Dear Friends,
What will be, I don’t know. Nobody knows. What is known is that the reality of now is a different reality than the reality of before the war. How we experience the world around us is different now than it was before the war. How we experience the world within ourselves is different now than before the war. How we hear, how we see, how we smell, how we feel, how we breathe is different now than before the war. Before the war, I preferred Lennon/McCartney. Now I prefer The Rolling Stones. Sounds that were pleasing before the war may no longer be pleasing. Sounds that were disturbing before the war may no longer be disturbing. Reality has changed. What was, is no longer. What is, has never been before. Not all good. Not all bad. Just is. Before, there was much hatred and fear of those with differing perspectives and political views. Now, more than ever, love of the person, and acceptance of differences. Several platoons I frequently visited have gone home. At least until the summer. Checkpoints I visit frequently are empty. The encampments I visited frequently are empty. I drive around, passing areas where once there were tank battalions, empty. I miss what was. I’m sentimental. I get attached to people, places, and things. And then, they go away. And then I’m sad. Now, I’m sad. Soldiers I came to care about. Soldiers I shared great conversations with. Sent home. Gone back to their civilian lives. Strangers to me now.
The things we spoke about. Pescado. The best fish restaurant in Ashdod. Probably the best fish restaurant in Israel. The soldier, a Ukrainian reservist from Ashdod, and I were reminiscing over the great fish meals we had at Pescado. Up to four months to get a reservation and three hours from catch to plate, Pescado makes Ashdod proud. But it wasn’t really about Pescado that we spoke, Pescado is just the metaphor. It was home. It was comfort from the pain that we spoke. Other than great food and great service, it’s the comfort of it all that makes Pescado remarkable. Womb like. A return to the womb. A taste of umbilical cuisine. Across from the beach. Across from the sea. The beach of the uterine walls holding us. Safe. Inside our mothers.
The things we spoke about. Bear hunting. “You know,” I said, “Pescado also serves meat. Have you ever had a steak there?” “No. You don’t go to Pescado for meat. You go there for fish. Anyway, back in Ukraine, my family hunts. So I’m very particular about the meat I eat. Only the best.” “What animals do they hunt?” “They hunt duck, geese, rabbit, and deer.” “Don’t you have bears up in Ukraine? How about bear?” “Oh no. I’m from southern Ukraine, near Odessa. We don’t have bear near Odessa. Anyhow, bear is difficult to hunt. Bears need to be shot in the head. It’s dangerous to hunt a bear. A bear might end up hunting the hunter.” “Actually, I have a story about that. You want to hear it?” “Of course I do.” “Well, back in Montana, the Indian Chief, the guy who turned me on to being Jewish and pushed me to come live in Israel, he was an FBI agent and there was a grizzly bear that had already killed the three poachers who tried to shoot it. It had already been shot three times and now this guy, Buster Yellowkidney was his name, he needed to shoot it. He had his .44 Magnum, loaded with three bullets. Anyhow, I’m telling you the short version of the story. The bear charges him. He shoots the bear in the head from about 90 feet away. The bear keeps charging him. He shoots the bear from about 50 feet away. The bear keeps charging him. He shoots the bear with his last bullet at 15 feet away. The bear keeps charging. And then at 5 feet.” “I know what happened. At 5 feet the bear dropped at his feet.” “That’s exactly what happened. And Buster was tough. But as tough as he was, Buster told me that he soiled himself.” “I’m sure he did and there’s nothing shameful about it. I probably would have soiled myself as well.”
The things we spoke about. Boycotts. The two Ukrainian soldiers told me that since the war between Russia and Ukraine began they read all Cyrillic labels to make sure they aren’t purchasing anything made in Russia. Only Ukraine. Now, they told me, they make sure that anything they purchase is made in an Israel-friendly country. Unfortunately, they said, there aren’t many Israel-friendly countries.
