Blue sky and thick sand as far as the eye can see. At some point in the distance the two blend as one. I sit on a picnic bench under an aishel tree as a cool sweet breeze is blowing. I reflect on the Hebrew vocabulary words I have learned over the past six months: tekes, hashba’ah, masa kumta, and chayal boded. The chayal boded is my son, a lone soldier. My heart beams with pride and my eyes well up with tears.
The sounds of fighter jets and explosions jar me from my thoughts. I should be alarmed, yet I know I am safe. If only I could wrap up this moment and hold on to the serenity I feel.
I am sitting at the army base in Shifta where my son is training. Shifta is in the south of Israel – very south – but not as far south as Eilat. Thousands of years ago it was a Nabatean village and part of a trade route. Now the area is the training grounds and army base for the Totchanim. Totchanim is the IDF artillery unit: another word added to my vocabulary. The machine they use is not just a big gun, as I had thought – and don’t ever call it a big tank! It is a howitzer. It is big – big enough to fit eight men inside. It drives, it parks, and it aims and shoots. Or at least that is the simplified description given to me.
My son is a chayal boded in Totchanim. He is training to do something with explosives. I prefer not to ask further questions. I am praying that he and the other brave men and women in the IDF only use their madim, uniforms, for tourist photo ops. Some people here in Silver Spring have asked me, “Why are you letting him do this? He is not an Israeli citizen…”
There are too many answers to this question. In short, how can I not?
What has brought me to the middle of a desert in Nowheresville, southern Israel? It is my son’s Masa Kumta ceremony. The literal definition is “beret march.” Each unit of the army has a different color beret. His is a beautiful turquoise.
When enlisting, you go through a series of physical and psychological tests and many visits to the army offices. Then you are given a score, and depending on the score, that is the unit you will serve in. Next, you are sent an enlistment date, the day of your yom giyus. You arrive on that day to singing, dancing, comradery, divrei Torah, and hugs as you are whisked off to get your uniform and taken to your army base. This will be your new home for the next three to four months, at least.
At your base, there will be more testing, drills, training, practice, exhaustion, blistered feet, blistered hands, smelly and aching bodies. None of this seems to phase you as you are focused on your task and building a new family with your fellow chayalim.
After a few months comes the hashba’ah. This is the formal swearing-in ceremony. Each soldier is given a gun and a Tanach (Bible). The juxtaposition of the two amazes me, and yet it reminds the soldiers what they are protecting. They know and understand the special mission they have undertaken.
Back to the base for a few more months of training and job divisions. There is continued practice on driving, loading, aiming, and firing. Finally comes the time for the masa kumta, the beret march, which is exactly what happens. The night before the ceremony, there is a hike, a long hike from evening into early morning. Depending on the unit and weather, it could be at least 25 kilometers. My son’s hike ends back on base. The soldiers arrive exhausted and sweaty. You don’t notice their weariness right away because their exhilaration at their accomplishment is irresistible. There is cheering and singing as each group comes crossing the finish line. There is hugging and “high fiving.” It is incredible. I am honored to have the opportunity to be a fly on the proverbial wall observing the pride, joy, and love that fills the air.
I almost missed the opportunity. It was three days before the masa, as I was on my way to the airport, when I received a phone call from my son saying the location of the hike had been changed to his base, and it was going to be a closed ceremony. No outsiders allowed.
“What!” I told my son, “You need to tell your mefaked that I am coming from the U.S.A. and I am not coming all this way just to bring home kosher Doritos.” He said he would try. In the meantime, my husband was emailing and calling everyone he could think of who could possibly be of help.
I boarded the plane still not having an answer or a plan. Baruch Hashem, the flight was uneventful. Once we landed, I was excited to go through border patrol since I knew they usually ask, “What is the nature of your visit?” and I was eager and ready to announce my son was a chayal boded and I was here for his masa kumta. But the woman in the booth just looked at me and my passport and said I could go. What? That was it? What happened to the usual hundreds of questions that always throw me off guard? For a moment I hesitated, thinking I would tell her anyway, but then I decided I better not take any chances. I marched along, got my luggage, and checked my phone, no messages about permission to go on base.
The original plan was to take the train to my sister’s home in Kiryat Shmuel near Haifa, and then we would all go to the masa kumta, which was to be held the next day in nearby Zichron Yaakov. I was hoping that a message would have come through by now telling me to take the train south and figure out a hotel and cab, but no word yet. So I traveled north to my sister’s.
