October 21, 2005

Alison on Aliyah:  Tziki’s Impact.. On All of Us (Part 3 of 3)

        So there I was, out on a dusty road in the middle of nowhere with Yehuda, one of Tziki’s youngest and most vulnerable chayalim bodedim (lone soldiers), feeling everything change within me.  As it neared 2:30am and I prepared to say goodbye, Yehuda remarked that he was so grateful to have been able to really talk to us.  “It can be really rough out here,” he said, “and I can’t often find anyone to listen to me when I need to talk.  When I get out for the weekends, I usually just sit with Tziki and let it all out, but I haven’t had the chance to do that in a while.  I have friends here in the army, but no one wants to hear about my problems.  Everyone has the same problems here, and mine aren’t any more important than anyone else’s.”

As he said this, I was hit with the reality of his situation.  I had never really thought through what this experience must be like for these young chayalim bodedim.  They cannot call their parents in America to talk about being scared, or lonely, or angry about something that happened to them while they are doing something of which their parents don’t approve.  None of their friends in America have any frame of reference to understand what they are doing, guarding a checkpost in the middle of “enemy territory” in a faraway country.  Even their friends in the army can’t possibly constitute a solid support network, as they are dealing with their own worries, fears, and experiences.

Tears sprang to my eyes, and I rushed to hug Yehuda goodbye, so that he wouldn’t see any signs of my worry for him.  He hugged me tightly in return, and I whispered in his ear, “You know you can call me anytime, don’t you?”  He pulled away from me momentarily, looked me in the eyes, and said with complete sincerity and utter surprise, “Really?!”  Shocked and a bit ashamed that I hadn’t managed to convey this to him sooner, I just hugged him tighter.  I left him there on that road, his eyes glistening and a huge smile on his face.

I spent the drive home thinking about Tziki, and about the financial and emotional output that he makes on a daily basis.  Tziki and his family give so much of themselves to these young, lone soldiers.  In fact, they sometimes give more than they have to give.  Tziki’s old, battered van recently gave out, and he had to take out huge loans to finance the purchase of a new one.  He needs a van so that he can continue to chauffeur all the boys and their piles of belongings, and the gas costs are a tremendous burden for him.  He spends a considerable sum each Friday for his weekly Shabbat dinners alone.  There are also a number of soldiers who tend to need more special help, both financially and otherwise.  As if this isn’t enough, Tziki also takes care of a particularly special young Ethiopian man, an orphan since age 7, whom he has taken under his wing and is now endeavoring to finance his way through a college preparatory program (and hopefully, ultimately college).

Tziki willingly gives to these soldiers time and money that he doesn’t have, and sacrifices sleep constantly to answer midnight phone calls from soldiers filled with fear, or anger, or frustration.  They cry with him, and yell at him, and complain to him, and he counsels them all, with the calm (and calming) voice and caring manner of an experienced father.  And we all soak it in, his warmth and his sensitivity and his giving nature.  We all clamor to be around Tziki and his family because they are filled with such love for each other and for all of us, and we become filled with it just by being around them.

Some of us are more aware of it than others, but the time we have spent with Tziki and his family has changed us, in deep and powerful ways.  I have watched the boys who come to dinner each week grow up before my eyes, and I have seen them become closer to Tziki and to each other over the time that they have spent at his table.  It is a powerful bond we all share, all of us the “chosen” few who have been invited to share in such a special experience each week.  I think the moment I realized this for myself was when Meir and Yehuda both separately referred to me as their “adoptive sister” for the first time.

The day after my visits to the soldiers, Tziki called me early in the morning, his first words, “Kol hakavod, I take off my hat to you.”  Tears came to my eyes, and I choked out a “Thank you.”  He relayed how Yehuda had called him in the morning to tell him I had visited, and how excited he had been.  Tziki and I have always had a special relationship, mostly because I am older and seem to need less “hands on” support than some of the others, but when he told me he was proud of me for what I had done that day, I was overwhelmed with emotion.  I realized, in that instant, that it was now my turn to contribute, to do my part to help these young soldiers of ours, and to help Tziki to do so as well.

 These moments with these soldiers changed everything for me.  I have become so much closer to Tziki, and to the boys he has taken under his wing.  Meir and Yehuda call me almost daily these days, and I am now privileged to receive some late-night phone calls as well.  I prepare care packages and I try to take them to wherever the boys are, or get them to them somehow.  And now that I know what they’re doing every day, which includes some fairly dangerous missions, I worry a lot more too.  Sometimes I lay awake at night worrying, and sometimes Tziki and I worry together.  And I am always intensely grateful for having been connected to these brave soldiers, and this wonderful family.