In 1967, my mother kissed her husband, me and my brother goodbye as we went off to fight for Israel during a time of war.
My dad went to Gaza, my brother to Golan Heights and I went to Jerusalem.
My mother sat at home and waited in angst. It wasn’t until the end of the war, six days later when we returned home, that she knew we were safe. To her, that six days felt like a lifetime.
Now, as a father of three, I spend much of my time hoping my sons will not be called back into the Army to fight for Israel against Hezbollah in Lebanon or Hamas in Gaza.
I’ve lived in Denver for 3 1/2 years, but I was in my homeland of Israel just over a week ago, when Hezbollah kidnapped two soldiers and began shooting rockets into northern Israeli towns.
When I heard the news of the attacks, I noticed that the atmosphere felt very similar to the way it felt in the United States on Sept. 11, 2001. There was a feeling of togetherness and resolve.
As I walked down the street, visited a supermarket or a café, complete strangers would share their views on the situation.
What struck me most was the fact that there was wall-to-wall support of the Israeli government. It seemed everyone’s hearts were with the kidnapped soldiers and victims of rocket attacks. We all agreed that Israel could not simply sit idle – it had an obligation to defend its citizens.
While I was proud of Israel’s camaraderie, I also felt frustrated by my inability to help. Israel has a small-town atmosphere, and most people know of someone who is directly affected by the conflict.
To sit and watch the events unfold on television and not be able to do anything to help was a horrible feeling.
Since I have fought as a soldier myself, sitting on the sidelines made me feel utterly powerless. I wanted to help the people in northern Israel who were sitting in bomb shelters, fearing for their lives.
My brother and his wife live in northern Israel, in one of the cities that was targeted by rockets.
Now they spend their days and nights in a small, protected room inside their apartment. That is no way to live. I hate thinking about my own family living in these conditions.
The day I was scheduled to return to Denver was one of the hardest of my life.
I felt like a deserter, returning to the United States where I am secure, knowing that my friends and family were still in Israel during a time of conflict.
Now I pray that my two sons will not be called back into the Army Reserves. As a parent, I can’t think of anything worse than watching my children go off to risk their lives at war. I know it’s an honorable cause, and I know I would be there fighting for my homeland were I young enough. But as parents, we always want to protect our young.
Now, as my mother did, I fear for the safety of my children.
Conflict in Israel has directly affected three generations of my family – my father, me and now my sons.
If we don’t solve this situation soon, how many more generations will have to go off to war to defend their country while their parents wait sick with worry? When is enough, enough?
