“Smoking bans will ruin the economy, ma’am,” says the boy with the perfect crew cut, doing his military best not to shiver.

I would love to engage in a serious debate with this young Marine on the pros and cons of draconian anti-smoking legislation in this and the rest of the United States: Not only is this a subject close to my own heart, but I had been informed prior to my visit here that Rhode Island has the highest per capita smoking rate in the country, which is intriguing in and of itself.

But I am too busy jogging in place to keep from freezing to death next to the ashtray outside of the Newport Hyatt Regency on this one November night. And too focused on not tripping over my floor-length dress in the process.

Furthermore, being called “ma’am” has put a damper on my desire and ability to talk politics by making me feel about 100 years old. (Later I’m assured that this is simply the way Marines address all women.)

“Happy birthday,” the boy suddenly says to a new wave of nicotine addicts in fancy attire who have emerged from the hotel to light up while commenting on the bitter chill and social banishment their habit invites.

“Happy birthday,” they respond through chattering teeth, as do the others who have exited the ballroom to watch the lunar eclipse that is now in progress. Or at least catch as long a glimpse as the cold weather allows. Where, I wonder, is global warming when you need it?

As the men in uniform–or tuxedos, if they are no longer on active duty–and women in ball gowns gather under the stars, the moon appears to be winking a “happy birthday” greeting of its own.

The event is the Marine Corps birthday ball, an annual celebration that takes place wherever members of the Corps are stationed.

Here in Newport, home of the Naval War College, the atmosphere is distinctly “nautical,” and it’s hard for a civilian–and a foreign one, at that–to distinguish between the uniforms of the servicemen. These are explained patiently by my host, on whom I have come to rely for much more than journalistic information.

“Will I be the only Jew in the room?” I had asked him yesterday over drinks at the officers’ club.

“No way,” he had answered, though a glance around the ballroom would indicate otherwise. And judging by the ratio of alcohol-to-food intake–a direct inversion of that at an Israeli function–if there are any Chosen People here tonight, they are drunk and hungry. And well camouflaged. Gold buttons and medals of honor from the Vietnam War will tend to do that.

The festivities begin (after cocktails) with a ceremony and a speech, followed by dinner and a bagpipe-and-drum performance. They end with dancing.

Our attention is called to the empty table set for the Marines in absentia–those serving in Iraq. This announcement brings tears to the eyes of a good number of the women I observe, as well as to my own. This is a war for me as an Israeli as much as it is for me as an American–and its outcome will determine the fate of both.

“Don’t be discouraged,” the guest of honor says from the podium to a captive audience. “You’ll get your chance to fight.”

The young men in this room, he knows, are hungry to do just that: perform the task for which they have been trained–to defend their country by killing its enemies and upholding its principles of freedom and democracy.

Sadly, it is this sense of purpose–this manliness–that was lacking in the America of my own youth. It is this spirit of dedication, born of knowing the difference between good and evil, and of acting accordingly without apology, that hit me like a sledgehammer when I first visited Israel in my teens.

Ironically, it is this basic love of country–and belief in the idea and ideals of its foundation–that turned me into an expatriate nearly three decades ago.

Now, rising to sing “America the Beautiful,” I consider whether I would have ended up in Jerusalem if I hadn’t grown up in New York City and been educated by a slew of proud draft dodgers who had trotted themselves off to college instead of to the war they were called upon to fight. It wasn’t the “Star Spangled Banner” I was replacing with “Hatikva,” after all, but rather the echoes of “Hell no, we won’t go” with the music of IDF soldiers going about the matter-of-fact business of doing what is necessary simply because it is necessary.

Tragically, it is this “matter-of-fact business” that has begun to wane in Israel–a country whose unparalleled ability to imitate, adopt, and expand on American technology is accompanied by a peculiar time-lag where American cultural, political, and economic trends are concerned.

It is thus that while cell phones and ATM machines in Tel Aviv could put those in Texas to shame, it is only now dawning on Israelis that capitalism might actually work better than socialism. And it is thus that the Hebrew version of “Hell no, we won’t go” has begun to be voiced in circles of the Israeli elite where it would have been unimaginable before.

The irony of the cognitive dissonance I am experiencing at this moment does not escape me, in spite of being flushed from wine and dressed to kill. And planning my next cigarette break in Siberia.

There’s nothing like a band playing “I Only Have Eyes For You” to get one’s mind off of the literal and figurative battlefield, however, and one’s feet onto the dance floor.

One thing is certain: If these guys fight as well as they boogie, the Western World is in good hands. Happy 228th birthday, Marines.

–Ruthie Blum is features editor at the Jerusalem Post, where this first appeared. It is reprinted with permission.