A call to arms

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I received a call to arms this week.

I am a civilian, well past the age of military service. I don’t own a firearm, nor would I know what to do with one if I did. I am an American and my nation is not mobilizing for war.

But I am also a Jew. So, it turns out my nation actually is at war.

The “call up” came from my rabbi. His words shook me out of the debilitating sense of futility and horror I felt the moment the rockets starting flying into Israel. Rabbi Barry Dov Katz told our congregation “we cannot maintain the illusion of being spectators in the drama of Israel’s wars with her neighbors. We are participants whether we were in Israel this summer or not.”

 He went on to talk about “the collapse of distance” in this conflict. Between the intensity of the debate on social media, the passionate demonstrations and inflammatory rhetoric in our own communities and the stories of our neighbors and relatives who have loved ones fully immersed in the sights and sounds of the war zone, it has become impossible to think of this conflict as belonging to someone else.

 This is certainly true of my wife, the American-born daughter of Israeli-American parents who maintains dual citizenship and has family there. It is true of me as well. But naturally, as in all times of crisis, my thoughts drifted to my children. As I observed them go about their innocent lives blessedly free of the angst this conflict is evoking in their parents, I discovered my mission. 

Don’t get me wrong — our two teenage sons, one of whom is preparing for his Bar Mitzvah, are reacting to the images they see on television, but I sense it is all just too abstract for them to feel viscerally. And therein lies the problem. For them, Israel is an abstraction — a place they have read about in scripture, sung about in verse and visited when they were too young to remember.

I was fortunate enough to go to Israel with my parents when I was 11 years old. Even at that age, I remember being moved as I watched people get down on their hands and knees on the tarmac to kiss the ground. I felt the devotion of the worshippers at the Wailing Wall. 

I gained an appreciation for the complexity of the place as I stopped to play soccer with two Palestinian children in the West Bank. I inhaled history standing atop Masada. I absorbed the fresh knowledge that this was the only country in the world, other than my own, that would take me in unconditionally because of who I am. And I don’t know how to describe my feeling as I gazed across the DMZ in the Golan Heights a mere two years after it had been breached by a Syrian army bent on Israel’s annihilation.

 

T

he only thing certain in war is that atrocities will be committed by both sides. I feel powerless to stop that. As a matter of self-preservation, I have no choice but to forgive and rationalize the actions of the IDF that have unintentionally caused untold suffering to too many innocents. I can even bring myself to forgive the hatred of Israel and Jews of my counterparts in Gaza — Palestinian parents who want nothing more than a life of dignity and opportunity for their children. 

I will leave both the vilification of Hamas and the defense of Israel in words and deeds to others. But my personal call to arms in this God-forsaken conflict is to resolve with my wife to get our children back to Israel, as soon as practically possible, so that they can hopefully feel some of the same things I felt 40 years ago and feel again every time I return.

I pray the long-term result will be three Jewish-American adults who care deeply about the fate and future of Israel, who seek solutions to its setbacks, who celebrate in its incredible achievements and rejoice when it ultimately finds a path to a lasting peace with all of its neighbors.

Cliff Stanton is a northwest Bronx resident and former City Council candidate. Point of view is a column open to all.

Israel, Rabbi Barry Dov Katz, Cliff Stanton

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