Author name: Orit

Sharon beat God. I was there.  I saw it, with my own eyes.  I saw the ark of the Torah and the tablets of the Ten Commandments above it.  I was in there when those beautiful, earnest, loving young women were praying and singing with all there hearts, with hope still burning inside them.  I felt their passion, their love for Israel, their love for God. I sang with them.  I heard their cries, and I cried with them. “Our Father Our King, annul all evil decrees against us!” “Our Father Our King, have mercy on us and answer us — for we have no deeds — act with charity and kindness and deliver us!” And I almost thought, looking at the Torah, that this was the moment — that we had it — that God would hear our prayers and that our cries would strike the hearts of the soldiers — and possibly even Bush’s — and they would be awestruck.  The decree would be annulled, and the soldiers would either join us or turn around, for how could they destroy such beauty?  How could they desecrate the God of Israel’s name in broad daylight, in the eyes of the world. “No, I can’t do it,” they would say to each other and to their commander. “How could we do this?” “We need a miracle!  Where’s the miracle?” cried one girl next to me, tears streaming down her face. […]

In all the time I’ve lived in Israel, my mother has never been so worried. I’ve lived right near cafes where terrorist bombings have taken place, but she never had my dad and sister call me to try to convince me to be careful. Now, with brutal Israeli Police threatening to use force against stubborn infiltrators, she’s all aghast. She’s more afraid for my safety under the threat of a Jewish army and police force than under the threat of enemy terrorist attackers. What is this country coming to? Last night soldiers were sitting on the sidewalk near the Neve Dekalim gate and I sat in front of them. They weren’t doing anything in particular and I just started to sing. I sang zmirot, or lyrical tunes, of my teenage years and they sung from the move “The Prince of Egypt”, which Miriam and the Israelites sang during the Exodus from Egypt. “There can be miracles, when you believe. Though hope is frail, it’s hard to kill. Who knows what miracles you can achieve. When you believe, somehow you will.” Some were moved. Some weren’t. “Cleave to your cause,” said one soldier to me, privately. “What about you?” I asked. “I don’t think this is right but if I don’t do this they’ll take me out of my brigade. They’ll make me a ‘jobnik’.” “But you’ll have a clean conscience.” He just frowned. “There’s nothing to do,” said another. “Yes

Settlement residents and infiltrators are ambushing security forces — ambushing their hearts and their minds. I am on the frontlines of the Jewish soul. Border police created a new human border at the entrance of each settlement, and here at Neve Dekalim, and residents and infiltrators are ambushing them — ambushing their hearts and their minds. First, I shook their hands in my jeans and white T-shirt. They smiled back. They were trained not to smile, not to talk, but they were engaged. My friend Nava, one of the “Americans Opposing Jewish Expulsion,” engaged a pretty blue-eyed woman, dressed in black, trying to look tough. “You came from Russia to be here. You left a communist country to be part of the Israeli KGB! You shouldn’t be doing this. You should be a model!” She smiled, but the mean old policeman drove a wedge between soldiers and protestors. “Give them space.” “Give the people back their houses’ space!” I shouted. Then an 18-year-old woman, dressed modestly, found another black angel to pick on. “My grandfather was taken out of his home, now you’re going to take me out of my home? Jews don’t do this to Jews! We’ve suffered together! We’ve gone through so much together! Why inflict this suffering upon us?” “Listen to her,” another yelled. “She’s 18 years old and she understands more than you!” He couldn’t look her in the eye, but he was trying to hold

I totally lost it on Friday. I was sitting under a beach hut with some residents who were lamenting that this was their “last Shabbat” at the Gush. The young, robust man who had snuck me in was gulping whiskey, tears in his eyes, his face red. I stepped into the ocean with my blue bikini and white belly button ring. The strong waves began to attack me and I fought back. It gave me strength. Yonder, I saw the hotel that the army had taken over by force about two months ago. There was a long, wide stairway leading to a corridor where soldiers seemed to be in the middle of an exercise, their guns pointed at the sea. I run into shooting range, fall on my knees on the sand, and put my hands up. “Don’t shoot!” I yelled. “Don’t shoot me,” I pleaded. Then I fell down on my back, moaning as I faked death. They all applauded my Oscar-winning show and invited me up to them. I happily obliged. Around 10 young, hunky Jewish soldiers surrounded me, tongues hanging out. “Are you the pullout forces?” I asked playfully in Hebrew, with my American accent. “What’s it to you?” asked the commander. “Because I have a fantasy.” The soldiers’ smiles widened. “How old are you?” one asked, looking me up and down. “I’m 17,” I said, then added as an afterthought, “And a virgin”. All eyes and

I cried for the first time today since I’ve been here. It wasn’t because I imagined cute little Israeli kids being torn from their parents; it wasn’t because women in wheelchairs will be begging officers to leave them alone; it wasn’t because synagogues and Jewish graves will be plundered; it wasn’t because I was warned seriously that police might hit me, even though that made me scared as hell. It was because my friends couldn’t give a shit. I decided I would call them and ask them to do something to help me. I asked one of them, who actually supported our struggle, to simply forward my to our mutual friends since I didn’t have their e-mail addresses. She hesitated. She couldn’t really explain why — she was busy — but it seemed like some sort of inconvenience. I called another good friend, who also supported our struggle, and pleaded: “I’m turning to you will all my heart — they might beat me here, and there is something you can do to stop it. There are organized marches to Gush Katif that will tie up the expulsion forces.” “I’m not going to a rally,” she said curtly. “But I might get hurt.” “You can’t tell me what to do,” she said. “It’s not my cause. I’m not as extreme as you are. You shouldn’t put yourself in danger.” “But you’re against the plan!” “But I think it’s going to happen.