The things we spoke about. Death. I showed the two Military Police I was making coffee for the photos I took of the Nova Festival site. One of the MPs was very shaken. He was from Sderot. I asked if he saw the burned-out police station. He said he’s from the other side of the city. I asked him if he went to see it anyway, after all, Sderot is a small city. He told me he took pains to avoid going near the police station. He didn’t want to see it. He looked pained. His voice sounded pained. He told me that he had a good friend from Sderot, a guy in Shaldag. On October 7th, this guy grabbed his weapon and killed many terrorists who had infiltrated Sderot. When the terrorists had mainly been eliminated, this guy went to Kibbutz Kfar Aza where he fought against terrorists, and, eventually, was killed. His body was taken hostage. This soldier told me of another friend who was taken hostage from Kibbutz Be’eri. Emotionally, he told me that this friend had been sharpening pencils and hiding them so as to kill his captors. But he escaped his captors. Only to be killed, as one of the three hostages killed by friendly fire. I told him that I was disappointed that I hadn’t been able to enter the Kibbutzim. He explained that during the first days of the war, tourists had been able to enter the kibbutzim freely, and many entered abandoned homes and took things. Souvenirs of the killing. Now the residents of the kibbutzim who have returned don’t want any intruders. And any outsider, who isn’t accompanied by an insider, is an intruder.
The things we spoke about. Resumption. I drove to Matat. A pleasure driving past the checkpoint after several months of road closure. Looking deep into Lebanon. The lights of small Lebanese villages. Everything looked so peaceful. So tranquil. Could these countries really be at war? Impossible except for the reality of it. Matat. A village of serenity. Small wooden cottages. The fragrance of wood burning in stoves. Trees blocking the view of neighboring cottages. Privacy. An uncommon commodity in today’s world. As I was making coffee for a soldier, and we were making small talk, and recounting all the places I had joined their platoon since the early days of the war, I said, “I’m sort of embarrassed to tell you this. I even don’t know how to say it. And…I hope you won’t look down on me for saying it…and you can always disagree…or…see things, experience things from a different point of view, but…” “Go on. Say what you want,” the soldier told me. “Well. There’s something I really like, there’s something I find satisfying about this war. I’m gonna really miss this war. And it seems like it might be coming to an end. You guys are going home. Other units and platoons are going home, or already have gone home. It’s like this war has given me something I’ve been waiting for my whole life.” “I know what you mean. I experience that as well. The achdus. The unity. The togetherness. And also, the purposefulness. Doing something bigger than yourself. Doing something outside of yourself. A journey worth taking.
The things we spoke about. Metaphor. Continuing our conversation, the soldier asked me, “If you don’t mind my asking you, what do you do for a living?” “Sound therapy. I use healing sound instruments mainly to help people with PTSD. Gongs. Handpans. Chimes. Drums.” “Oh. Very cool. Before the war I was going to get a certificate in Garden Therapy. I’ll go back to it after the war.” “That’s great! Garden therapy is great. It’s all about the metaphor. But it’s more than a simple metaphor, it’s a creative activity. You have a client who’s totally disempowered, she plants a seed the seed grows. Life. She did something incredible. She planted a seed. Watered it. It grew into a plant. She’s empowered. Gardening is a metaphor that’s an action.” “I never thought of it like that,” the soldier said. “Sure,” I continued, “The seed is a metaphor. The dimple in the soil the seed gets placed in is a metaphor. Covering the seed with soil is a metaphor. The green little sprout that pops out of the soil is a metaphor. The growing plant is a metaphor. Each stage of the plant’s development is a metaphor. Harvesting is a metaphor. Our job as therapists is to guide the client on a journey. There’s no journey more epic than war. There is no experience with the power to develop the self greater than war. You’ll be bringing your journey, you’ll be bringing your stories of war to your clients. And ultimately, it’s the stories within the journey that heal.” We each thought about what I had just said for a moment. Let it absorb. The soldiers were being called into a meeting. We gave hugs. I headed out.
As I drove from Matat towards Meron I saw a little animal run in front of my car. I stepped on the brakes just missing it. A European Badger. Meles meles. A badger. A badass little, actually, not so little, badger. The badger is closely related to a weasel., but bigger. Tougher. A tiny wolverine. As a nineteen-year-old, having first arrived on the Blackfeet Indian, Tiny Man Yellowkidney gave me the name Weasel. I asked, “Why Weasel?” He answered, “If you ever see a weasel kick the shit out of a chicken you’ll know why.” The Blackfeet would make a big deal out of the metaphor of seeing an animal. A badger. Running in front of my car. A warrior. A fighting animal. A righteous animal. A hunter.
Still some reservists. But now, most of the soldiers on the front lines with Lebanon are young conscripts. No one knows how long this situation will continue. It seems to go on and on. And I go with it. Be a part of my work to boost the morale and encourage Israeli soldiers by donating here: 
https://thechesedfund.com/
Stay safe.
Binyamin Klempner
P.S. This plaque given to me by the Golani Brigade in recognition of service- belongs to you just as much as it belongs to me. Your support has and continues to make a difference in the lives of Israeli soldiers.