The Big Ben Theory

Just beyond the black iron fence lay several large rocks thrown atop another as if they were fighting to climb ashore. Beneath them was the flat, calm expanse of the Hudson River.  I sat on a bench overlooking the river with my wife as we enjoyed a dinner picnic at sunset. I sat mesmerized as the water danced in a million little jumps, each small wave brightly reflecting the setting sun. In the distance, the Palisades loomed over the water like a sleeping green giant, its trees full of leaves along the sheer cliff that rises out of the water like a massive wave frozen in time. It seemed as if time stood still in what must have been the quietest and most peaceful place in the City that Never Sleeps. The sun slowly sank behind the green giant and the sky took a pinkish hue. The waves still danced before me, and as they calmly rose and dipped back down the river seemed to be offering us a thousand kisses in the sunset.

Amidst this serenity, my wife gasped and jumped in her seat. “I just saw something run from the garbage can to that hole,” she said, pointing to a crack on the platform at our feet. “It’s just a mouse. It’s probably terrified of us by this point,” I responded. And that was the end of our troubles, and the river continued to shower us with its golden embrace.

My wife’s reaction to the mouse brought to my mind to a story that I heard a few years ago that took place thousands of miles away in a much different setting.

The view in front of Yair was a landscape blanketed in snow. In the distance were Lebanese villages and in the foreground were white, snow-covered hills. The only life visible through the snow was an occasional wolf that pranced effortlessly in the virgin snow. The whiteness and picturesque scene masked the violent and blood-stained reality of the locale. Yair stood in his position, a concrete pillbox overlooking southern Lebanon, an area which the Hezbollah army completely controls. Underneath the paw prints of the wolves were all sorts of electronic sensors and trip flairs put in place to prevent an infiltration by Hezbollah soldiers. In the mind – and training – of every Israeli soldier that is placed at Har Dov is the November 2000 kidnapping of three Israeli soldiers by Hezbollah members posing as UNIFIL troops.  Har Dov is Israel’s most dangerous position on its northern border. One never knows when a Hezbollah sniper will break the tense calm of the area, or when another cross-border kidnapping attempt would be attempted. (In July 2006, Hezbollah conducted another cross-border raid which resulted in the killing of three Israeli soldiers and the abduction of two more into Lebanon. This sparked the 2006 Israel-Hezbollah War and the 2008 prisoner exchange in which Israel handed over murderer Samir Kuntar to Hezbollah in return for the bodies of the two abducted soldiers. In the two years preceding the exchange, Israel was never given clear indication as to whether their soldiers were still alive at the time of their abduction. Once coffins were brought over the Israel-Lebanon border, the only fact confirmed was their fate.)

One of the loneliest places on the planet is taking the lookout position on Har Dov at night where your only company is fear and the enveloping darkness. Underground is a sprawling complex with tunnels, communications and intelligence equipment so the Israeli army can monitor Hezbollah’s activities in southern Lebanon. Above ground, soldiers stood behind concrete walls to protect themselves against sporadic mortar and Katyusha fire. A standing order on Har Dov is that soldiers must always wear a helmet whenever they are walking above ground lest they are caught off-guard by an incoming bomb. Another standing order is that if you witness your buddy being kidnapped by Hezbollah, shoot to kill. And shoot to kill means shoot your buddy so his life is not in the hands of the enemy forces. It will spare him, his family, and the entire nation the torture that is abduction by a terrorist organization.

It was Yair’s turn to stand guard in a lookout one evening. As a young American volunteer in the Israeli army he is considered a chayal boded, or lone soldier, because he has no immediate family in Israel. Weekends are spent with three other roommates, also lone soldiers, in a small apartment in Jerusalem. Holidays could be with extended family throughout the country or with friends visiting from overseas. Yair’s status will be much different during his next trip to the Lebanese border a year later in 2006. Yair was engaged and war had broken out against Hezbollah with his wedding just a week away. To make matters worse, Yair was called up to the front. While he was in Lebanon with no contact permitted with the outside world, wedding plans progressed along with the anxiety of his family and fiancé. He would return from the front just a few days before his wedding. So would his friend Shamai, an Australian volunteer also serving in the north. Yair and Shamai had become extremely close three years earlier, and as Shamai unexpectedly entered the wedding hall in the midst of the dancing, I witnessed one of the most moving embraces and powerful moments of human relationships that will never leave me. There stood, in the middle of hundreds of dancing friends, the groom dressed in white hugging his friend donning green fatigues with his M4 still strapped over his shoulder. Shamai returned from the north and took a bus directly to the wedding. Not only was he safe, but he was here celebrating with us. War was not so far to the north, but for an evening it was a distant memory.

It was pitch black just a few feet in front of Yair and it was hard to distinguish the real noises in his ears from imaginary noises in his head. At night at Har Dov, being in a fixed position, behind concrete and sand bags, is of no comfort. In fact, it makes the situation even scarier. The enemy knows exactly where you are and can plot exactly how and when to attack. Sitting atop Har Dov in the middle of the night takes every ounce of nerves one has.  On this night Yair’s nerves would be tested.

It started as a small rustle, the type of sound that one chalks up to nervousness and imagination. Yair heard it again. He tenses, grips his gun and holds it closer to his chest. The third sound is unmistakable. It’s not his imagination. There’ something out there. Yair looks into the darkness and it returns with blankness, offering him no assistance. The blackness is no longer a void. It is full, full of danger and fear.

Another sound, and this time the distinctive clink of metal tells Yair to prepare for the worse.  He chambers a bullet, which is only done when a soldier is preparing to fire his weapon. The safeguards for errant fire from a weapon are no longer relevant. Yair is preparing for battle. Another noise is heard. His muscles clench tighter and adrenaline starts to pour through his veins. He finally located the source of the noise. A small metal pipe runs in front of him and he looks at it and cocks his ear. Again he hears a small rattle inside and realizes that it was not a Hezbollah soldier giving him the fear of death, but a mouse trapped inside the piping making small noises that sounded like distant movement of enemy troops.

With all his pent up fear, adrenaline, and now anger, Yair, generally a calm man, took the butt of his rifle and starting smashing the pipe, screaming at the mouse in anger. After sufficiently venting against the creature, Yair exhaled and relaxed. He looked upon a strong metal pipe now bent from his fury. There would be no attack tonight and he would make it through the night watch. During a night filled with fear, Yair would survive. Another tense evening atop Har Dov ends without incident.

It was with the memory of this story that I stared at the concrete platform overlooking the Hudson River and at the mouse that caused my wife to jump from fear. It is easy to take the tranquility of life in America for granted. A mouse interrupting dinner is cause for annoyance, but did not cause us to fear for our lives. The mouse returned to its underground burrow, and thousands of miles away Israeli soldiers are sitting in their underground bunker on Har Dov impatiently waiting for another Hezbollah attack. But on the banks of the Hudson River in New York my wife and I enjoy the approaching dusk over the Palisades and the sunset of a thousand kisses.