By Clair Symonds

There might well be no such thing as a free lunch.  But you will forgive me for thinking, I hope, that there is such a thing as a free falafel.   I say that only because when I would get chatting to falafel stall holders the subject would invariably turn to what I was up to in Israel and the conversation would go something like this.

'Where do you come from then?   England, America?'

'South Africa – but I live in France,' I would reply.

Slapping on the aubergine and freshly chopped salad, I soon discovered that it’s by no means an easy task to stop an enquiring Israeli when in full flow.

'And why have you come to Israel, it's so far from your home.   Tell me, you are Jewish?

'I've come to volunteer here,' I would reply. ‘And yes, I am Jewish.'

It would be dishonest to say that I did not occasionally glance at the delicious falafel now beginning to take shape. 'Well, where are you volunteering?'  'For the army.' 

Now that would stop them in their tracks.  Each and every stall holder would look up in amazement.  'You have come here to volunteer for the army?  Thank you so much, that is wonderful.  Kol Hakavod.’ Whereupon my 20 shekel note would be waved away with haughty disdain and extra lashings of hummus applied to boot.   I can’t tell you how many times that happened to me. 

I was volunteering for Sar-El - the Hebrew abbreviation for Sheirut Le’Yisrael, meaning Service to Israel, which was precisely what I wanted to give.  I was only one among 5,000 people from overseas who come each year to be civilian volunteers in the Israel Defence Forces.  I knew from personal experience that in the major cities of Europe you could no longer mention the word Israel without receiving dirty looks or embarrassed silences. And should you dare to articulate views in support of the IDF . . . well, that was the negation of political correctness.

Not that all of us on the program were Jews - most notably the self-styled Meshuganah Goy, Roger Neill, who was extremely proud to have created that nickname for himself.    There was Avi the Ozzy who had changed his name from Alan to make it more Israeli-sounding. He had been involved in various Zionist movements in his native Melbourne since his teenage years and was on his fourteenth Sar-El program.  He was so anxious to bring his Jewish identity to the fore that he had shortened the chain of his gold Magen David Star of David pendant so that his Jewishness was almost in your face.

Above: Avi the Ozzy (l) and Sar-El friends.

Another volunteer, Norman Sheinwold, a towering figure of a man from the United States, was so profoundly traumatised by the Holocaust  that he had sought out a tattooist on Long Island who skilfully created a Magen David on his left forearm, across which were inscribed the words ‘Never Again.’

This over-the-top coming-out as a Jew was wonderfully refreshing.   No more tucking away my own small Star of David as I had learned to do in France.   It was all a far cry from the way I had been living out my Jewishness over the last three decades; my watchwords were discretion and low profile.

Of course the phrase 'volunteering in the IDF' makes it all sound rather glamorous.  But working alongside paratroopers on secret assignments it ain't!  We were warned to think ‘army life and army conditions’ - not Club Med - sound advice as it would turn out.

My first 'tour' was at a naval logistics base in the north of Israel.  It was there that I came under the charge of a fair-haired, fresh-faced, young girl called Liron who was a little over five feet tall and not yet twenty years old. Still, if you knew what was good for you, you didn’t mess with her – barely out of high school but already a Corporal in the army and with aspirations of becoming an Officer.

 ‘General Davidi is driving all the way up from Ramat Gan and will be giving a talk at 4pm in the mo’adon activity area,’ she announced authoritatively.  Most of us, myself included, were at least three times her age, but Liron was such an exacting madricha or leader and had instilled in us a fear of the consequences of not doing what we were told, there was no need for her to mention that our presence at this meeting was mandatory.

‘General who?’ Yudit the Hungarian enquired.

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of General Davidi?’ Avi the Ozzy chipped in. ‘He’s only the bloody founder of Sar-El and one of Israel’s most decorated Generals.’

When, a little later,  Liron led seven volunteers, myself included, to the female block to show us the rooms, I was a little taken aback when she announced, pointing to a small narrow room, 'that's it.'   I hadn't planned on the entire seven of us being bundled into a very basic shoebox of a room.  Still, we all managed to make light of it, each of us finding just a little personal space amongst the chaos of bags and clutter.    Then came the good bit, getting our IDF uniforms.  Not exactly a Saville Row fit, the sizes were basic - small, medium and large - let the wearer beware!  Belts and safety pins were the order of the day, to keep up baggy trousers or to take the place of a missing button or two. But once organized with boots and hats, we all stood smart and proud in our army attire.

True to army life, the day began early – dropping out of bed, straight into uniform and just in time for a rushed breakfast before realising one of the proudest moments of my day - flag raising.  With all the military precision I can only describe as a mostly yiddisher 'Dad's Army,' our small but keen group of fifteen volunteers stood to attention.  Given the order, one of us would be chosen to raise the flag and then stand to salute it.  I never imagined how emotional I would feel when it was my turn to perform this duty. With the formalities out of the way, Liron would give a news briefing before sending us off to carry out our assigned duties.  Mine was in a warehouse -  sorting  uniforms from a disorganised pile of large dusty cartons.  But with three willing volunteers, the uniforms had been cleared, stacked and ticketed before the most important meal of the day – lunch.

Despite a regime of rigid discipline and army protocol, the atmosphere amongst soldiers and officers alike was relatively relaxed, everyone taking their turn in the canteen style dining area to enjoy the cooks’ excellent cuisine.   The large round tables were an ideal opportunity for us volunteers to sit and engage with the soldiers to find out a little about their lives and thinking.  They were every bit as curious about us foreigners too.  'We thought everyone hates us,' one nineteen year old conscript exclaimed.  'So your coming here to volunteer for us really boosts our moral.’  Barely out of school, these youngsters were about the age of my own children, and yet what came over so forcefully was their incredible maturity.    Of course they were into their i-Phones and i-Pods like other youngsters of their age – but what distinguished them, in my view, was their readiness to serve.   And not just for a few weeks – two years for the girls and three years for the boys, a sizable chunk of their youth.   No doubt being a small country surrounded by hostile forces concentrates the mind.  I remember it struck me hard when one young man said, 'Here in Israel we are either at war or preparing for the next one.'    I was only a volunteer, helping out for a short stint and so felt very humbled by the commitment of these young people.

Appreciative of the help offered by volunteers, the army goes out its way to rewarding them with marvellous guided tours. On the second of our three week program, we certainly had a treat in store – trips to the religious town of Safed, the Naval Museum and Baha’i Gardens in Haifa.

I can’t pretend that my thoughts didn’t turn to home comforts from time to time – a private shower, my own loo, an undisturbed night’s sleep free from all snorers.  But these were tiny niggles when compared to the army volunteer experience overall.    You might well be volunteering but you get back far more than you give.  I certainly did.  So much so that I could not return quickly enough to complete another two 'tours.'   Each time to a different base, each time with a new set of volunteers, friends-in-waiting, if you will, each time an equally fulfilling and valuable experience. 

Let me conclude by telling you what prompted me to write this piece.  I recently received this email from Pamela Lazarus the Sar-El Program Coordinator in Israel.  It was a round robin message, true enough.

“I wish everyone a Happy Chanukah and happy holiday season. 'We are now entering the ‘quiet’ months for Sar-El but the bases still want more volunteers. So why don't you get out of the snow and cold weather and plan a trip to Israel during the next couple of months? Sar-El volunteers are needed!!!”

If I can adapt the old wartime slogan, it would appear that Eretz Yisrael needs YOU!   And, who knows, you might even find a free falafel thrown in. 

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