Becoming a gun owner in Israel's West Bank after October 7 massacre

I stood so proudly with my sign at the Million Mom March for gun control, my daughter holding my hand in the middle of Washington, DC. The sign read: “Momma Says, Eat Your Veggies & Never Play with Guns!”

Growing up in America, I hated guns. It was simple. Guns kill. Children are stupid and play with them. Crazy people get hold of them. People are shot. People die. Guns are bad. Period.

When my eldest son was born, I made a rule: No toy guns. I was proud that my son would not be playing with such horrid toys. But then, when he was four years old, he picked up the nearest stick, pointed it at a friend, and shouted, “Bang, bang, bang!” I don’t know why or where he even learned about guns, but everything became a toy gun. The child, now 40, lives in the New York area and is a gun enthusiast. And I still hate guns.

I hate violence. While all my friends were swooning over [the TV series] Outlander, I found myself hitting the “OFF” button on the remote. Blood, guts, shootings, rape – I couldn’t find any entertainment in it at all.

This year, October 7 in Israel made me realize that first and foremost, each person must be responsible for his or her own protection – as much as possible. If we do not take the initiative, we may end up dead or worse. When I heard President Joe Biden’s warning against extreme right-wing settlers, it was clear that we who live in the Shomron cannot count on anyone to protect us. Not America, certainly not the Civil Administration (that is anything but civil to us), and not even the army, which is busy on other fronts; no one will come forward and protect a bunch of Jewish “settlers.” So we have got to get into Scout mode and revisit the motto “Be prepared.”

I never thought the day would come when I so much as touched a gun. But as I gaze at the Arab village across the wadi behind my house and read their vile messages on Telegram – clearly planted by Hamas inhabitants who make no secret of calling for death and destruction for every settler and “occupier” in Israel – I realize they are targeting me. I’m not scared. I’m mad. Stay away from me – and my family. Or I will kill you! The time has come for me to get a gun license and buy a gun. Me? Yes, me! And although I’ve made the decision, I’m still in shock about it.

MY FIRST question for the gun instructor was “Does it come in pink?” I mean, if I must carry this heavy piece of metal, should it not at least be fashionable? The instructor didn’t laugh.

In Israel, no one is laughing these days. Guns are serious business. They are for self-defense. We are at war. And while gun licenses are being given out by the thousands and are now much easier to get, we are all facing serious threats to our lives and the lives of our families. I had to “bite the bullet” and join the masses that filled out numerous forms in Hebrew, got signatures, sent them in, and lined up for training and the license. After dealing with a lot of paperwork, a telephone interview, an English handout on the rules of engagement, a video in Hebrew on more of the same, and an online test that asked questions that seemed to come totally out of left field, the time had come for me to select the weapon that might some day save my life. Which meant I actually had to touch a gun for the first time.

A FEW times in my life, I’ve asked the question “What do I do?”

The first time was at Parson’s School of Design. I was taking a summer course in illustration for high school students. I came from a sheltered religious school and was eager to explore my artistic talent. I walked into class five minutes late. A completely naked man was splayed leisurely on a platform in the center of the room. I had never seen a naked man before – not in pictures and certainly not in real life. I blushed and looked down at my sketch pad and charcoal pencils. “What do I do?” I mumbled to my teacher.

He looked at me incredulously. I was, after all, an art student. “Draw him,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Trying not to look up, I began to scribble as the man changed poses.

Fast forward many years later, after my divorce: I was feeling vulnerable. I was a 40-year-old woman living alone with my daughter. So I took a self-defense course based on Gracie Jujitsu. I sat in a dojo among sweaty men and women, some flabby, some buff, all attuned to the instructor, who flipped people twice his size onto the mat. Then it was my turn to try the moves.

“What do I do?” That question again.

The answer was simple. The instructor grabbed me. I went down on my bottom the way he had demonstrated to us, I kicked hard at the pillow he held in front of him, and I knocked him down. Then I sprang up and ran. I did it! The small victory led me to kickboxing, and I learned to stop asking “What do I do now?”

I just did what everyone else did and enjoyed the physical rush of feeling empowered and strong.

BUT 20 years later, I was looking at a whole lot of pistols and, once again, feeling very insecure.

“What do I do?” I asked the instructor.

“You choose a gun,” he shrugged, demonstrating a wicked-looking black one. In Hebrew, he told me to grip the gun, check to see that it was empty, remove the magazine, feel around inside the handle for stray bullets, and then pull back the mechanism on the top of the gun. 

It didn’t budge. I tried again.

“You have to go to the gym,” he laughed at me.

“I go to the gym,” I told him.

I tried again. Nada.

