When I was 19, I went back to Israel to serve in the IDF. I was required by law in Israel, but I also wanted to go back and get away from what I felt was too much of a constraining life in the US with my mom, my sister, and my stepdad.

I don’t remember much of my time in the army. There are days I don’t even remember my personal number. Other days, like yesterday, I wake up from a nap and that number is on my lips as if I just used it to identify myself at the base’s gate.

in the IDF, My medical profile as Israelis call it meant that I wasn’t allowed to be in the infantry. I wanted to change that, so I went to see a doctor to get a permit to serve in a combat unit, even if it meant being a part of a tank crew or operating artillery (these places require somewhat of a less-than-pristine medical profile), but the doctor found that my situation (it was my eyes) was even worse than I knew, and my medical profile went down even lower.

That didn’t mean I didn’t go through boot camp, get a rifle, learn how to shoot, and realize that I developed the ability to fall asleep standing. Another part of every soldier’s job in the IDF (at least the last time I checked) is guard duty. You can’t get out of it, no matter what. Every couple of weekends, I had to pass a weekend at my home base and guard it.

One time, toward the end of my service, I was sent to guard in a remote base near the “shtahim” (שטחים) - the Palestinian territories. This base was on a higher alert than my home base, accessible only by military vehicles. It was known as a place that was usually reserved for long guard duties for disciplinary punishments, and it was not a place I should have been to, given my training. The army being the army however, things like this happen. I learned early on when I could argue my way out of something and when I couldn’t, and this was one of the couldn’ts.

They were as surprised to have me as I was surprised to be there. I was a “jobnick” - an IDF slang term meant that I was doing the army as a day job, meaning, 9 to 5, and going home every night, which was more or less true. A jobnick is not someone you’d send to guard a bunker with ammunition alone, but well, there I was, and it was too late for them to ask for someone else and for me to try and argue anyway.

There was this isolated watch tower standing on a hill. The hill was artificial: it was the top of the bunker. The watch tower was made of reinforced metal of sorts (not sure it was steel though), bulletproof glass, and graffiti. Lots and lots of graffiti. There’s a lot that goes in your head when you guard alone and watch the silent hills around you for three hours, and much of that was described in the graffiti, as well as phone numbers, a frequency for “quick relief” to tune into, horrible poetry, and even worse drawings of human anatomy. Among the graffiti and the many tick marks that decorated the walls, there was also the IDF’s rules of engagement (sorry, no English translation available - the English page leads to something else), which I was refreshed on quickly before it was my turn to guard.

I was to guard until sunset, an overall period of three hours. I was alone and I needed to be alert and awake which wasn’t easy, but I somehow managed.

Toward the evening, as the shadows started to get longer, I heard a noise that pierced the silence around me because it was too close. It was the gravel below me on top of the bunker hill. I looked down and saw a figure sneaking about. I remember trying to convince myself that someone was playing pranks on me, but a prank is a prank, and this was not the place or the time.

You don’t get scared when something like this happens. There’s no time for that to happen. Andrelanine is rushing through you and all you hear is your heart pumping through your chest and into your ears.

“Who’s there,” I barely mumbled in Hebrew and then louder: “Stop!” - But they didn’t.

There were a few more steps I was supposed to go through: I should have called that person to stop again and ask for a passphrase, but I was never given one. There was no time either because that person was coming right toward me, not exactly sneaking anymore. I reached for my magazine and hoped to god that the rifles I was given, unlike my own rifle which was doubtfully functional, would work. Shooting was not something I’ve done for a while in the service, and when I did it was only in a firing range.

“Wakaf en la Btoohak!” I yelled, which roughly should translate to “stop or I shoot!” in Arabic (not that I remember - now or then) - part of the procedure. I had my gun in hand, aimed at the sky outside of the tower. I was supposed to shoot a warning shot first, but I wasn’t sure I had the time. Rules are important, but also, fuck the rules.

Fortunately for me (and for him, though he didn’t believe I was serious) it was my commanding officer. “Relax, it’s just me,” he said, and I was able to breathe. I didn’t care about anything at that moment besides that everything was OK again. He was happy to see that I wasn’t asleep, and I was happy to, well, not be dead, or kidnapped, which would have been worse1. Many things could have happened instead, mostly pretty grim. This officer, needless to say, shouldn’t have done what he did, but he did. I shouldn’t have been there, and definitely not alone, but well, I was. Luckily for both of us, he identified himself when he did. I don’t want to think what would have happened if he waited 10 more seconds or so.

I don’t know why I felt I had to write about this experience. I feel like my reasons will reveal themselves slowly in the next couple of days. What I can say for now is that sometimes what you’re supposed to do and what you actually do are two very different things. You can’t think because thinking is switched off, as if someone just cut the wire to your brain and your muscles respond on their own. I want to emphasize something here: This is not about bravery or cowardliness. There’s no honor, discipline, or any other thing associated with good or evil in a situation like that. It’s just on or off. 1 or 0.

My life here in the US is very different than it ever was there, in the IDF. I’m sure this is also true for those who served in the military here. I am happy to be here, in the US, and I’m very grateful for the life I have today. I want to say I worked for what I have, which is true, but I am also a lucky SOB, whether I admit it or not, and this is just one of the stories to prove it.

1 - The worst fear of any soldier in the IDF is to get kidnapped by a Palestinian militant group. For these groups, kidnapping soldiers is the best bargaining chip they have with Israel. The soldiers can be unheard of for years - decades even - and are negotiated for many prisoners. One of the most famous cases (besides obviously the current situation in Gaza) is probably that of Gilad Shalit, who was still in captivity when I was in the army.