When I was serving as a tank commander in the IDF in 2016, our tanks became our homes—our kitchens, bedrooms, bathrooms, and living rooms. At night we found whatever warm corner we could and huddled there in a sleeping bag until we drifted off to sleep. On warmer nights, we slept on top of the turret, nearly rolling off and falling to the ground as we dreamed of easier days. In the mornings, we dumped tuna, chocolate spread, and halva unceremoniously between two pieces of stale bread and called it breakfast.
One weekend, my platoon was “voluntold” to stay in the field to guard our equipment, while the other platoons returned to base. There were 16 glorious hours in which we could breathe and decompress from the week. The commanders returned our cell phones and we caught up with loved ones, reassuring them that we were being fed enough and changing our socks frequently. Saturday night marked the end of our break. We returned to reality in gloom and anxiety, wondering what trials the new week would bring. I prepared to grit my teeth and continue onward, just trying to make it through, when my commander pulled me aside.
“You’re going to base. Pull whatever looks good from the pantry and come back with a poyke pot and a guitar,” he said to me, smiling softly as he started his stopwatch. “You have 20 minutes, good luck.” We were going to make poyke, a popular meal cooked over a campfire that is often eaten in the IDF. I tried to recall what ingredients my friends had stuffed into my pack the year prior, when we made poyke after we hiked from our kibbutz to the Banias waterfall in the Golan Heights. I returned from the base with vegetables, rice, a bottle of Coke, and the Israeli equivalent of Slim-Jims. The guitar on my back made it in one piece, and the heavy cast iron pot showed no damage from the numerous times I’d dropped it on the way.
We split off into groups. Two of us pulled nails from the wooden pallets that our ammunition had been stored on and began to build the fire. I chopped onions, carrots, and potatoes with my dirty Leatherman. Someone had grabbed the guitar already and was plucking out a familiar Meir Banai tune, our 12 tanks silhouetted behind him. We hoisted the pot into the fire, resting it on a bed of glowing embers. A glug of oil and our crudely cut vegetables came next. The vegetables blackened and turned bitter, scorched by the intense heat, but it was dark out and we would only realize our mistake later. Meat sizzled and hissed against the hot metal as its fat rendered out. I slashed through the commercial-sized sack of rice and we dumped it in, along with water and the entire liter-and-a-half of Coke. With the grace of great chefs, we spilled food and spices everywhere, throwing up orange sparks as debris landed in the flames. We poked a long stick through the handle of the lid, occasionally lifting it off to stir our poyke—though others are adamant about not stirring poyke.
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