Six months to the day later, we received orders and this time, were being sent to Iraq for a year.  My fiancée and I decided to take the advantage of the week we had and planned the quickest wedding I’ve ever heard of.   As a member of a Military Police unit, our mission was Detainee Operations.  We ran a detainee center in south Iraq, then moved to Kuwait to do customs.  Fortunately, we all made it home in one piece. 

A couple of years after returning home, I accepted another new job, which is my current job.  I’ve been at the University of Illinois at Chicago Police Department for almost three years now.  Because we had not been called to active duty since 2003, I was beginning to think in the back of my mind that the call was coming soon, and in August of 2007, I found out that I was right.  We were informed that we would be mobilized for a third time in mid November, this time for 400 days. 

So here I am, once again, in the cradle of civilization in Ramadi, Iraq.  It’s sort of strange to think I’m here in a place where it’s all said to have started, yet so much life is ending.  Although I do know of Marines who have died from my camp, my unit has been fortunate to this point.  Whether it’s luck, vigilance or both, I certainly hope that it continues.

In February, my wife and I celebrated our five year anniversary on the phone while we were 7000 miles apart.  It’s not really the way that I’d imagined it, but we do what we have to do to make it through this point in our lives.  We’re still waiting to have the formal wedding ceremony she’s always wanted as well as the honeymoon we never took.  I managed to pay off a few bills since I’ve been here and even put some away, so maybe with a little luck, we can do those within the next year.

I’ve pretty much covered most of my adult life, except for the most important part, my wife.  Every day, I thank G-d for giving her the strength to stand by me and support me like she does.  In many ways, I think the job of a Army wife is far more difficult than any other job in the Army.  I made the decision to join the Army, not her, she had no choice.  She has stood by and supported me through three mobilizations.  We don’t talk about it, but I know that she has cried herself to sleep many nights.   Maybe it’s praying that the kiss I give her before she goes to bed when I leave for my civilian job isn’t the last or watching the news at home and learning of another soldier’s death near Camp Ramadi.  She, like other military wives, puts up with the constant change and uncertainty.  Is he finally home for the last time?  Why on Earth did he sign for another six years?  I don’t know what I’d ever do without her, she means everything to me.  I love you Gina, thank you for everything.

June 17, 2008

Thanks to recent events (9/11, my three mobilizations, getting married and the intent to start a family when I return), I have been reflecting on Judaism and my lack of participation in it.  Maybe it's coincidental, maybe it's fate.  Whatever it is, I think it's time for change. 

In my pre-teen years, I grew up in Riverwoods where most of my friends were not Jewish.  This made it somewhat difficult in planning my weekends since I had Hebrew School on Saturdays while my friends went to Sunday School.

Because of this, I began to resent my parents and my Hebrew School attendance.  Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday from 3rd grade on, I was dragged to Hebrew School against my will.  To appease my parents (like I had a choice?), I continued my attendance until my Bar Mitzvah in 1982.  After that, there was very little participation on my part with the exception of the High Holidays, Pesach and Hanukkah.

It wasn't until 1993 when I realized for the first time how lucky I was to have some knowledge of Hebrew and to have had a Bar Mitzvah.  I was attending college at Southern Illinois University and was unable to make it home for Pesach, so I decided to celebrate with the local chapter of Hillel.

It was a decent sized gathering and the food was surprisingly pretty good, but I was surprised that the service was entirely in English.  When it came time for the four questions, the leader asked for someone to read them in Hebrew.  Dead silence (or fear) fell across the room as we all looked around for someone to volunteer.  Just before we moved on to asking in English, I raised my hand, provoking a shocking reaction from the group.  It seemed like no one could believe that I was capable of doing so and their reaction made me feel very uncomfortable.  I proudly stood up and flawlessly recited each of the four questions just as I did with my family many years earlier (once my younger sister was old enough, it became her job to ask them and I was "relieved of duty").  During dinner, I learned that I was the only person in the room who could even attempt to read Hebrew (some had memorized the prayers, but I could read them) and the only one to have had a Bar Mitzvah.  A couple years after that Seder, my grandmother passed and I decided that it was time to get back in touch with my religion.

Unfortunately, the desire to do so came and went with a feeble attempt on my part.  Over the years, I "missed the bus" a few times and never took the opportunity to reaffirm my faith in Judaism. In August 2007, when I was informed of my third mobilization and the location where I'd be stationed (and began to realize the fragility of life and the real possibility of my own mortality), I decided that it's time to finally get on that bus.

Since I left home, I've made every attempt to participate in religious services at my camp and when not possible, I do my best to pray on my own. This past Pesach, I was lucky enough to celebrate here at Camp Ramadi, just miles from the ancient city of Fairuz Sapur, where Jews from the academy of Pumbedita took refuge from Sasanian persecution.  It seemed surreal to be celebrating a Jewish holiday here, but I was.  In a strange replay of past events, the Chaplain asked for volunteers to ask the four questions.  Once again, the reaction was the same, so I proudly and loudly did my duty and later reflected on the situation. 

It's a shame that finally, after 25 years, I can say thanks to my parents for making me go to Hebrew School and not letting me give up.  Thank you for allowing me the honor of becoming a Bar Mitzvah.  My only regret is that it took me so long to realize what a gift it is to have the opportunities that have been provided for me. If there is even one young person that reads this blog who can understand where I am coming from and keep from making the same mistakes I've made, I made my point.  Don't ever give up.  Your parents may seem like dictators and have no idea what you're going through, but they do and they are right. They do know what is best for you. Listen to them.