Not all wounds are visible

I wake up with a start. Again.

I can not count the number of mornings that have started this way. It doesn’t surprise me anymore, so as I catch my breath, I do my best to calm myself down. I have been under a lot of stress lately, so waking up in a panic, fearing that I might be missing a meeting, or some other engagement seems to have become the norm. This time though it’s a little different. I wake up with a very particular memory, and it gets me wondering if it is a part of a dream I no longer remember. The memory is a vivid one; I can almost see myself in it — . I am standing at an outpost on the Lebanese border, Hezbollah mortars are falling around us. It’s Nov 2000, and a part of me wonders if somehow my subconscious is aware of the timing — is today the anniversary of this encounter? I can’t help but wonder to myself.

Mortar fire on our base was quite normal at the time, even after and perhaps because of the recent pullout. The fear was not so much the mortar fire itself which we called “Nefilot” — Fallings, but rather that it may be a distraction for a far egregious action, such as the kidnapping of soldiers. It was just a few weeks earlier when; during a mortar attack, three soldiers were kidnapped by Hezbollah fighters dressed as UN personnel.
We have strict protocols when mortars fall. When the siren blares, we leave our tank and start making our way to safety. There is a method to it, a drill we have practised a thousand times. We wait for a mortar shell to hit and then run. We do this one at a time, for 3-second intervals each, before throwing ourselves flat on the ground waiting for the next round to hit.

“21, 22, 23!”

— We yell out each time as we run, the purpose of this being twofold; it helps us keep track of time, lest we run too long — forgetting to hit the ground and secondly, it lets the other crew members know that we are running so that they don’t accidentally run with us. This is important, it minimizes the danger of more than one crew member being hit by mortar fire or worse — taken hostage. It also makes sure not to slow us down as we enter the bunker since the doorway is barely wide enough for one person, let alone two or more.

One crew member at a time, we leave the side of our tank. Each one of us shouts out our name and begins to run. Two crew members go before me, and now it’s my turn. I look up ahead; the bunker is only some 30 meters away, yet suddenly under the circumstance, it seems like a distant mile if not more. Funny how distance and the time to any given point are only measured by ones need to get there. I have in my past, travelled across countries in what felt like moments, and there I was crossing a field that could be completed in a matter of seconds, and it would feel like a lifetime.
As we take another hit, I yell out my name and make a dash for it, shouting out the numbers as loud as I can,

21!..22!..23!.., I shout at the top of my lungs before flinging myself to the ground. I am surprised at how focused I am, almost as if everything around me is happening in slow motion. Adrenaline is rushing through my veins yet I, have complete control of every muscle in my body and of every step I take. Often, when people asked if I experienced fear during my service, I would answer negatively. It was not so much about bravery, more than I had a tendency of becoming incredibly calm when mayhem ensued. Bullets could be flying every which way, rockets could be falling, and I would suddenly grow calm, collected and focused. It would seem that I don’t stress out in what many call high-stress situations, which is somewhat ironic since I stress out like crazy over seemingly simple things like answering my phone, paying my bills and being late to meetings. How odd the human psyche is.

Later that day, I head out to speak to a group of ‘Shinshinim’, national service recruits — Young adults who have dedicated a year or two of volunteering before beginning their military service. I take two K4P teens with me; one is Muslim, the other Christian — both are Palestinian. I am a little nervous about this. I am responsible for the well-being of our teens and putting them in a situation where they may be verbally attacked for who they are, had me on edge. My fears quickly dissipate, the volunteer group is wonderfully curious; they have never met Palestinians before in social settings and have many questions. In part, I share with them a few stories from my military past, moments that had a profound effect on me in regards to my relationships with the other. A part of me knows that this is not something that they can hear or understand until they experience it themselves. My hope rationalised, is that when it does happen to them, they will remember my story and that it may encourage them to seek the other out as I have. So I go on to share moments at checkpoints, my role in policing Palestinian cities and more. I note the wonderment of naivete, seen in their eyes as they share in my words. There is something about the Army I remind myself that really changes you. When I look into their eyes, I can see that they have not enlisted yet. It’s not even about combat service; it’s just the wear and tear of the army in general that puts an incredible strain on one’s soul. When you come out the other end, people always note the positive outcomes — maturity, self-sufficiency, independence, and so forth. We all usually ignore the fact that the very elements that help curate these traits in us can also do us a lot of harm in the process. I wonder how many people truly come out of the army unscathed.

