A War Perspective
High school had ended and I had gotten through in one piece, a bundle of hormones who was just a tad melodramatic. For me, high school wasn’t particularly horrible, I had people to sit with at lunch, hang out with during breaks, and keep me company while I ironed my hair in the hallway during breakfast. However, my group of friends did have their fair share of gossip and crying to each other over the phone. Suffice it to say we all had some growing up to do.
September of 2008 came, and I embarked on a year long journey abroad to Israel with a volunteer program. According to Israeli law we were eighteen, and therefore adults. And so, our program treated us as adults. Our only rules were to attend our volunteer jobs on time daily, keep our apartment presentable and to be present for one weekly meeting with our fellow roommates. Other than that we were simply advised “don’t do stupid.” So, essentially, we were a group of six hundred eighteen year olds, abroad, far from our parents, with no curfew and license to drink.
Each night we went out was a declaration of our freedom. People drank too much, conducted themselves poorly and were lucky enough to have friends whom were willing to drag them home. As the novelty of going out every night began to wear off we started to limit our nights out to Thursday nights because (at least for the ladies) while the novelty of drinking every night and waking up early to work lost its’ sheen, a strapping Israeli man in his army uniform did not. Thursday night marked the start of the weekend for Israeli soldiers and so did it mark the start of the American girls’ weekend. Clubs and bars were filled with extremely attractive men, only made more attractive by their well-fitted green uniforms.
In January of 2009 after over a week of air strikes, the Israeli army finally crossed the border into Gaza and war was finally being declared against Hamas. While our parents in America were slightly panicked, all I could think was whether one of the soldiers being reported dead today was one of the men who had bought me a drink on Thursday. I was struck by how these soldiers, our same age, were not just guys who came out to have fun with American girls but had serious responsibilities which required them to risk their lives. I quickly realized what I had already known but had yet to process. That while my eighteenth birthday meant that I had license to drink in Israel, to an Israeli it meant being drafted- a license to kill and be killed.
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