Life Within the Bunker

Mark A. Feldstein '78, a Crimson editor on leave this year, was working as a volunteer on a kibbutz in northern Israel in March when the Israeli army moved into Lebanon.

KIBBUTZ HANITA. Israel-SUNDAY, MARCH 19

The Palestinians have for the past several days been launching Soviet-made Katyushka rockets into the northern sections of Israel near the Lebanese border. Our kibbutz seems to be one of their targets.

One missile exploded in a banana field not far from here. The Katyushka rockets are almost impossible to aim precisely, but they are small and mobile, and it is very difficult for the Israelis to stop the attacks. In the first few days of the war, the Palestinians had been shelling sections further south, but since the Israelis are pushing the Palestinians back inside Lebanon, our kibbutz is now directly within the Palestinians' target range.

From Kibbutz Hanita, the Lebanese border is just over the next hill, a grenade's throw away. Three high barbed-wire fences separate our kibbutz from the border. The fighting is reported to be as close as six miles away.

Israeli troops are stationed on top of Hanita's highest hill, and I can see their tents and guns while working at my kibbutz job painting baby cribs. It is an odd contrast.

No one can enter or leave the kibbutz without the approval of an armed Israeli brigade. While jogging down a nearby mountain this afternoon, I had to stop to let pass several combat tanks, filled with Israeli men of my age who waved and pretended to shoot me with their guns. They seemed much too young to go to war.

Inside the kibbutz, I notice several soldiers carrying walkie-talkies. A kibbutznik tells me the walkie-talkies are used to warn Hanita and other border towns of rocket attacks detected on the Israeli radar screen. The Israelis use a secret code in case their messages are intercepted. We are supposed to head for the nearest of several bomb shelters if anyone shouts the Hebrew warning Hafligah.

A middle-aged man from another kibbutz near the border was just killed by Palestinian mortar fire. Here in Hanita, the bomb shelters have been packed most nights during the past week; the youngest children are always the first to be rushed to the shelters when an attack is expected. Yet the Israelis who live here seem detached and almost oblivious to the dangers. By now, they have grown used to the violence; it is a part of their daily lives.

Many of the other volunteers have tried to emulate this tough-guy, nothing-scares-us attitude, to the point where they almost deceive themselves about the seriousness of the situation. I like to think I am more realistic--and therefore, more sacred.

SUNDAY NIGHT

Late in the night I am wakened by a tremendous explosion from a Palestinian rocket landing nearby. It shakes the windows of most of the buildings in the kibbutz. I have never been so terrified in my life. For the first time, some of the Israelis are getting scared, too.

The blast sounds like a firecracker exploding right outside my cabin window. I run outside in my pajamas, barefoot, and head for the nearest bomb shelter.

The kibbutz leaders have turned off all the lights in order to make it harder for the Palestinian gunners to find us. A middle-aged German Jew, especially frightened because he has lived through such nightmares before, fears that PLO terrorists could sneak into the kibbutz during the night and massacre us as we huddle in the shelters. He decides to stand guard outside the shelter for most of the night.

Inside, the bomb shelter is a grey hulk of cement and steel. A hole in the ground serves as the toilet. There are about 30 of us crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in our sleeping bags and blankets on the cold, concrete floor. The kibbutz leaders intended to build bunk beds in this shelter, but since the outbreak of the war they have concentrated instead on building several additional new shelters. When we are all squeezed in, someone locks the two ten-inch thick steel doors that are supposed to protect us from the outside world.

The tension inside the bomb shelter seems almost as charged as the rocket fire outside. The volunteers pass around a few communal cigarettes, wishing aloud they were smoking something stronger. I try to count the number of Palestinian rockets that are being fired at us, but after a while I lose track and give up.

A few kibbutzniks try to liven up the mood a bit by telling jokes and bawdy stories. But the humor falls short, turning black and morbid. "If we're killed, at least we won't have to do kitchen duty anymore," one volunteer cracks. In the background we hear the distant but continuous sound of the Palestinian rockets.

It is cold in the bomb shelter, and it is hard for me to fall asleep. Other kibbutzniks are more experienced; they brought with them pillows and blankets for the long night. This is clearly not their first siege in a bomb shelter--nor will it be their last.

