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October 29, 2014

To my dear brother:

I remember the four months between your high school graduation and your recruitment day. You played as many PlayStation games as possible, and rented all the movies you could see. You wanted to live each moment of freedom to its fullest, before you had to hand it to the army. You grew your hair, because you knew that soon, you'd have to cut it very short and keep it that way for three whole years. You played almost every song known to mankind on your guitar. You slept 10 hours each night, because you knew that soon, you'd only be allowed to sleep six (the minimum number of hours of sleep dictated by law, for soldiers in the IDF.)

 

I didn't feel very sorry for you. I've been there, we've all been there. Recruitment is mandatory, and it is something we all know is coming after high school graduation. Some of us look forward to this day, and some of us don't, but we all do it. We all know that at the age of 18, we pause our lives to serve our country and keep our families safe.  You also knew it, but you belonged to that group of people who believed that ages 18 to 20 should be all about freedom, not a military service.

 

Nonetheless, when your recruitment day arrived, we all drove to the recruiting station and waited for your name to be called.  I had been at this place before, three years before, when it was 18 year old me there, waiting nervously to say goodbye to everyone and to start my two years of service. But now, everything felt different. Now, when it was you there, I felt even more butterflies in my stomach. After all, you were on the verge of three years in a combat unit, and you are my little brother.

 

When they read your name, we all hugged, and escorted you to the bus that would take you to boot camp, where they would turn you from a high school graduate to a soldier. When you came home for the first time, I almost didn't recognize you. You were still 18, still with those big, curious blue eyes, but your hair was short, you carried a weapon, and you wore a uniform. For the first time, you looked to me like a man. You were so tired; almost all you did that weekend at home was sleep. And eat, because everyone knows boot camp food is usually mixed with sand, and doesn't compare to mom's food.

 

My service, although meaningful and special, was not in combat. I came home every day, and my boot camp lasted three weeks.  Yours lasted three months, and after that, you started four more months of special training. You came back home once every three weeks, tired, tanned, sometimes with a scratch or two.  It would take you five minutes to change to your home sweatshirt, pull out your guitar, and start playing and singing. This used to drive me crazy in the days before your recruitment. Now, I wait for you to come back home so I can hear you play and sing. It's amazing, that thing that happens every time you come home for the weekend. For two days, you turn back into the young, careless young man that you are.  You watch television, hang with your friends, sleep 10 hours a day. In these two days, the wrinkles in your forehead disappear, your tan fades away, and you smile a lot.

 

But what makes me the happiest, little Brother, is to see how proud you are of what you do, and how proud you make us. I know that you'd still rather you'd be military-free, we all would. We all pray that by the time our children are 18, the IDF will not be needed. It is something our parents prayed for, and what our grandparents prayed for. But until that day comes, it is our reality, and we accept it. At the age of 18, we don't start college; we put on a uniform. Some of us don't want to do this, and I know you belonged to that group. But now you are almost at the end of the journey, and before you know it, one of the most important, selfless stages of your life will be over, and the first day of the rest of your life will dawn.

 

Love you, really,
Noga

 

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