He gave me another gun, this one gray and black. Also ugly. Being careful where I pointed it, I removed the cartridge, stuck my finger up the handle, and tried to cock the mechanism on top – again to no avail.

“You have to figure out which gun best fits your hand,” he explained. “And practice until you know what you’re doing and that you’re doing it safely.”

Eventually, I figured out how to “push-pull” the mechanism to cock the gun. “That’s the last Sig Sauer we’ve got,” the instructor warned. “If you want it, buy it now.”

I was not going to impulse buy an implement of war. Especially since I had yet to shoot it.

So, the other 20 or so people in the class from all over the Shomron – some reserve soldiers, others regular citizens – bought up all the available guns. I was given an old, heavy, scary-looking cowboy gun and 50 bullets to use to learn how to shoot.

“What do I do?”

“Load it,” the instructor told me. He showed me how, and I gingerly squeezed 15 bullets into the plastic magazine, then carefully slapped the magazine into the handle of the gun.

“Aargh,” the instructor grunted. That was the signal to draw and cock the gun.

I drew the gun, and the holster came out of my waistband along with it. The instructor laughed. “Try again.”

Embarrassed, I tucked the holster back and drew and cocked the gun successfully. The instructor showed me how to stand, legs slightly apart, and to peer through the sites on top and aim at the target. I squinted. I blinked. I tried to wink. But I’ve never been able to wink, and I’m not likely to learn how at the tender age of 64. So, I put my finger alongside the barrel of the pistol, slid my finger behind the trigger, and slowly pulled back. Despite the noise-reduction headphones that I wore, the loudest noise I ever heard came out of that gun, as did a flash of fire. The gun recoiled and spit out a spent casing. I have no idea if my bullet hit the target.

“Again,” screamed the instructor.

I pulled back on the trigger again. BOOM! And again and again. Until all my bullets were gone and the air smelled like midnight in Brooklyn on the Fourth of July. I released the magazine and stuck my finger up the handle to make sure my ammo was spent. My finger came out black. I felt like I was coated in gunpowder from head to toe. Four people standing alongside me were still shooting. Blam! Blam! Blam! Some of the paper targets – a white sheet of paper with a black spray-painted dot – were coming off the wall; clearly, they were hitting them. I reloaded and shot some more, again and again, until 50 rounds of fire came out of my gun.

I WISH I could say that shooting a gun was fun, easy or intuitive, or something I look forward to doing again. But I can’t.

I have since learned to tilt my head and use my dominant eye to aim, and I ordered my gun (which, unfortunately, is not pink). When my license is complete and the gun is in my possession, I intend to take many more lessons until I am confident that I can defend myself and my family. Of course, I will keep it locked away in a bolted safe far from children’s curious eyes. 

I cannot say I enjoyed learning the new skill. In fact, I hated every minute of the noise, grit, and fire. But at 4 a.m. this morning – when I heard the war sounds of mortars and automatic weapons coming from that neighboring town – for the first time in my life, I said, “I wish I had my gun right now.” And I meant it. ❖

Applying for a gun? The vetting process

On October 17, Israel’s Knesset approved relaxed gun laws to make it more convenient to obtain a personal pistol. Since October 7, more than 180,000 applications have been submitted to the Ministry of National Security to obtain gun permits in Israel, and the number has continued to rise to as many as 10,000 new requests each day.

Applicants must be residents of Israel for at least three years; must be at least 27 years old if they did not serve in the army or 21 if they did; must have command of the written and spoken Hebrew language; and must not have a criminal record. Furthermore, they must have a valid reason for carrying a personal firearm; for example, because they are security personnel, live in a neighborhood considered dangerous, or have a job that requires a gun (such as hunter, exterminator, tour guide).

An online application available at www.mops.gov.il/ should be filled out. The following forms must be uploaded along with the application: Proof of residence in a municipality that necessitates protection; a health declaration signed by a physician; a copy of the teudat zehut (Israeli identity card), including the sefach (attachment); and any employment records or documents that qualify the individual for owning a weapon.

• After the application is submitted, a short interview is conducted – now by telephone, to expedite the process – with a representative from the Security Office.
• If the interview goes well, the applicant is sent a letter requesting the application fee and permitting him or her to apply for the license.
• This permit and proof of payment is then taken to the gun range, where the applicant must take a course on gun safety and basic firearms rules, followed by a test proving that the individual has basic gun-management skills.
• The applicant then chooses a gun and must shoot 50 rounds to be approved for the license.
• If all requirements are met, the permit is processed, an email is sent, and the gun can be picked up and carried.
• A safe that is bolted into cement must be available in the home where the weapon is stored. ❖

The writer, an author and journalist, is an olah and resident of Karnei Shomron.