MONDAY

Most of the people on the kibbutz are weak and tired this morning because of last night's attack, but everyone tries to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary has happened. In a way, nothing has. The battle was business as usual. Obviously, the kibbutzniks are fighting a psychological as well as a military war with the Palestinians.

Details of last night's attack are hard to come by. The closest mortars are rumored to have landed three miles from here, but there is no official explanation of what has happened. The morning paper reports that throughout Israel's northern border the Palestinians have been firing 82-mm. and 120-mm. mortars, in addition to the Soviet Katyushka rockets.

Today the kibbutz is especially busy. As I spend the morning working in the citrus , I see Israeli warplanes flying overhead inpairs--probably Phantom jets or F-15s. The beauty of the Galilee Mountains contrasts sharply with the noises and reality of war. Later in the day, I hear several helicoptors landing near Hanita. The kibbutz's dirt road is freshly marked with tank tracks.

The kibbutz leaders have been talking to each other secretly, in Hebrew, about what is going on; but as a recent entrant to the kibbutz, I am not told what is taking place. My questions go unanswered; there is no concept of the public's right to know in war-torn Israel.

The fighting is taking a psychological toll on all who stay in the kibbutz, whether they admit it or not. Especially on me. Ordinary noises scare the hell out of me now. Doors slamming begin to sound like mortar attacks or bomb blasts. I dream that someone shouts the warning Hafligah, but I sleep through it obliviously while the rest of the kibbutz rushes to the bomb shelters. I'm beginning to gain respect for the strength of Winston Churchill and the people of London during World War II.

I'm also not sure how much longer I can stand this.

TUESDAY

Finally, a night of sleep in my bed, rather than in the bomb shelter. But the nighmares about the war continue.

Perhaps I'm becoming paranoid and have been exaggerating the dangers; maybe it will all end soon. On the other hand, the Palestinian shelling could drag on for weeks. More than anything else, I can't stand the uncertainty of the situation.

Dinner has been shortened from an hour and a half to 30 minutes, in order to minimize the time during which the entire kibbutz is gathered together and thus especially vulnerable to attack.

Before this, the kibbutz leaders had refused even to discuss what they euphemistically call "the situation." Today, for the first time, they officially admit the dangers by posting a sign: "PROCEDURES IN CASE OF MILITARY ALERT." That's as far as the kibbutzniks will come to recognizing openly what is already on everyone's mind.

TUESDAY NIGHT

The Palestinians are bombarding the area again, this time with more force than ever. I should have been suspicious that something was up when the kibbutz leaders suddenly announced a surprise party for Hanita's anniversary. The party is held in the large wood-paneled recreation room that doubles as a bomb shelter, and the entire kibbutz is there.

It is not until I try to leave the party early and am blocked at the door by an armed Israeli soldier that I realize that this is all a scheme designed to get us into the shelters. Once again, the kibbutz leaders do not want to alarm the rest of us by telling us the truth. It is not long before the first Palestinian rockets begin to explode nearby.

Back in the shelter, the kibbutzniks keep their children busy with games and laughter and songs. The small children dance and sing songs for Purim, which is only two days away. Meanwhile, the leaders nervously tap their fingers and study their wrist watches, trying not to show their fear.

The bomb shelter is packed full now, several hundred people sitting thigh-to-thigh in a room designed to hold only a few dozen. The air is filled with a haze of tobacco from the grown-ups' chain-smoking. A grim Israeli soldier, armed with an automatic machine gun and a walkie-talkie, looks on as the children laugh merrily.

The whole scene is so bizarre as to seem almost unreal. Palestinian terrorists are actually trying to kill me, and yet I am unable to get angry or even upset about it. The rockets are exploding around me, and yet it is somehow still so impersonal that it is almost impossible to deal with. It's a cliche, but it's true: My life has become a pawn in some large and unfathomable chess game.

After about half an hour of waiting, the rockets begin to hit the area. The explosions are at first mild, and it seems that this time the Palestinians have managed to miss Hanita entirely. Then, slowly, the explosions begin to get louder and the rockets start striking closer. The frequency of the attacks begins to increase as well: first the blasts come every 10 or 15 minutes, then every five minutes. Now they seem to come every few seconds.

