feel towards the Israeli cause. We declare our call for peace all over the world. On the ground, our actions reflect the opposite.”
“There isn’t much that the army can do with people like you,” he said. “After this meeting, I will consider your case. If I decide to sign your release, you will be notified. If I don’t, you will still need to show up for reserve service. If you don’t you could be sent to jail.”
In June of 1993, a week before my final presentation in Bezalel, I was arrested. For about a week I was held as a detainee with other reservists. Each of them had their own story. Most sounded like excuses, but they were real-life circumstances. One was expecting a baby and had to help at home. Another one’s business was in financial stress. Someone else had health issues. The authorities refused their cases. They didn’t show up and were sent to jail.
When my cellmates heard my story, they showed real concern.
“Don’t tell that to the judge.”
“You’re up for trouble.”
“They will throw you in for a long time.”
But I knew all of that. I wasn’t enjoying myself but I had about a year and a half of going through the ranks of advisors and officials who let me know what I was about to face. I also read about others who were sent to jail for refusing to serve. It all looked to me worth exploring. I was tried, and sentenced for the full time the judge was allowed to impose. I called that time the three most boring weeks of my life, but boy, was I exploring!
