On the eighth of Adar, the day before my birthday, I celebrated in a café in a suddenly snowy Jerusalem with friends from Midreshet Lindenbaum and my army group. Even though religious talk is taboo among the latter, I gave myself a “birthday girl license” and shared a d’var Torah. As I spoke, some eyes met mine with fascination, as I shared an approach to the world that they had never known. Others expressed a silent but aching discomfort, because I had violated what they saw as a pact to avoid religious topics.
Moments after I finished, we returned to our festive munching and gabbing. As we eased back into conversation, a close friend from my base turned to me and said, “There’s something I don’t understand about what you said. Who is Yehoshua bin Nun?” I was shocked. How on earth could a soldier in the Israeli military ask such a question? If he doesn’t know who Yehoshua bin Nun is, then how can we be fighting for the same cause?
So what am I fighting for? To explain, I’ll give a little history. I made aliyah from Brooklyn eight years ago with my family. Having spent my elementary school years at the Yeshivah of Flatbush, I had been indoctrinated with religious Zionist values. I later studied in the Israeli program at Midreshet Lindenbaum and subsequently joined the military as part of the seminary’s garin (unit).
Joining the army as part of this garin meant that I had at least one other seminary girl with me on base, and teachers from the seminary came to visit my base and give a shiur (lecture) once every two weeks. In addition, garin girls are always released for special Lindenbaum shabbatot and hagim. One would assume that serving in the IDF as part of the Lindenbaum garin would create a picture-perfect framework for expressing my religious Zionism. However, in my case, “harmony” is the last word I would use to describe my time in green.
When I began serving on my current base, in January 2011, I was introduced to a great group of religious soldiers. I was sure that I had found my close friends for the upcoming two years; however, I was quite mistaken. They were all great people—but we just didn’t “click.” Instead, I found my social group elsewhere.
We met on Lag Ba’Omer, when I was invited to a beachside bonfire. There, on the sand, I discovered a vibrant collage of oddballs. There is Hen, who lives in a dingy artists’ colony in Haifa. He plays piano and about five or six funky instruments. Ben is from a very upscale neighborhood in Jerusalem. His parents are strictly European, and he lived in Switzerland for a few years. A more mischievous troublemaker I have never met! The list goes on and on.
Together, we represented a treasure trove of cultural backgrounds. We really had little in common, except a raging curiosity that kept us from ever blinking. Needless to say, these people really got my motor running. Before I knew it, they were my whole world. We hiked together, danced together, and made countless bonfires. Hen helped me compose and perform my first song. What a joyous time I had making personal discoveries with them!
The only problem was that I didn’t always want to explore the exciting and the unknown with my friends. Sometimes I wanted to share what was already part of my identity. Sometimes (dare I say), I wanted to share my religious experiences with my friends. I didn’t want to run out for a shiur and then come back for a good time. These were my friends, and I wanted them to be part of my religious life.
Except, they weren’t really. On my birthday I didn’t want to be asked, “Who’s Yehoshua bin Nun?” I don’t want to hear that making a salad on Shabbat would violate the issur (prohibition) of boneh (building) more than opening an umbrella does. Because my friends have meager religious backgrounds and zero religious commitment, I find it difficult to give their Jewish opinions credence. When it comes to Judaism, I can’t truly relate to these friends.
This conclusion shocks me. I now understand that my close friends reject my core values—and I am not any more accepting of their core values. The culture that defines their identities is only an adolescent experiment for me, something I am dabbling in now. I don’t share a worldview or values with my closest friends in the army. How then can we stand side by side to defend the State of Israel?
I have come to believe, though, that there is really no huge dissonance here. If I claim to be fighting for Am Yisrael (the people of Israel), then I need to connect to all of Am Yisrael, not just to those who identify with Modern Orthodoxy. I would be arrogant to assume to protect Tel Aviv’s safety without having ever been in a nightclub. I would be remiss to guard Haifa without having been at a multicultural jam session. This is Am Yisrael today. This is whom I’m protecting.
Look around in shul Shabbat morning. Not all of Am Yisrael is there. Some of us are doodling in a sketchbook on the way to the Golan. Some of us are taking a morning run. Some of us are just watching TV. It has been a privilege to have connected with these people for a time. When I go back to my desk tomorrow, I go back knowing Am Yisrael a little better. I go back knowing a bit more about what I’m fighting for.