加载中…
一个“家庭”的战争
(2006-08-13 01:55:35)
国内的媒体很少刊登和转载以色列人一边对战争的态度。这是一篇令人感动的文章，作者是从美国移民到以色列的犹太人。文章发表在《今日美国》
A 'family' at war
Posted 8/9/2006 9:51 PM ET E-mail | Save | Print | Subscribe to stories like this
Posted 8/9/2006 9:51 PM ET E-mail | Save | Print | Subscribe to stories like this
By Jon Medved
JERUSALEM — Sgt. Michael Levin's funeral here in Jerusalem should have been a small affair. He had immigrated to Israel three years ago and had no close family here. Levin, 22, died fighting Hezbollah, just shortly after he had rushed back to join his army unit, interrupting a family visit in the USA.
He was laid to rest here with full military honors and hundreds of mourners paying him final respects, though most of them never knew him. They were there because Levin was indeed part of a larger family — the Israeli family.
JERUSALEM — Sgt. Michael Levin's funeral here in Jerusalem should have been a small affair. He had immigrated to Israel three years ago and had no close family here. Levin, 22, died fighting Hezbollah, just shortly after he had rushed back to join his army unit, interrupting a family visit in the USA.
He was laid to rest here with full military honors and hundreds of mourners paying him final respects, though most of them never knew him. They were there because Levin was indeed part of a larger family — the Israeli family.
Even in the still quiet of
Jerusalem, it's hard to escape the constant reminders of Israel's
growing losses in this war. The faces and names of the fallen
soldiers and civilians are seen non-stop — on TV, in newspapers,
even on the entrance to the elevator in my office building. For me
and my countrymen, these are not anonymous statistics or stories of
distant unfortunates. They are family. Despite this country's
reputed tough exterior and determination, the Israeli family is
hurting.
This is already Israel's seventh
war in less than six decades of independence, and our new
sacrifices take their place alongside those of previous
generations.
Directly in front of my seat in
our small neighborhood synagogue is a plaque commemorating two
local boys who fell in the Yom Kippur War of 1973. When reading
Psalms and other prayers for the soldiers fighting yet again on the
Lebanese front lines, one can't help but stare at it and think of
the sacrifice that Israelis have had to make in every generation.
It's the constantly updated price for our freedom.
Because I never served in the
Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) — I was too old when I arrived here
from California — I have been susceptible to the feeling that
somehow I was less connected to this primal, most basic Israeli
experience of shared combat. (Military service is a requirement in
Israel for men and women 18 and older.)
I was always envious of my
immigrant friends who did manage to get real army experience; they
had somehow entered a state of "Israeliness" that would forever
elude me.
My city, the front
lines
This feeling changed during the
intifadabattles from 2000 to 2004, when the front lines were
suddenly on the streets of Jerusalem. Israeli civilians played an
unfortunate, and major, role in that conflict; it granted combatant
status on everyone who sent their kids to school on a bus or had
breakfast at a café.
With Israel's second Lebanese war
approaching the end of its first month, I no longer feel like a new
immigrant. Many thousands of Israeli homes have been damaged by
missiles as the deaths and casualties continue to mount. The
vulnerability is ever-present.
While it may seem strange to feel
at war while living in the eerily peaceful atmosphere of Jerusalem,
just a 90-minute drive from battle-scarred northern Israel, all it
takes is a quick glance around our synagogue to know that, yes, our
families are fighting for their very lives. With so many of our
sons and daughters in the thick of the fight, this war is our
war.
In front of me, Bob Rosenschein's
two boys are missing from their regular seats and are sitting
instead inside tanks. Steve Zerobnick's son is a commando, Asher
Ostrin's son is in field intelligence, David Arnowitz's daughter is
training soldiers, Yaron Shor's boy is in the air force, Meir
Fachler's son just started basic training, and Howie Kahn's son Eli
has emerged as one of this war's first heroes, retrieving an enemy
grenade and throwing it back to kill two Hezbollah
terrorists.
Perhaps I am more affected by all
of this because I am the father of three teenage boys and one girl.
My oldest son, Momo, 19, will be inducted into the IDF next week.
My second son, Yossi, 17, just got his first call-up notice, and my
son Itamar, 15, will not be far behind.
Why we fight
Herein lies a great secret of why
we fight, why we have gone to war after the kidnappings of three
Israeli soldiers. Why 90-plus% of the Israeli public backs this
war. Because our army is our kids, and Jewish kids will not be
kidnapped and slaughtered ever again without there being hell to
pay. Because we will no longer sit idly while our enemies openly
call for our destruction and amass the means to carry out their
threats. Because we refuse to accept as normal a life where we must
be afraid of a missile landing on our porch while we drink our
morning coffee. Because this war is not being fought over
territory, but our right to exist. It is for this that we fight the
war critics call "disproportionate."
The recent fast of the 9th of Av
— a religious day of mourning to commemorate the tragedies that
have befallen the Jewish people — fell on the same day Sgt.
Michael Levin was buried. Sitting in the moonlight on a hill across
from the Temple Mount, hundreds of our neighbors and friends read
together the frightening verses in the Book of Lamentations about
generations of suffering. Yet a quiet determination was palpable
among the mourners — a feeling that this war, our war, will
ultimately be won, that redemption is finally on the way, and that
our Israeli family will prevail.
Jon Medved lives with his wife
Jane and four children in Jerusalem and is CEO of Vringo, a mobile
content and community start-up.
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