Heroic Exploits
By Jeffrey Goldberg
The Jerusalem Post, May 29, 1992
The good thing about serving in an army unit made up primarily of immigrants is that you are exposed to an extraordinarily diverse collection of cultures and languages. The bad thing about serving in an army unit made up primarily of immigrants is that you are exposed to an extraordinarily diverse collection of body odors.
I don’t mean to be derogatory when I say that some immigrants to Israel come from countries where bathtubs are prized mostly for their ornamental value. “Why, Pierre,” some of these foreigners would say in various foreign languages, “To step into the shower and run the water over your body as you are doing is tres gauche.”
I am not singling out the French for special scorn; I’m simply saying that the French soldiers I knew (we called them “Frenchie”—all eight of them) had a laissez-faire attitude about their armpits.
But enough about the French. The really interesting people in my unit came from countries I only visit in my nightmares—Romania, Ethiopia, Iran, Canada, those kinds of places.
One night, after a delicious meal of battle rations, or manot krav (Hebrew for “to chuck lunch with great vigor”) we had a few moments to sit around the campfire and talk. The conversation quickly turned to the subject of aliya, the people from neolithic countries asking those from post-neolithic countries why in hell they moved to Israel when everyone knows that Western nations are filled with blonde women who want to have sex in limousines.
“The food,” I told them. “Plus, the friendly, relaxed atmosphere.”
Then, one of the Ethiopian immigrants began telling how he left his village in the Gondar province.
“We left in the middle of the night,” he began. “Just the young people. The trip would be too dangerous for old people, and they would just slow us down anyway. We would walk 40 or 50 kilometers a day. None of us had shoes, but that didn’t matter so much. There wasn’t much food or water—that’s what mattered.”
“Once, on the 10th or 11th day, we were robbed by highwaymen. They took our bribe money and they also tried to kidnap some of the girls, but we somehow convinced them not to. We told them we would have our parents give them money. Then, some people started getting sick. Dehydration, plus everyone was very scared. This went on for weeks. Finally, we made it to a refugee camp, but they hated Jews there, so we had to leave. We were stranded for a few days, but then we were found and brought to another camp, this one for Jews. We waited there for months and months. Finally, we were brought to Israel.”
THERE WAS a hushed silence as the group contemplated his story. Then another soldier, an Iranian, spoke up.
“That’s a tough story, but mine is even crazier,” he said. “All my family had escaped to Israel after Khomeini took over, but I was in the army and couldn’t go with them. It was terrible. I was on the Iraqi front and the Revolutionary Guards were watching all the Jews very carefully. We had the Iraqis coming from our fronts and the Iranians from our backs. Terrible, just terrible. Finally, I got a two-day leave and I deserted. I went to a relative’s house outside of Teheran, and a smuggler was arranged for me. I was given a compass and some false papers, and I was taken out at night to walk to Pakistan. The smuggler hated Jews, but he liked the money we gave him.
“We only went at night; in the day, we hid. There were soldiers and bandits everywhere. We were almost captured twice, but we were lucky. If they caught us, we would have been executed. It was a horrible. We walked for two months. Sometimes we got truck rides, but not often enough. About 50 kilometers from the border, my guide abandoned me. I had to make the rest on my own. I found a way to sneak over the border, but I was almost shot by the Pakistanis. I bribed them to let me go. I wandered around for what seemed like months, and finally I was able to make contact with someone who put me in touch with some Jews. They arranged for me to get out, but only after two months. Then I was flown to Italy, where I had to wait two weeks. I didn’t know anybody and I couldn’t understand anything. Only after two weeks was I taken to Israel.”
Again, a long silence, as we absorbed his story.
Eventually, I spoke up. “Well, fellas, those are nice little vignettes, but let me tell you, my aliya experience was hell, pure hell.”
Their ears perked up.
“First of all, traffic was bumper-to-bumper all the way to Kennedy. I mean, it was like a wall of cars. Plus it was at least 90 degrees out and the air conditioner hardly worked. We finally got to the airline terminal, and it’s packed, really packed, it was like a UJA mission or something going on the same flight. I had to wait 25 minutes to check in, and then they give me a problem because they said my bags weighed too much. It took five minutes to straighten that out with the manager.
“Then we go upstairs to the waiting lounge and I go to buy a soda, but it was $1.25. Can you believe that? A buck twenty-five for a can of coke. I decided to go thirsty. Finally, they called for boarding, and wouldn’t you know it, I’m sitting next to some hassid and his salami. So we’re waiting to take off, but there’s some problem on the runway, because we sit there for two hours. Can you believe that? Two hours before we leave the gate.
“Well, I don’t have to tell you that once we were in the air, it was torture. Eleven hours on a plane. Eleven straight hours. Not even a stopover. And they showed a Burt Reynolds movie. It was just miserable. I was lucky to make it alive. Pretty damn harrowing, huh?”
Once again, everyone was silent.
“You’re right—what a terrible trip,” the Iranian finally said. “Two hours at the gate? Does that occur frequently at American airports, or does it just happen to Jews?”
“I think there was some antisemitism involved,” I replied.
The Ethiopian, ordinarily not one for emotion, reached over and put his hand on mine. “I thought I had suffered, but your story, it is moving to me. I have to look at my experience in a completely new light,” he said.
“I know, I know,” I told him. “I’m not trying to delegitimize your story. It was a valid experience. You should be proud of yourself, especially the way you convinced those bandits not to kidnap your womenfolk. But, then again, I’ve never seen you deal with a traffic jam on the Belt Parkway at rush-hour.”
“Yes, you’re right. Before I can call myself a true man and a true Jew, I must experience the things you have experienced,” he said.
“Listen, don’t be so hard on yourself. I mean, you have a lot to be proud of. Don’t let this permanently damage your self-esteem.”
“You know,” he said, “you’re correct. After all, I did help with Operation Solomon. That was something, the way we flew into Addis Ababa and picked up 14,000 Jews over one weekend while hostile guerrillas threatened our people. That was a great feat. We stuffed 1,000 people into each plane because it was such a desperate situation.”
“You see,” I said, “I knew there was something for you to take pride in. A thousand people on each plane. That’s something. What movie did they show?”
“The Ten Commandments,” he said.
“Oh, that’s a classic. It must have been a great flight. I mean, really, how tough could it have been?”