As the explosions increase outside, so, too--almost imperceptibly--does the speed and tempo of our bomb shelter party inside. The singing becomes louder, the dancing faster, the laughter more frenzied--as if in defiance of the surrounding mortar attacks. Even the youngest children seem to understand and follow their parents' example.

At the height of the explosions, which are now shaking the kibbutz and drowning out even the loudest singing, the group bursts into a Hebrew chorus of a tune that sounds familiar to me. It is "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?"--a vestige of some long-ago childhood memories of the Vietnam protests.

Another young American in the room, who understands what that song means to our generation, looks at me with a haunted expression on his face. It is a sort of Vietnam deja-vu, combined with the horrors of our own decade ten years later. Tears brim in my friend's eyes. They are already falling from mine.

WEDNESDAY MORNING

Another sleepless night in a bomb shelter, another morning of dazed kibbutzniks. At least this time I am wiser, and bring along a blanket and toothbrush.

The shelter I slept in last night is the oldest on the kibbutz. It was first used during Israel's war for statehood in 1948. This shelter was better prepared. It came equipped with a pick-axe, so the survivors could later dig themselves out of the rubble.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

I have decided to leave the kibbutz for safer quarters, at another kibbutz away from the Lebanese border. It is a decision that I have been wrestling with since the war began.

As I expected, the leader of the kibbutz, a stocky man named Yona, is not pleased with my decision. The kibbutzniks live every day of their lives like this, he says. Why can't I do the same? He implies that I am somehow acting un-Jewish by leaving the kibbutz, that I am deserting my people in a time of crisis.

His remarks anger me. I point out to Yona that I am an American as well as a Jew, that I am not used to the daily traumas of war like the other kibbutzniks, and that leaving the kibbutz is not at all an easy decision for me--in part because of attitudes like his. He smiles and decides to let me go; after all, one rotten apple spoils the bunch.

"There is a saying in the Talmud," he adds, "that if it is God's will for you to die, you will die no matter where you are." I, however, am a believer in free will--and more importantly, a believer in the power of Palestinian mortar.

As I pack my father's old Boy Scout knapsack with my belongings, I am still wearing the clothes I slept in last night in the bomb shelter. Yona walks me to the dirt road where I will catch a ride away from the border toward Haifa and my new kibbutz. Yona's forehead is deeply-lined, and there are circles under his eyes; the war has been hard on him, too. It is hard not to admire the courage of the Israelis like him, who sacrifice so much for their cause.

Yona shakes my hand, and smiles sadly. I get on the truck and it pulls away from the kibbutz. "Good-bye," I call out after him. I should have said, "shalom."

The kibbutz leaders have been talking to each other secretly, in Hebrew, about what is going on; but as a recent entrant to the kibbutz, I am not told what is taking place. My questions go unanswered; there is no concept of the public's right to know in war-torn Israel.

The fighting is taking a psychological toll on all who stay in the kibbutz, whether they admit it or not. Especially on me. Ordinary noises scare the hell out of me now. Doors slamming begin to sound like mortar attacks or bomb blasts. I dream that someone shouts the warning Hafligah, but I sleep through it obliviously while the rest of the kibbutz rushes to the bomb shelters. I'm beginning to gain respect for the strength of Winston Churchill and the people of London during World War II.

I'm also not sure how much longer I can stand this.

TUESDAY

Finally, a night of sleep in my bed, rather than in the bomb shelter. But the nighmares about the war continue.

Perhaps I'm becoming paranoid and have been exaggerating the dangers; maybe it will all end soon. On the other hand, the Palestinian shelling could drag on for weeks. More than anything else, I can't stand the uncertainty of the situation.

Dinner has been shortened from an hour and a half to 30 minutes, in order to minimize the time during which the entire kibbutz is gathered together and thus especially vulnerable to attack.

Before this, the kibbutz leaders had refused even to discuss what they euphemistically call "the situation." Today, for the first time, they officially admit the dangers by posting a sign: "PROCEDURES IN CASE OF MILITARY ALERT." That's as far as the kibbutzniks will come to recognizing openly what is already on everyone's mind.

TUESDAY NIGHT

The Palestinians are bombarding the area again, this time with more force than ever. I should have been suspicious that something was up when the kibbutz leaders suddenly announced a surprise party for Hanita's anniversary. The party is held in the large wood-paneled recreation room that doubles as a bomb shelter, and the entire kibbutz is there.

