The Sign at the Border: Remembrances on Yom Hazikaron and Yom Hatzma’ut

Sign at the Good Fence, Israeli-Lebanon border

“Welcome to Metulla.” The sign is a multi-colored arrangement of flowers set on the side of a hill. The road winds as we ascend; the guide, Joel, tells us that before 1982 fireballs careening down on the houses below were a common sight, and that people used to live in bunkers. I see it on my first and so far, only trip to Israel, and by the time I see it, find it surpassingly beautiful. Parts of Metulla were founded by Baron Rothschild and the overall impression is of flowers, great tropical beauties swaying in the sun.

After riding almost an hour, my bus stops and we passengers gratefully disembark. I climb to the top of a hill, greeted by Lebanese Christian vendors who sell candies, sodas and souvenirs. They come each morning through the border fence, or “Good Fence” as they call it, and return to their homes each night. What I see that I remember:

An Israeli soldier lies sleeping under a tree, his cheek against a gun that he cradles in his arms. The border is marked by two barbed wire fences with about eight feet between them; a watchtower; and a plaque with the words, “Nation shall not life up sword against nation and neither shall men learn war any more.” Another sign, put up by the Lebanese Christians, is about fighting to free the people who live on the other side of the fence.

The Lebanese Christian community had its own sign

I try to think of what it would be like to see signs and sights like these at home in the States, imagining myself  looking out the window and seeing a border with barbed wire. My friend, meanwhile, is telling one of the Lebanese vendors that I am from Chicago from the family of Al Capone; the vendor laughs and I laugh with him.

Through the wire you can see the low hills of Lebanon and hear the chirruping of birds. If the fence was gone, you would never know that beyond the hills was a war zone. At this distance, Lebanon seems like a beautiful woman nurturing a secret madness, like a Victorian lady in Rochester’s attic.

The soldiers we meet seem uncomfortable about their role here. “It is like your Viet Nam,” says one. Another tells of how he was on leave for the weekend and when he returned, found his friend had been blown up by terrorists. They are very young, these men in uniforms, and very tired; and though together, they are yet very alone.

One young man sits by the side of the road, listening as Joel explains why Israel went in to Lebanon; to drive out the PLO and then try to straighten out the fighting factions. The soldier listens intently as if he too is trying to fathom why he is here, when he could be slipping his arm around the shoulders of his girl, somewhere far from the Good Fence and the hills beyond.

Before we leave I turn to look at the soldier who was holding his gun under the sign with the Psalm. He is still asleep and I say a prayer for him silently as the bus pulls away.

These are words I wrote some time ago, before I moved to St. Paul and before my son was born. I am thinking of them as Yom Hazikaron and Yom Hatzma’ut approach, of everything I saw from Jerusalem to Givat Haviva to Netanya and Tel Aviv.

When I was a child, Israel was chocolate; a blue-and-white flag, Hebrew songs, figs and dates and my Hebrew teachers’ funny accents.  It was young, I was young, the world seemed to be rooting for it and all my Jewish friends and I talked about moving there one day.

When I was in my early twenties the criticisms began to swell, on TV, on MPR, in rallies at colleges. There are some days, it seems, that whenever anything goes wrong in the world, the world says Israel is to blame, even responsible at times for the actions of Hamas and Hezbollah. Of course one knows this can’t be true, but so much of the media seems fixated on casting Israel as the villain without allowing for even the possibility of a response.

Does that mean Israel is always right in everything it does? Of course not. Yet how is one to answer those who call Israel’s Independence Day a “catastrophe?” I want to say to them, look again; because the opposite of catastrophe is invitation and opportunity. And Israel, we know, is a nation of opposites. You can stay mired in the contradictions or become independent—of extremists, revenge and the factions that feed on war.

Yet here we are. We are here. Like the arrows on a map at the local mall, we jog this way and that in hopes of finding an exit.  There are all those young men and women who have fought or died or been captured, and I am afraid for them. I want all of them to be safe and free and at the same time I know Israel is safe because they have agreed to fight for it.

I look again at the words I wrote in Israel, visiting a kibbutz:

The young people we see here are much more committed and less frivolous people than we are at home. They seem like adults, and I feel we are not very much measured against them.  The music of this ancient country beats in their veins, and I think they will always be able to hear it in ways American Jews cannot.

As a child, Israel was my chocolate. Now the taste is sharper, more curried, a sometimes sorrowing spice that lingers on the tongue. On Yom Hazikaron and Yom Hatzma’ut, I remember soldiers sleeping with their guns and pray the words on the sign at the Lebanese border will come true: nation will not make war against nation, and neither shall men learn war any more.

Photos:  Jenna Zark

Filed Under: Being Jewish

Tags: Day of remembrance, Israel, Israeli Independence Day, Israeli soldiers, Jewish Minnesota