In northern Gaza, I’m kneeling in what’s left of an alleyway while my rifle moves from shadow to shadow. The battalion commander whispers into his radio behind me. Calm, low voice. I tap his arm and look back. He brings the receiver down.
“Sir, you’re standing in his blood.”
He casts his gaze downward. “So I am.”
He will return to giving orders after taking one polite step forward. How anyone can hear him over all of this gunfire is beyond me.
There is a lot of blood.
It belonged to a fellow reservist who was hit by shrapnel that clipped a vital organ in his cheek. My paired medic is working quickly. He requires pressure. Two steady hands. He looks at me. pauses. then summons a different person.
I don’t hold him responsible. I’m not your type if you require assistance. Over fifteen years ago, I lost one on this same patch of dirt. And it strikes me—how odd this is—much like the mortar that grabbed my arm. The familiarity, the blood, the noise. A week ago, I was sitting at my neighbourhood café in Los Angeles, with my dog curled up at my feet, unsure of what book to pick up.
Not much notice was given to us. A call-up date appeared in our unit’s WhatsApp thread.
“I’m going to go swimming now.” I answered, half-jokingly.
Tel Aviv was being hit by ballistic missiles. All flights were grounded because Israel and Iran were at war. So what if I had to travel to Cyprus and call for a boat?
I’m signing out my personalised rifle just like that. A fellow in line turns to enquire as to why I appear so disoriented. Perhaps this is due to the fact that the majority of my friends vacation in Tulum. Since October 7, I have taken all of my vacation days in Gaza. or the tunnels beneath Lebanon.
We reach the base camp, which is one kilometre inside Gaza. The perimeter is marked by four steep earthen mounds, each with a concrete tower and an orbiting spotlight. There’s the sound of artillery. The crack of fire from machine guns. Overhead, the low rumble of helicopters. Some explosions are far away, while others are close enough to cause you to change your position.
Before long, it all becomes background noise. Sirens that once roused you from a sweaty slumber don’t even register. You have four seconds to find a place to hide. Just enough time to realise that you’re not going to be quick enough. I remind my guys that standing next to a soldier who has already been hit by the same shit on a different day is the safest option. They huddle closer as though they accept that.
Here, the dogs are different. Hunger and all ribs. To gain the upper hand, they rip each other apart. You initially attempt to stop them. You shout. Toss rocks. However, it makes no difference. It’s a war inside a war. You eventually learn to let them handle things on their own.
The Moonlight
No time to adjust. We leave base camp for nightly missions. The scenery appears unreal. Twisted rebar juts up towards the sky like steel vertebrae as moonlight slides across shattered buildings. Morpheus showing Neo what’s left of the real world is reminiscent of that scene in The Matrix. Not much.
Long before the sound reaches you, explosions rumble through the night, causing shockwaves to visibly shift the air. Bullets occasionally crack overhead. You look at the soldier next to you. Though neither of you expresses it, the question still remains: Was that intended for us?
You tend to remember the little things. Our captain sneezed one night while we were holed up in a neglected duplex. A silent chorus of “bless you” in equal parts Hebrew, English, and Russian echoed from all around the dimly lit room. The building next to us exploded a few moments later.
With a deadpan tone, I said, “Bless you.”
After that, I didn’t remember what we did. Only the sound of their laughter.
That reservist was hit in the face by shrapnel two nights later. I was sent forward alone with the medic. Covered by his team, we located our guy in the remnants of an alleyway. As I took up a post and looked back to watch my friend work, I heard rounds crack overhead.
Don’t be theatrical. Don’t panic. Just breathing through clenched teeth and steady hands. There was no sound from the reservist. When offered painkillers, he simply shook his head. We loaded him onto an open Humvee at ten o’clock at night. The following morning at 5:15, the mission would come to an end.
I only recall thinking once that I hadn’t signed up for this. On the back seat of the last Humvee, I was seated backwards. Legs supported by actual tonnes of explosives being transported outside the front line. Perhaps a dozen meters from where we paused to unload, two terrorists were spotted and eliminated.
It was not ideal, but there was a bright side. That morning, I had run out of pants. A neon-orange Speedo was the only item I could find in the donation pile. fluorescent. And, regrettably, my size. There would be no evidence of my extreme humiliation if we were hit directly, which was a small consolation.
Disclaimer:
This article is intended for informational and awareness purposes only. It is based on publicly available sources and does not promote or support any political agenda, group, or viewpoint. The situation in Gaza is complex and evolving, and interpretations may vary. Readers are encouraged to seek multiple sources for a comprehensive understanding.
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