May 26, 2000

A sad fairy tale

By DAVID J. FORMAN

All of us are haunted by one question. Why?

Suddenly the phone rang. It was 2 a.m., the first Sunday in June, 1982, and I was told to report to a nearby school, the meeting point for a quick transfer to the war front.

I gathered a few things, bid farewell to my wife, gently kissed my sleeping children, and went to fight in the Lebanon War ­ a war that has brought me pain, sorrow and shame, yet also pride.

Almost 18 years ago to the day.

I still see myself perched above the Beirut-Damascus highway, watching the young officer in his forward command jeep get blown up as he hit a land mine. I see the frightened Lebanese villagers receive us with flowers, later to drive us out with bullets. I see doctors in a M.A.S.H.-like field hospital, treating not just our soldiers, but also our alleged enemies ­ always extending care first to those whose injuries were most urgent, whether Israelis or Arabs.

I hear the late Menachem Begin tell us that katyushas will never again land on Israeli soil. I hear the then-defense minister, Ariel Sharon, tell us that the 'operation' will be over in 72 hours. I hear the then-chief of staff, Rafael Eitan, tell us that the purpose of the war is to push the terrorists back 40 kilometers from our northern border. But mostly, I hear my 10-year old daughter telling my wife: 'Abba is going to be killed.' Her father was not killed, but other fathers and sons were killed, far too many.

EIGHTEEN years later, all of us are haunted by one question. Why?

I ask myself over and over again: Why were I and thousands of other Israelis called upon to risk our lives? Why have so many Israeli families had to weep over their loved ones, asking themselves, did my child die for nothing? Why do the parents of the missing soldiers have to endure such pain? Why did our leaders begin the war and continue it for 18 long years?

I have no expertise in political analysis or military strategy. Army intelligence is beyond my grasp. But being a religious Jew, I receive instruction from many traditional sources, not the least being Jewish liturgy.

In one prayer, recited three times daily, we are told that God grants to humankind knowledge and understanding. Recognizing that knowledge and understanding are not in and of themselves sufficient attributes to guarantee reasonable behavior, another attribute was added - common sense.

Common sense is an outgrowth of personal experience. Having fought in the war, I gained some insights that were surprisingly simple, but comprehensive.

Sometimes political analysis, military strategy and army intelligence need to give way to common sense. After all, none of these 'Big 3' served us well throughout the Lebanese adventure.

I learned that whatever influence Syria or Iran has, none has full control over the myriad of terrorist groups that operate in Lebanon. I learned that every village has its own militia. I learned that there were dozens of religious sects, all broken down into smaller ones. I learned that every time my unit supposedly wiped out one terrorist cell, another cropped up elsewhere - ever ready to fire its katyushas into Kiryat Shmona.

I learned that there was no such thing as 'trying to avoid' civilian tragedies; that the majority of deaths were those of innocents.

I quickly learned that our invasion was creating one enemy after another. I learned that more Israelis, in and out of uniform, had been killed or wounded during the war and after the war than in all the attacks that took place prior to the war; that more days and nights were spent in shelters during the war and after the war than prior to the war.

In short, common sense told me that massive air attacks, artillery barrages, and invasive ground forces only wreaked havoc on both sides of the border.

Common sense told me that overzealous adventures unleash an ugly undercurrent that thwarts all moral behavior, as evidenced by the Sabra and Shatila massacres, and blunts all ethical responsibility, as evidenced by our virtual abandonment of the SLA.

What do I feel now? Anger, sadness, bitterness, shame, pride? All the above.

Yes, I also feel a measure of pride. Pride in all those soldiers, typified by one Guni Harnik, killed at the battle of Beaufort, shortly after the war began. His mother, Raya, in her moving children's book about her son, wrote: 'Why was my beautiful son killed? Because he loved his country and he loved his friends, and because he felt responsible for the soldiers under his command.

'Guni was not killed because he hated Arabs or because he wanted to be a hero.... This is a sad ending to a true story. And it is a sad ending for Guni and me....

'Guni wanted us to live in peace and tranquility; to grow up happily, as he did; going to kindergarten and school, hiking throughout the land of Israel - and loving it. He wanted there to be 'peace upon you and all of Israel.'

'And if one day there is peace, and no more wars, then the story about Guni will be like a fairy tale.... Something that you remember, like a dream or a song.' (Guni, Carmel Publishing Company, 1990).

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