You might be wondering why in the world I would be going down to Gaza where a war was raging. I am too old to fight, and my back was just operated on, so even if I was younger they wouldn’t take me…plus, I hate getting shot at! Last week Elana and another woman from Ra’anana (our city) decided to encourage the children of Ra’anana to bring to school care packages for the Israeli soldiers. Elana has been working as a substitute teacher since the beginning of the school year, so she has an in with the schools.

For the past week they have been delivering these care packages to soldiers. For the soldiers, it isn’t just the gifts, it is the knowledge that the country is behind them. It was for me, without a doubt, one of the most amazing days of my life.

We left the house just after 8:00 AM and in a caravan of three vehicles we took havilot (care packages) to the soldiers near Gaza. After a coffee stop near Ashkelon, we continued south. Once we approached the area surrounding Gaza, we saw a hill that overlooked all the fighting. Parked there, were many the major news networks from around the world. Many of them simply had cameras set to record 24 hours a day, as they waited for any action.

We went further in, until we came to a checkpoint manned by two young Israeli soldiers. We explained to them that we had care packages for the soldiers, but not knowing if they had authority to let us in they simply told us we could not enter. After a half hour of haggling an officer showed up. Elana explained to him why we were there and he instantly said that he would take us in.

We drove through the checkpoint and then the officer simply left. So now we were driving around, alone, with three cars only a half a mile or less from Gaza and well within the range of Kassam rockets. Nevertheless, I can’t remember being scared or even concerned. The soldiers were spread out over a massive field, with four or five tank units together and then about 200 meters away, another four or five tanks.

We stopped at the first group we saw and began to hand out coffee, socks, food, underwear, toothpaste and more. These young men were so happy that we came. We felt that those closer to the checkpoint probably received the most support, so we decided to drive deeper in—all the while, not fully realizing where we were. It was quite surreal. The next group was even larger and also very grateful.

Finally, after we visited another group and bumped into a photographer from the N.Y Times, a Military Police vehicle showed up and told us we had to go. He was right of course—here we were, six civilians, unarmed, running around in what could turn into a battle zone (and already had been over the previous days) in a matter of seconds. We obeyed and left. (To be clear, we were not in any danger of coming into face to face contact with terrorists, just the threat of rocket fire.)

There was another soldier, an elite commander, that we knew as well. He was stationed closer to the Mediterranean coast. We called him and told him that we still had more care packages. He told us to come. He met us at the checkpoint and once again, despite his presence, they did not want to let us on. Finally, a senior commander told him we could enter, but just for ten minutes.

We rushed in, as he took us to his unit. There is nothing like being surrounded by overjoyed soldiers, some of who are bold and ready for battle, others, terrified for their lives—but all of them, grateful that the public supports them. I have said this many times, but in Israel soldiers are not nameless, faceless people whom we don’t know personally that go off to foreign lands to fight wars. These are our sons and daughters. There isn’t a citizen in this country that doesn’t know soldiers. And there is hardly a family that hasn’t lost someone in battle over the past sixty years, since Israel’s independence.

And our battles are not fought in distant lands, far away from the public. My in-laws live 10 minutes north of Gaza, well within the range of Kassam rockets. Sadly, we don’t have the ability to build coalitions, seek UN approval and explain our case to the world. Israel is always held do a double standard as we sit surrounded by nearly two dozen nations filled with people who hate us without a cause. And when a soldier is killed in battle, we know him! We weep for him, knowing it could be our son in his place. Memorial Day in Israel is not a day of cookouts and volleyball. It is a day of mourning. All throughout the day heroic stories of soldiers who paid the ultimate price for this country are recounted in ceremonies, on TV and in homes. We don’t watch the war on CNN; we watch from our windows and balconies.

So when we saw these young men, it was like greeting our own children—indeed one of the couples with us had a son fighting in Gaza. When this particular group heard we were from the city of Ra’anana, they took us deeper in where we saw several trailers that served as their sleeping quarters. On one wall they showed us about fifty notes and crayon drawn pictures. “These are from children from your city, Ra’anana.” (see picture)

After about 15 minutes we knew we better leave so we didn’t get our friend in trouble. As we went to the other side of the checkpoint, we noticed several cars with people sitting and eating next to them. These were friends, parents and siblings of different soldiers. They had come in hopes of spending a few minutes with their son or brother. Again, you can’t do that if the war is in Iraq. (see picture) Our friends that came with us were also able to see their son as his commander released him from his unit for a few minutes.

The commander that got us in, in keeping with Middle Eastern culture, demanded that have coffee with him before we left. He was leading an elite team into battle and yet he wanted us to have coffee with him. He pulled out from his jeep a wooden box with several kinds of teas and what we call in Israel café shahur or Turkish coffee. In addition, he had a small gas powered flame on which he heated the water.

When we finally left I was emotionally exhausted. My in-laws, as I said, live just ten minutes north and it was Shabbat. So Elana and I split off from the group and went to have lunch with them in Ashkelon. For days the red siren, as they call it, had been going off several times a day and in the middle of the night as well, signifying that you had about fifteen seconds to find shelter before a Kassam Rocket or Grad Missile exploded. Thankfully lunch was uneventful (not that my sister-in-law’s Moroccan food wasn’t amazing!), but just after I left the sirens sounded and a rocket hit the city.

As I was driving back to ‘safe’ Ra’anana (until Iran supplies Hamas with longer range missiles), jetlagged and having a hard time staying awake, I said to myself, this has been one of the most amazing days of my life. It truly was.