April 25 came a little late for me this year, and then it came with a twist.
For those unaware, the fourth Thursday of April in the United States – this year, April 25 – is national Take Our Daughters and Sons to Work Day, which in simpler times was just known as Take Your Kids to Work Day.
The purpose is to bring the kids to work, show them where Ma and Pa spend so much of their time, and expose the little ones to career possibilities, either those of their parents or other grown-up folks. It also helps the children understand the source of their parents’ seemingly endless aggravation and anxiety, though these are not the reasons advertised in the preparatory literature.
Earlier this month, I was one of a handful of journalists the IDF invited for a half-day visit to Gaza. I jumped at the opportunity, looking at it as a perfect Take Your Kids to Work Day experience, only in reverse.
Instead of me taking my kids into the newsroom – not nearly as thrilling as it was in the Jimmy Olsen, pre-computer days when reporters actually worked there, the teletype machine clattered in the corner, phones rang incessantly, cigar smoke hung heavy in the air, editors barked out orders, and copy boys darted around desks – this would be an experience for me to see where my three sons and my son-in-law work. Or, at least, where they spent a good part of the last nine months.
While the half day in Gaza City’s Shejaia neighborhood did not open my eyes to any new career possibilities, it did give me renewed respect for what they and all those like them do – as well as a better understanding of why they come home from “work” tired, taxed, and, on occasion, testy.
Getting to Gaza with the IDF
IT STARTS with the gear. The lag time between when the IDF informs a newspaper of these visits and when they take place is short. There was not much time to prepare, and seconds after I sent in the release form stating that I was going into Gaza of my own accord and accepted all responsibility, the spokesperson told me not to forget to bring a helmet and a vest.
While The Jerusalem Post has this gear, I didn’t have enough time to begin tracking it down, so I figured it would be easier to just take it from one of my boys.
“Lad, I’m going to Gaza tomorrow,” I informed my oldest son over the phone. “Can I borrow your vest and helmet?”
“You’re doing what?” he responded, astonished.
“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” I replied, immensely enjoying the role reversal. I echoed the words he and his brothers often use when informing The Wife and me that they are entering Gaza: “We’re going to the safe part.”
“Will you see Skippy?” he asked, referring to son No. 2, who at that moment was doing a second round of reserve duty in the South.
“I don’t know, son,” I replied. “Gaza’s a fairly big place.”
“All I have is a ceramic vest,” The Lad informed me. “It’s very heavy. How are you going to carry it?”
“With porters, son, with porters. I’ll wear it, just like you do. How do you think I’ll carry it?”
“Good luck,” he laughed.
THE LAST time I did reserve duty was 22 years ago, so the vest I had in mind was a rather flimsy one issued to reservists back then. His was different from what I remembered.
The vest The Lad brought me had to weigh 10 kilos if it weighed a pound. And that was empty – not full of bullet magazines, canteens, and other gear he schleps around whenever he wears it.
The helmet, too, was no bargain. That surprised me because, from October to January, each of my sons raved about how lightweight and comfortable their helmets were compared to the previous ones they were issued. I had expected something akin to a bicycle helmet. I was wrong.
Decked out in the vest and helmet the army issues its elite-unit soldiers, I felt a bit out of place meeting the other journalists just outside of Kibbutz Nahal Oz. Most had lighter blue vests and helmets with “Press” blazoned on them. They looked ready for some serious reporting from the field; I looked prepared to storm a Hamas redoubt [protective barrier] in Gaza City. I felt stupid but safe.
It’s not the only time I felt stupid or, let me put it more gently, inadequate. I felt inadequate riding in an open-air Humvee and feeling uncomfortable as the tires on the sandy road kicked up dust that covered every inch of my body.
I was hot, full of dust, laden with a heavy vest and helmet, but what of my sons? They do this not for four hours but for weeks on end. They don’t haul 10-kilo vests on their backs; rather, when all the gear and their weapons are added into the mix, they carry more than twice that weight.
Nor do they walk leisurely; they run in the sand. Nor do they hear bullets fired at a safe distance; they hear them whizzing right past their ears.
THEN THERE is the heat, which is sweltering. The heavy gear and the dust mixing in with sweat compound the discomfort. The first thing I did when I came home was jump into the shower.
When I told my son, he laughed and said, “Now imagine not being able to shower for a week, and then getting back into the same dusty clothes.”
I imagined that, and then suddenly felt bad for ever yelling at him or his brothers for not doing their chores as kids. What they were doing in Gaza more than made up for dishes left unwashed, rooms left untidied, and floors left unmopped.
During my few hours in Gaza, I gained insight into what the IDF is doing there and how. For instance, the visit fleshed out terms such as “degrade Hamas’s capabilities.” Moreover, I got a tiny approximation of what my boys and all the soldiers are going through in Gaza.
That very small taste was enough to leave me with two powerful feelings: respect and awe.