It is not until I try to leave the party early and am blocked at the door by an armed Israeli soldier that I realize that this is all a scheme designed to get us into the shelters. Once again, the kibbutz leaders do not want to alarm the rest of us by telling us the truth. It is not long before the first Palestinian rockets begin to explode nearby.

Back in the shelter, the kibbutzniks keep their children busy with games and laughter and songs. The small children dance and sing songs for Purim, which is only two days away. Meanwhile, the leaders nervously tap their fingers and study their wrist watches, trying not to show their fear.

The bomb shelter is packed full now, several hundred people sitting thigh-to-thigh in a room designed to hold only a few dozen. The air is filled with a haze of tobacco from the grown-ups' chain-smoking. A grim Israeli soldier, armed with an automatic machine gun and a walkie-talkie, looks on as the children laugh merrily.

The whole scene is so bizarre as to seem almost unreal. Palestinian terrorists are actually trying to kill me, and yet I am unable to get angry or even upset about it. The rockets are exploding around me, and yet it is somehow still so impersonal that it is almost impossible to deal with. It's a cliche, but it's true: My life has become a pawn in some large and unfathomable chess game.

After about half an hour of waiting, the rockets begin to hit the area. The explosions are at first mild, and it seems that this time the Palestinians have managed to miss Hanita entirely. Then, slowly, the explosions begin to get louder and the rockets start striking closer. The frequency of the attacks begins to increase as well: first the blasts come every 10 or 15 minutes, then every five minutes. Now they seem to come every few seconds.

As the explosions increase outside, so, too--almost imperceptibly--does the speed and tempo of our bomb shelter party inside. The singing becomes louder, the dancing faster, the laughter more frenzied--as if in defiance of the surrounding mortar attacks. Even the youngest children seem to understand and follow their parents' example.

At the height of the explosions, which are now shaking the kibbutz and drowning out even the loudest singing, the group bursts into a Hebrew chorus of a tune that sounds familiar to me. It is "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?"--a vestige of some long-ago childhood memories of the Vietnam protests.

Another young American in the room, who understands what that song means to our generation, looks at me with a haunted expression on his face. It is a sort of Vietnam deja-vu, combined with the horrors of our own decade ten years later. Tears brim in my friend's eyes. They are already falling from mine.

WEDNESDAY MORNING

Another sleepless night in a bomb shelter, another morning of dazed kibbutzniks. At least this time I am wiser, and bring along a blanket and toothbrush.

The shelter I slept in last night is the oldest on the kibbutz. It was first used during Israel's war for statehood in 1948. This shelter was better prepared. It came equipped with a pick-axe, so the survivors could later dig themselves out of the rubble.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

I have decided to leave the kibbutz for safer quarters, at another kibbutz away from the Lebanese border. It is a decision that I have been wrestling with since the war began.

As I expected, the leader of the kibbutz, a stocky man named Yona, is not pleased with my decision. The kibbutzniks live every day of their lives like this, he says. Why can't I do the same? He implies that I am somehow acting un-Jewish by leaving the kibbutz, that I am deserting my people in a time of crisis.

His remarks anger me. I point out to Yona that I am an American as well as a Jew, that I am not used to the daily traumas of war like the other kibbutzniks, and that leaving the kibbutz is not at all an easy decision for me--in part because of attitudes like his. He smiles and decides to let me go; after all, one rotten apple spoils the bunch.

"There is a saying in the Talmud," he adds, "that if it is God's will for you to die, you will die no matter where you are." I, however, am a believer in free will--and more importantly, a believer in the power of Palestinian mortar.

As I pack my father's old Boy Scout knapsack with my belongings, I am still wearing the clothes I slept in last night in the bomb shelter. Yona walks me to the dirt road where I will catch a ride away from the border toward Haifa and my new kibbutz. Yona's forehead is deeply-lined, and there are circles under his eyes; the war has been hard on him, too. It is hard not to admire the courage of the Israelis like him, who sacrifice so much for their cause.

Yona shakes my hand, and smiles sadly. I get on the truck and it pulls away from the kibbutz. "Good-bye," I call out after him. I should have said, "shalom."