Two-and-a-half hours later, I was up north and still nothing from my son, his mefaked, or anyone else we had contacted. Soon my son would start his hike and would not be able to contact me and it would be too late to take the train south. So I did what any other exhausted determined Jewish mother who has never done anything wild and crazy before (this was my first trip alone, anywhere, ever!) would do: I threw caution to the wind (after consulting with my husband, of course) and booked a hotel room in Be’er Sheva, the closest hub to Shifta. I hopped on a train and headed south. Three-and-a-half hours later, I got to the hotel, phoned a cab company, and asked them to arrive at 5:00 a.m. so that I could make it to the base by 6 a.m., when the ceremony would supposedly begin. I set several alarms and tried to fall asleep.
It was 4:30 on my clock, and I was up, dressed, and in the cab by 5:10 a.m. I had still not heard if I was going to be allowed on base. As we drove to Shifta I shared my story in my broken Hebrew with the cab driver. He offered to speak to the guards at the gate for me. I told him I appreciated the offer and, worst case scenario, I would sit down on the ground in front of the base and start crying if they said no. The driver laughed and said that might work.
We arrived at the base at 5:50. The sun had come up and all one could see for miles and miles around was the color beige: one big sandy tan. I paid the driver and thanked him, took a deep breath and got out of the cab. I can do this I told myself. They will let me in. I won’t take no for an answer.
I walked up to the gate, where four guards were standing. I smiled and said, “Boker tov.” They responded in kind, and then I blanked and forgot all of my Hebrew. A storm of English chatter started pouring out of my mouth about the masa kumta and how I came all this way from America and my son and chayal boded…and then they cut me off and asked to see my passport. I showed it to them. My heart was racing. I felt like the world could hear it pounding. The guards looked at me and said, “Mazel tov! Just walk down that way and you will see where to go.”
What!? That was it? I wanted to jump up and down, do somersaults, click my heels in the air, cry and run, but I stayed composed, thanked them profusely, and walked down the road.
I have to admit, it was creepy walking around an army base alone. It was pretty much deserted as everyone was taking part in the hike. It reminded me of the last day of overnight camp when almost everyone has left and all you see are the towels that campers chose not to pack hanging on the clothesline waving in the breeze. I called my husband to let him know I made it in, and even though I was whispering, I could hear my voice carrying across the sand. I tried to drink in the physical environment surrounding me. Beige, beige, and more beige. So this is where my son has been living for the past four months.
I continued down the dirt road and began to hear cheering and singing. I followed the voices and began to see lots of green, giving color to the beige desert backdrop.
I doubled my pace. I was going to my son, my little boy. My heart filled with excitement. I turned a corner to enter the ceremony area, and I could now clearly see soldiers in uniform cheering for the other soldiers completing their hike. I could feel their joy. I searched from the distance to see if I could find my chayal. There he was, running towards me! My chayal, my little boy, full of sweat, dirt, and yuck, but none of that stopped me from giving him a big squishy hug. Then I took a step back to see the man everyone else was seeing. Nope – still my little boy.
He pulled me over to introduce me to his mefaked and his artillery team. They were wonderful. This was his army family, and I knew that they really looked out for each other. It was a very safe feeling.
It was time for the actual ceremony. The soldiers lined up according to their groups, and the visitors took their seats. Apparently, I was not the only one who had traveled from another country and was not going to take no for an answer.
Three commanders spoke. Each one expressed to the soldiers how proud they should be of their accomplishments. I was amazed that each commander also included divrei chizuk and divrei Torah and quoted sources from Tanach. I wondered why this surprised me since this is the Israeli army, so of course they should be including words of Torah.
After the speeches, each chayal was given his beret, a handshake, and a hug. Then everyone stood silent for the singing of “Hatikva.” Warm tears rolled down my face: tears of pride, tears of joy, and tears of prayer. Please Hashem, please keep these boys and girls safe so no harm comes to them. Please keep the army safe; please keep am Yisrael safe. Please never let these uniforms see battle.
As “Hatikva” ended, a sea of turquoise berets filled the air. Then more hugs, handshakes, and singing. My son approached me with his beret. He had an air of confidence and strength about him. He looks quite handsome, I thought, and then gave him another squishy hug.
He said they were going to be davening Mincha now, but there would be no mechitza for me. I told him not to worry; I had found a quiet spot where there was a beautiful aishel tree with a picnic bench next to it. I would daven there and wait for him. I poured my heart out again during my tefilot. Then I sat on the picnic bench and waited for my son to be dismissed. I relaxed, my eyes closed, and used my other senses to take in my surroundings – to imprint this experience on my brain and my emotions and to thank Hashem again for all the good he has given me.
Cheryl Umlas Broth lives in Silver Spring, Maryland. This article was previously published in Olam Yehudi, a publication of The Jewish Press.
