Countenance

“How much longer, you think?”

         Two soldiers stood in a guard tower, machine guns strapped to their backs and helmets strapped to their heads. From their outpost they could see the majority of the Gaza strip ahead and the rest of Israel behind, and that was the reason they were there.

         “Forever,” replied the second soldier, craving a cigarette as he leaned against the tower’s railing. “It’s unending. It doesn’t end.”

         “It’s war,” said the first soldier, as if he had only asked the question so that he could disagree with the answer. “It has to end. All fighting must stop.”

         “No,” said the second soldier, whose name was Asi and whose home was miles and miles away in a little town outside of Jerusalem. “Not this fighting. This fighting only stops when we cease to exist.”

         “Or when they do,” muttered the first soldier. He rubbed his gloved hands together and blew out his breath in a long, tired sigh. His name was Yaniv and he was missing his girlfriend, who lived near his parents in Haifa. He was keeping this a secret from Asi. “Which do you think will happen, huh?”

         “What?” Asi said, rolling his eyes a little as he fingered his gun and scanned the horizon. The sun was slowly setting. Pretty soon things would get significantly more dangerous because an enemy with the smaller bombs craved the darkness that was nighttime. “What kind of question is that? We aren’t going anywhere. We have the better military. We have the United States. We have better guns and actual tanks-,”

         “-But long-term,” Yaniv pressed. “Jews have been kicked out of every country for centuries. Isn’t it just a matter of time?”

         Asi swore and fiddled with his radio. The sun continued to set. “I’m tired of these questions,” Asi grumbled. “What are you even talking about? This isn’t like it used to be. This is different.”          

         Yaniv shrugged. He was only nineteen—he was too young to be making decisions like when to shoot to kill and when to shoot to disarm, or when to drop certain bombs, or who was a threat and who was innocent. Every Arab looked like a threat—even the children. He’d grown up thinking every Goya was a potential executioner and had never asked to be the brain behind any gun. But this was Israel, this was mandatory service, and this was life or death. Always.

         “I don’t know,” he mumbled, sitting down with a hyperbolized sigh. “I just want to have sex with Shira.”

         Asi grinned slowly. “How pitzutz would this be?” he asked playfully, spreading his arms wide as if to include their surroundings. “You bring Shira up here, you tell her to bring her gun, and you make love all night as we bomb the shit out of Gaza, huh?” He made relevant gestures and Yaniv laughed with him. “It’s like, BOOM BOOM, and you two just keep going and going—and we’re out there all night blowing shit up and so are you, right? All night, man.”

         “All night,” Yaniv laughed, closing his eyes, picturing the scene. “How do you think that would go over with the commander?”

         “How do you think that would go over with your mother?” Asi fired back, and he and Yaniv shared another hearty, appreciative laugh.

         “Kus emeck, brother,” Yaniv muttered. “God.”

         The laughter died down as the sun sank deeper in the sky, and the lights from Gaza shone feebly. They were nothing compared to the lights from Tel Aviv or Jericho or Jerusalem, but they were lights. Where there was light, there were people. At least for a little while longer.

         “Hey,” said Asi quietly after a few minutes of contemplative silence. “You know Ido Friedman?” Asi nodded. “He was out with some guys the day before yesterday and they had their orders, right? And they were trying to get that Khaled guy—the one who sent the bombs across the border, you know?—but the stupid benzona is hiding out in some school, so Ido’s got no choice. He has to bomb the whole damn school. Felt like shit after; all down, you know? But what’s he supposed to do? He’s got orders. He’s got to follow them.”

         “He blew up the school?” Yaniv said, voice hushed for some reason. His dark brows furrowed and he bit his lip as if troubled. “Were there kids inside?”

         Asi shrugged, rubbing his forearm. “Don’t know,” he said. “Why? You think he should have ignored his orders? Let the terrorist go free? Let him bomb our children?” Asi sounded angry, so Yaniv shook his head.

         “No,” he said. “Maybe if he had just waited until school ended-,”

         “-He had orders!” Asi said loudly, sharply. “If you wait, you know what these terrorists do, Yaniv? They come to OUR cities and they blow up OUR buses, and then you know what? Then you aren’t feeling so bad for them.”

         “I’m not feeling bad for them,” Yaniv grumbled. “I’m feeling bad for the kids he blew up. They aren’t the terrorists.”

         Asi gave him a long, serious look. “Yet,” he said. “Give them a few years.”

         Yaniv looked away, studying the Gaza strip below the watchtower. He readjusted his machine gun. “It’s crazy, you know?” he said softly after some time. It was nearly dark. “They tell us killing is wrong, God wants peace, God wants love and brotherhood. And then we turn eighteen and they hand us a gun and they say kill for your country. Kill to save your fellow Jews.”

         Asi made a grunting noise. “Yeah, well,” he said resignedly. “No Jew should believe in God anymore, anyway.”

         Yaniv frowned and looked at him. “We’re the chosen people,” he said.

         Asi laughed once, humorlessly. “Right,” he said sarcastically. “God loves us so much he is willing to sacrifice a few million of us every couple of decades. He loves us so much he’s willing to gas us and slaughter us, out of the kindness of his own heart. Definitely, Yaniv—that’s the kind of God I want to believe in.”

         “You’re forgetting about the miracles,” Yaniv said, almost desperately. He wanted to believe in God. He wanted to have sex with Shira and he wanted to believe in God. Was that so much to ask? “There have been miracles.”

          Asi snorted. “Miracles!” he said as if amused by the impossibility of the word. “What miracles? Name one miracle, brother.”

         Yaniv looked at his hands, at the gun between them, and at the sand on his boots. “You’re alive,” he said. “I’m alive. That there are Jews still living, still thriving, after all the people who have tried to kill us off.”

         Asi went quiet and did not say anything for a small time. When he spoke, his voice was low. He sounded tired, suddenly, and worn-out. “The Jews live,” he said. “That’s a miracle?” Yaniv nodded. “And for the people down there, in Gaza? Is that a miracle for them, too?”

         Yaniv had no reply.

         Asi smiled a little, his eyes somewhere faraway. The night had come. “What is a miracle that is only good for some people?”

         Yaniv swallowed thickly and shook his head. He did not know. He did not understand. He had no answer, and he had no hope of ever finding an answer. He wondered if there even was an answer, or if an answer had ever existed.

         Suddenly the radio crackled to life. Asi looked at Yaniv, and Yaniv looked at Asi, and the two stood straight, their guns moved to position.

         “Time to go,” said Asi, as bombs went off in the distance. An orange glow lit the dark sky, and small explosions split the humid air.

         Yaniv bit his bottom lip and aimed his gun. “This is never going to end, is it?”

         Asi smiled grimly. “Peace, brother,” he said. “A wise man once said ‘the wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are bold as a lion.’”

         Yaniv gaped at him in surprise. “But you said you didn’t believe,” he protested. Asi adjusted his gun.

         “I don’t,” he said. “I was just saying.”

         And Yaniv smiled, just a small smile, and he thought no more about philosophy or theology or the inevitability of war. He listened to the bombs, and he fired his gun. There was fighting to be done.