Chapter 3: Itay the General, the Sheep, and Operation "Swords of Love"

After the glorious failure with the "spiritual" Sol, I decided to change strategy. If the wind is blowing in an unclear direction, maybe you need someone with feet on the ground. Someone solid. Someone who knows how to give orders - but also to love.

Then he came with me.

Itay didn't just "have been on the app." Itay managed his profile like a complex military operation deep in enemy territory. The photos: he's in a jeep in the background, he's wearing binoculars, he's looking at the smoky horizon of the northern border. The age: close to mine, but the energy? As if he just got out of the 1st Battalion. He's a senior military man (res., volunteering, but who cares about the small details when you have a uniform?), who is right there, in Lebanon, or at least on the thin border that separates us.

His first address wasn't "Hi" or "Wake up." What the hell. Itay doesn't write messages, itay sends poetic telegrams from the front. It was 12:00 AM (which is midnight for people who aren't Napoleon). The phone beeped.

Here is the original text, I didn't touch it (just imagine Danny Kushmaru's voice in the background reading dramatic news):

"I'm sitting on a rock above the company.

night.

Oh, good morning...

The bleating of an innocent herd inside some barn and the sounds of solitary harps here and there.

Scatters pale points of light there along the area inside Lebanon.

There are several roaring engines around...

The air carries with it the scent of fuel + sheep dust + coal smoke + 'tension...

Coffee!!!

There's nothing like coffee. It's always on time and it's always appropriate. Especially here on a night like now!

The kaymak collects inside the jug and sends such a wonderful aroma throughout the surrounding (Upper) Galilee.

And suddenly!

Here you are... boom!

Passing by,

You're all thoughts. Such a calm, nonchalant gait and a certain smile, as if there were no wars in the world.

It's amazing how at the edge of the world, in a fragile silence, without you knowing and certainly not planning to, you make the world stop for a second.

Then he looks at me (your smile that I just invented for myself) and makes this "click"...

And here it is,

Suddenly, my direction changed.

And you?

You keep going, keep going, keep going...

Peacefully, you walk along the online path as if nothing had happened.

"Good morning to you, Yael, virtual princess. I hope so. Smile at me too."

Then, as if to make sure I was completely melted, he attached a link to YouTube. Not just any song, but "The Green Leaves of Summer" by "The Brothers Four."

I read it. Twice.

My cynicism, usually a tough gatekeeper with a drawn sword, lowered its weapon. There was something so... Hemingway about it.

The gnarled man, the night, the danger, the sheep, and the black coffee. And out of all this male chaos – he sees me. Yael, the virtual princess. I fell. Like a rookie on her first day at the KKO.

The campaign: ten days of build-up

For two weeks we had an affair on WhatsApp. Deep conversations into the night. He talked about responsibility, about the soldiers, about the situation. I talked about life, about thoughts, about longing.

There was a crazy build-up there. Every word of his was measured, every sentence was meant to conquer another fortified target in my heart. I felt like I was part of the war effort, that my smile was his shield. He was intelligent, eloquent, and most of all – he made me feel important.

Then the meeting was set. He left for the after party. I drove to him in northern Sharon (not all the way to Lebanon, but close). His house was pleasant. He was... him. A little older than the pictures, a little more tired, but with that military charisma. The evening was pleasant. The night was... well, it was. I stayed to sleep.

In the morning, everything changed.

He stood up, and suddenly - the general returned. Not the poetic general who writes about sheep and goats, but the stressed commander who had to return to the air force. He hurried to get organized, barely looking in my direction. It was cold there. Not the cold of the Upper Galilee, but the cold of an operating room. He may be elderly and a volunteer, but the war, the action - that's his fuel. And me? I was a refreshment stop on the way back to the front.

I left there with a heavy feeling. I drove south, and the silence in the car was deafening.

The withdrawal (and silence)

Two days. I haven't heard from him for two whole days. The man who wrote poems about Kaymak bubbling under fire couldn't find a minute to send a thumbs up emoji. I saw him online. I saw the "last seen." But our chat remained orphaned. I understood.

I realized that I was an audience. I was a stage for his monodrama. On the third day, I decided that I wasn't waiting for a dismissal telegram.

The Last Battle (on WhatsApp)

I wrote to him. Without filters, without politeness, with all the insult and rage of a woman who realizes she was a stand-in in someone else's film.

I wrote to him that he was a narcissist and 🐇 and it's a sad combination. I told him that he literally drove me crazy for a week with buildup from the movies. You were all looking for...he knows what. I told him:

And more:

I waited. I knew he would answer. Narcissists always have the last word.

Itai immediately replied and said:

There was a child up. And what was more. I mean myself. I was really looking forward to the meeting.

I wasn't looking for this... There's more than enough of that. Like me, like you. Here it was a mutual interest. There was no rape. You even brought comfortable clothing beforehand and before."

I read the message and smoke came out of my ears. "Did you bring comfortable clothes"? "There was no rape"? Is that the level? And the last sentence killed me. In the middle of a painful farewell conversation, he remembered some technical matter about an orthopedic surgeon that we had briefly discussed? How disconnected can you be?

I immediately screamed back:

You wrote:

Oh, the poetic sacrifice. Suddenly the gnarled general became a tormented poet who someone "ascribed darkness to." Spare me.

And that's it.

The operation has ended.

The troops returned to their base safely (approximately).

I was left with one important lesson: When a man writes you poems about sheep in the middle of the night, he's not looking for a shepherd for his flock. He's looking for an audience for his one-man show. And me? I'm done clapping.

I realized that this WhatsApp is not just an app, it is the ancestor of the impurities of human communication, a factory for producing optical illusions of proximity. It allows words to flourish without cover, emotions to writhe without tone of voice, and lies to sound like the pure truth just because you added a red heart to them.

I learned the hard way that those who build palaces of love by typing end up leaving you to live alone in the ruins of one big misunderstanding.

Next.

איתי המצביא, הכבשים ומבצע "חרבות של אהבה"