After the speaking event, I head to City Hall to pay my taxes. — I can not describe in words how much I loathe this experience. Paying bills and more specifically, owing money is one of my greatest stress instigators, second only to answering a phone call (Something I have never quite been able to explain, perhaps it’s the unknown on the other side of the call which is entirely beyond one’s control that freaks me out). I would enjoy a much healthier life if I could pay someone to take care of these bureaucracies for me, but as this service does not yet exist, I must charge forth and deal with it myself head on.
My greatest challenge is that because these situations make me feel so uncomfortable, I often find myself procrastinating, delaying these encounters for as long as I can, which only goes to prolong my stress related environment and often makes the situation worse. Usually, If this goes on for too long, I get lethargic and existential. life, relationships, and feelings all seem to lose their meaning in the endless scheme of existence. I find myself wondering why I exist in the world, all over a stupid bill or phone call I am not taking.
I have tried taking prescribed medication to help me out with this, but too often found that they just numbed me out completely. Besides, I have never been a big fan of putting chemicals into my body, especially not regularly. So over time, I have developed various methods to reduce my stress and get a hold back on my life. These include eating healthy, jogging (or any workout), praying, travel, breaking down tasks to small manageable items, watching an episode (or several) of a sitcom, playing one of my instruments for hours on end, and writing long-winded pieces like this one. I also often promise myself compensation for the inconvenience of dealing with a dreaded situation, so after an unsuccessful trip to City Hall (apparently, as of the beginning of this month, they only accept payment by appointment) I head over to Roasters in the Shuk for my favourite cup of Jerusalem coffee.

I spend the rest of my day at the Shuk, answering work emails and planning educational programs. The chaos of the market seems to have a calming effect on me, and I get my best work done here. So many days you will find me there. On Sundays, I like to end my day at the Shuka; a pub at the market with great vibes, live music and free-refills on wine. It’s my go to if I am feeling up to it and since I am nearby, and have had a very productive day, I head on over. While usually, this pub attracts many of my friends, this time — no one comes out. When a friend and fellow tour guide finally happens by and mentions some other event nearby, I cut my losses and join her.

We end up at a dimly lit pub, in the small streets just outside the market that is hosting an event for an organisation called Resisim — the name translates to shards or fragments. It’s a nonprofit that works with PTSD and other related issues that soldiers often experience after their service. It seems somewhat serendipitous that this event would close my stress filled day. I sit there in a circle of mostly men, all former combat soldiers and listen as their heartfelt stories shatter every male gender stereotype. One former sniper talks about a number, in the army it made him a man, now he wonders how to cope as he comes to terms with the number of lives he has taken. Another talks about the soldiers he lost under his command, those killed in action and those who took their own lives. The ‘problem’ he concludes, is that we only recognize the extremes. We know when someone loses a limb, and we know when someone is having a severe case of PTSD, but between those two — is an entire spectrum of hurt that we all are a part of. I sit there in silence amid this brave and beautiful group of individuals — sharing their raw and unadulterated stories. Warriors that have put down their weapons only to find that their battle continues on another front, one that will never make headlines because it is happening deep inside of them. My thoughts go back to the young naïve soon-to-be recruits I met earlier that day, many of them don’t realize the scale of hurt that is about to come their way. I used to be them, just months before my service on the Lebanese border, a place that changed my life forever. I begin to wonder — how much of this hurt is still inside of me? Tucked away, ignored by the many years of Israeli socialization that instructed me on how one must carry their invisible scars. Am I on the spectrum of hurt?

As the group leader begins to conclude, mentioning a few upcoming events — my moring memory returns in all it’s vividness. I am once again standing by my tank; it’s my turn to run, to make a dash towards the bunker.

Only this time I am frozen, I can’t move!

I can hear the commander yelling in my ear, I can hear the shells falling in the vicinity of our tank, I can see Rozensweig my gunner standing just inside the bunker — he too is yelling at me and gesturing with his hands to come to him — but his words are inaudible. A crippling fear spreads through every bone in my body; suddenly, I am not sure anymore if this is made up or if this is the way it happened. Me standing by my tank as the mortars explode around me, my legs cemented in terror while my-own voice is yelling on a repeated loop in my head “21, 22, 23… 21,22,23…, 21,22, 23!”