The Next Chapter

Photograph by Adi Nes

The moment has arrived.

On Wednesday, I’ll wake up bright and early, hopefully having slept at least a few hours, and become a soldier in the IDF. This is the moment for which I have waited eighteen months — a process that can only be described as bureaucratic crucifixion. And here is the end. Or rather, the beginning.

And, as it happens, it is not a simple time to be swearing two years of your life to the Israeli military — though, I don’t think there has ever been a simple time to do such a thing. But perhaps the fact that I volunteered to do this, that I was not conscripted like my Israeli friends and neighbors, is magnifying the moment’s complexity. I chose this. I put myself here. I made this bed. Now I’m going to have to fold the sheets and blanket quite fast under the orders of a 19-year-old.

No, there has indeed never been a simple or normal time to dedicate service to the Zionist project. Since Zionists were born, the task they have been called to is one of labor, alienation, defeat — peaks of joy immediately crashing into the depths of agony. It’s a mission not for the faint of heart, and, like a tick of sorts, it has a terrible reputation for not leaving once it sinks its claws into your flesh. If one wants to leave Zionism — to cease thinking about Zionism, talking about Zionism, questioning Zionism and its manifestations — they have to pry it out with tweezers and rubbing alcohol. I speak of anti-Zionist Jews too when I make this comparison, as most of them are just as, if not more, obsessed with Zionism as their Zionist counterparts. They’ve certainly proven equally unable to separate it from their Jewish identity.

Therein lies my reasoning for becoming a lone soldier. I’m unable to do anything about this Zionism. I realized, long ago, before it became a headline on American front pages, that Zionism would be with me always, and that I would be unable to spend time on much else if not in its service. My life would be dedicated to it, no matter if I am standing close to its beating heart and beaming with pride or estranged in another room, cursing its failures, its ambiguity, and the stupidity of its torch-bearers. There is no alternative for me, and if I’m completely honest, it hasn’t crossed my mind in years to consider one.

That moment, when I realized that my life would revolve around Zionism— thinking about Zionism, talking about Zionism, questioning Zionism — happened when I was a student at university, which, as my followers will know, is when I had a series of run-ins with people who also were obsessed with Zionism, though not from a flattering angle. The circumstances of my college education inform a great deal about my soon-to-be status as a soldier, as it was then that I discovered opposition to Israel’s existence to be something painfully bourgeois.

The people I met at school, and the archetype that I can identify at a single glance these days, were raised with seemingly endless amounts of privilege. And therefore, there existed, clear as day, a pulsing desire on campus to be as culturally and politically subversive as possible for the sake of a repaired self-image. And the most subversive cause to champion, well, back in the day, before it became quite popular, was eliminationist Palestinian nationalism, or, rather, explicit anger at the Jewish people for having a country. These views have been mainstreamed in Western society at the behest of the most well-off, ivory-tower thinkers who, for years if not decades before October 7th, have fantasized about rendering the Jewish people the scapegoat for the historical crimes of their societies.

It reminds me of when I was at rehearsal for a school play, which was tragically never staged because of the pandemic, and a boy with perfectly coiffed hair and expensive shoes, befitting one of the most expensive schools in the country, told me that America deserved 9/11. A great deal more than politics, the left-Islamic alliance is about, in my experience, the aesthetic of subversion.

Although I haven’t yet figured out why I was so averse to these characters at university, to the aura of coolness and social capital that came with their — let’s call it what it is — hatred of liberal democracies, I was, and continue to be, greatly shaped by my experience with such people. I want to make clear here that I wish to deny the temptation of making vague demonizations of the academy and young people with left-wing views. Sweeping generalizations with menacing historical undertones have become a staple of the modern right, and I think such rhetoric has led to illiberal policies. Nevertheless, the type of American personality that presented itself to me in the halls of the academy instantly made me question myself — and my politics.

The IDF is decidedly not a bourgeois institution. It does not exist for profit, and it has no members who enrich themselves from capital while posturing as its fiercest critics. It is dedicated wholly to the collective, not the individual, which, despite what a few co-op owners in Portland might argue, stands in stark contrast to today’s American culture. And it is precisely that culture — the belief, especially common in my generation, that the world owes you something rather than you owing something to the world — that made it so difficult for me to stomach classmates who claimed Israel had no right to exist. The sheer hubris of such a claim. The arrogance of my generation to deny my people their freedom because they saw something vicious online. Who the hell did they think they were?

Am I rambling? Perhaps I’m rambling. I apologize. I’m quite nervous about Wednesday and I decided that this piece, which will be my last for the foreseeable future (I am not permitted to write about politics while in uniform, but I recently had the idea of posting more literary updates to this blog, sort of a non-controversial diary) will be allowed to go in whatever direction my mind wanders. Because I’m having a lot of thoughts. And the truth is that not all of them are good — there is sincere anxiety in this moment. Particularly, I’m anxious about meeting new people in a language I decently speak and comprehend, but can trip and fall on when I’m feeling nervous or tired. There is a fair amount of political angst that I will need to wrestle with as well, like Jacob, who wrestled with an angel and then received the name Israel, “one who wrestles with God” — or whatever (watch — now the religious readers who criticize me for overlooking Jewish texts will accuse me of having a Messiah complex).

But there is also impatience. Part of me is saying Ugh — finally. I get to do this. Like so many have done before me.

And there is also an acceptance of duty — a responsibility, rather than a choice. Which brings me a lot of pride.

And, there is also a greatly inspiring feeling of liberation from the self, even temporarily, and dedication to the collective. To a cause — Zionism — that has been my cause for far too long, meaning, at this point, it will be my cause forever. As Howard Jacobson said of it:

“Zionism is not a country or a system of government. Zionism is the expression of a people’s soul: It is a longing and a necessity, a Utopian fantasy, an understanding of history, a solution, an act of reasoning, an act of despair, a prayer, a poem, and a song. Hate the poetry of my soul, and you hate me.”

As I said, I don’t know how much writing I will be able to get done while in uniform. Don’t expect any updates in your mailbox during my first few weeks. Regardless, this blog is not going away, as two years will probably go by in the blink of an eye, and I’m sure I’ll think of something interesting to say, eventually, even while in the thick of it. In this regard, to my paid subscribers, I would appreciate your continued support, as I’m about to live off lukewarm schnitzel and Turkish coffee for a good amount of time — but if that’s not feasible, I’ll understand.

Thank you sincerely to everyone who has followed this blog since I launched it on a whim, a month after October 7th, sitting in the same room from where I write now. It has meant a great deal to hear your feedback on every piece, and it certainly has strengthened my ability and confidence as a writer. And thank you, especially, to those who have appreciated my writing so much that they have gone ahead to purchase my book. That has helped me procure slightly warmer schnitzel.

Onto the next chapter, comrades.