Why I am a Zionist
The bomb shelter reserved for “volunteers” at Kibbutz Dafna in northern Israel was definitely substandard. It was damp and smelly, more like a lavatory than a fortified bunker, and not considered fit for the kibbutzniks: a pampered species compared to us. But when the Soviet-built ordnance started raining down on us, it did its job. We emerged, unharmed, the following morning, blinking into the dawn light. The terrorists had not succeeded in hitting the kibbutz with a single Katyusha rocket. No, I’m not embedded with the Israel Defense Forces on the Lebanese border. This was in 1981 and I was just 17. My father had packed me off to Israel