This feels vulnerable.

I might regret this....please tread gently.

I have been wrestling with if I should share this or not.

In many ways it feels like making a pregnancy announcement while still holding the pregnancy test. I’m much more a “wait till at least twelve weeks” kind of person.

However, things are a bit challenging for me at the moment. I’m having my work hours reduced because of NDIS funding being cut. I’m trying not to get nervous, but I can feel the anxiety biting at my heels.

I could probably find another client to work with. But I already feel really stretched with everything I do. And adding another person means adding to my mental load as well since I really give the people I support a lot of my brain space.

So my idea is this:

What if I share the beginning of my NEW book that I’ve just started to write? And those of you who want to support my writing process, sign up to be a paid subscriber.

I’ve made a promise that I won’t restrict anyone to what I write based on income, so subscribing won’t give access to anything special; instead it’s just a very very very practical way to help me out so I can give more time to writing my book.

And in case you don’t already know, this third book of mine (I have already published two books about my life) will be about these past three years. My goal is to squeeze in as much of my learnings and observations but using my lived experience, since I believe that most people are much more receptive to stories than just straight information.

The other benefit of doing it this way, is that I am deeply motivated by people’s encouragement. So if I know that there are supporters literally invested (ha! That’s such a perfect expression in this context) and giving $8 a month, I’m much more likely to put up with my very frustrating lap top and write another chapter.

I really hope you are okay with me being so blunt about my current situation. I’m purposely not sharing this on social media because it feels too vulnerable.

Alright.

Here we go.

This is the beginning of my book. Hopefully it sets the scene. From here on it will jump to October 2023.

- Veronica

_______

My life trajectory changed in a shipping container in the middle of the desert somewhere close to the Gaza border.

I was eighteen years old and had just completed three weeks of Basic Training in the Israeli army.

I had been waiting for hours along with all the other eighteen-year-old girls, who desperately wanted to find out what role we would have in our compulsory service.

We were all wearing the same army fatigues: baggy khaki green pants with a matching buttoned top and a white T-shirt underneath. The metal dog tags around our necks were the real proof that we were now soldiers in service for our country. Seeing my name engraved twice in Hebrew still felt surreal. Apparently the dog tag was perforated so that it could easily be snapped in half in case I was killed and my body needed to be identified. One half would remain chained around my neck and the broken-off section would be given to the authorities as proof of my identity.

I knew that for most girls there was a very small chance of that ever being needed.

When I was conscripted for my military service in March 1993, women were not allowed to serve in any combat roles. I was told it was to prevent us from being taken hostage and possibly raped. I never fully accepted that as a reason but also didn’t have the language or understanding to challenge the status quo.

What the other girls didn’t know was that leading up to my army service I had been having top-secret interviews. These meetings were not the standard tests done to determine what role was most suitable for the compulsory two years.

I had strict instructions not to tell anyone about these mysterious conversations scattered throughout the year after I turned seventeen.

What was especially strange was that the men who interviewed me never wore army uniforms. They were casually dressed in civilian clothes and had a very easy and comfortable way of speaking with me. If anything, they seemed more like a friendly new neighbour having a chat.

Each meeting went into more detail about my life. It felt nice to have someone interested. I assumed they knew most of the answers before even asking me, so I tried to be as honest as I could. But at the same time, I knew that my story was unusual and it was highly unlikely they had encountered someone like me before.

It wasn’t that I was an immigrant that made me different.

In 1993, thousands if not millions of immigrants had served in the Israeli army.

In my cohort of girls there was only one other immigrant that I had met. Tal from Sydney, Australia. We had quite a dramatic first encounter. We met on day one of Basic Training while lining up in rows with our giant duffel bags next to us. Just after we had introduced ourselves, and realised we were both English speakers, Tal fainted at my feet!

There would have been other non-English speaking immigrants that I didn’t get a chance to meet. Mostly Russians, Romanians and Ethiopians. Like me, they had Jewish ancestors, and this gave their family ä “Right To Return”. No matter what country we were born in around the globe, we were welcomed to Israel with open arms. Some of us more warmly than others.

I was only ten years old when my family moved from Sweden to Israel as “returning Jews”. And now eight years later, like every other eighteen-year-old Israeli citizen, it was my turn to serve in the army.

What set me apart from other immigrants, was that I had been raised as a fundamentalist Christian.

Most people think that being Jewish is only based on which religion you follow. In Israel, being Jewish is a bit more layered than that.

Over there, being Jewish is about your ancestry. In fact, plenty of Israeli Jews are atheists.

It might be different now, but in 1985 all that was needed was proof that two grandparents had been buried in a Jewish cemetery, which was the case for my family.

And here I was, in the spring of 1993, being called into a shipping container in the middle of the desert, waiting to hear how I would spend the next two years of my life. Which at age eighteen feels like an eternity.

I was one of the last girls to be called in. By then time I heard my name, Sherman Veronica I had seen lots of girls come out of the shipping container in tears. Your military service defines how you fit into Israeli society, so being told that you have not been accepted into the unit or role that you were hoping for has a deep impact.

Not even my parents knew about the top-secret meetings I had been having in the past twelve months. Now was the moment of truth.

I sat down in front of the commander who was looking through a folder with my name on it. The shipping container smelled like cigarette smoke and I was thankful that the door was left open for some fresh air.

The commander cleared his throat and then explained that he had only just received my file. Up until now I was meant to be allocated for something else, but I didn’t pass the final security check.

I must have looked confused. He explained that I had too many Arab friends which meant that I wasn’t cleared for a top security role.

I could feel my whole body exhale.

After three weeks of Basic Training in the Israeli Army, any grand illusion of serving my country had completely vanished. I had absolutely no desire to give more than was required. I would do my two years and then be done.

And I had my school friends to thank!

After two years in an Israeli school, I was given a scholarship to attend an International school in Jerusalem. There were only about 300 students and we were an eclectic mix of children whose parents served in the United Nations, served their countries as diplomats, or served God as missionaries. And then, of course, there were the local kids. Mostly from wealthy Arab families. Thanks to friends like Ramzy and Tarek I had been deemed too risky to be signed up for the Mossad, the national intelligence agency.

I couldn’t believe my luck.

What had I been thinking all those months earlier when I said yes?

It was such a relief to know that I had been rejected and that they decided I was better suited for the Air Force instead.

The Air Force!! This was pretty much the highest honour you could have as a female in the Israeli Defence Force. I didn’t really know anything about the Air Force except that the soldiers wore beige uniforms with blue hats instead of the regular khaki green. I also knew the slogan: “The best go to the Air Force”

Wow. It was pretty exciting to be chosen for this sought after position. Although I knew full-well that it had nothing to do with my skills or intelligence, but that girls with blue eyes and blond hair were most likely picked for the “high currency” roles.