In his latest update, Dr. Binyamin Klempner guest in episode 277 of The Yakking Show makes the point that the Israeli soldiers he meets are of a similar age to the protesting students at American (and Canadian) universities. He asks the question which of these two groups would die for you? You can find earlier updates from Binyamin here.
Last night I was sleeping. BOOM!!!!! I’m awake! Did I dream a boom? Was it real? An Iron Dome interception? Could’ve been real. Could’ve been a dream. Doesn’t make that much of a difference, either way, it was real.
Not many updates. Passover with the kids at home has kept me away. I’m itching to go back. I miss my guys. Tomorrow I’m planning on visiting them and bringing them some ice cream. They’ll like an ice cream party. Last time I was up there, a couple days before Passover I brought my twelve-year-old son with me. I don’t know who had more fun, my son or the soldiers. While I spoke with the commander and his assistant, my son taught the soldiers that war can be a lot of fun, it just needs to be played out by the inner-twelve-year-old, you know, that inner-twelve-year-old who isn’t afraid of killing and isn’t hesitant to kill and has no regrets after a kill. Reminds me of Gavroche in Hugo’s Les Miserables. The just-turned-twelve-year-old who leads and manipulates, drawing the fighters to him. Reminding them of the cause. Leading them in the cause. After the soldiers finished the twelve tubs of Ben & Jerry’s we bought for them from the gas station at the bottom of the hill. A steep hill connecting violence and non-violence, or, one could argue, war and peace. My son asked to put on a helmet. So they put a helmet on his head. Seeing how good he looked in a helmet, they put a vest on him. The helmet weighs 2 kilos. The vest, full of steel, weighs 6 kilos. On a previous visit I had brought these guys a pull up bar. I had told them the kid was strong.
They thought I was a boastful father. Having something to prove I told them to lift my kid up to the pull-up bar. With the additional eight kilos he was wearing he cranked out four pull-ups. The guys by this time had taken out their phones to record the event. The commander put his hand on my kids back to give him an ever so slight advantage against his own weight. I started yelling at the commander, “You’re making him cheat! Stop it! You’re making him cheat!” The other guys, incredulous at my pomposity as a father, reassured me, “He did four pull-ups entirely on his own! The commander is barely touching his back!
The kid’s amazing! At his age I don’t think I could do one pull-up! Let alone with the weight of a helmet and vest!” “Yeah. You’re right. But you should know, without that extra weight, he can crank out fourteen pull-ups.” When he came down from the pull-up bar they let him hold the big machine gun. The big machine gun weighs in at twenty kilos. The guys were incredulous. He wasn’t struggling under the weight. He was rejoicing with the weight. Teaching them about the joys of war that only the foolish soul of a twelve-year-old can comprehend. Instructing them in the purity of war. Looking at him you would have thought it was made out of plastic.You would have thought the war was plastic. Fiction. But as soon as we left, it became real again. My son doesn’t have school tomorrow. Maybe I’ll bring him back. Maybe I won’t.
One soldier, a lone soldier from Idaho, told me that her friends back at home all went to college. She said that the biggest decisions they need to make are whether or not to drink and party late into the night when they have a test early the next morning. Meanwhile, she’s making real decisions. Life and death decisions. Meaningful decisions. Decisions that affect the lives of others. I think about American college students. Protesting about things they know little, if anything, about. Cultivating and harboring opinions, misinformed decisions. But the problem is that protesting students are seen as cool and youthful. The debutants of American society. Just as much as the elders influence the youth, the youth influence the elders. Here in Israel we feel it. The sympathy that was felt after October 7th has largely dissipated. The enthusiasm and support for the fight has largely dissipated. The donations from a multitude of well wishing supporters has dwindled to a trickle.
Now a few give generously and the multitude leave me feeling dejected. It feels as if sympathies are switching, at least partially, partially enough to stop giving financial support, towards the Gazan side. Maybe I’m wrong. I hope I’m wrong. But, and here’s the crux, let’s be honest about it, those protests look fun. Darn fun. Heck. Who really cares what they’re protesting about. They look like they’re having the time of their lives. And they are. Those protesters are going to be telling their grandkids and great grandkids about the time they occupied buildings on campus and set up tents, camping out on campus lawns. Fun is difficult to compete with. And, unless you’ve just turned twelve (when I turned twelve I wanted to be a U.S. Marine) war isn’t fun. But at least war has a certain purity. A certain realness. Unlike the protests, at least, in war, masks come off and the real person, the person behind the mask, is seen for who he really is. Give or take, soldiers and college students are the same age. I don’t think most protesting college students are willing to die for you. Soldiers are.willing to die for you.
Regardless of whether you’re liberal or conservative. Jewish or non-Jewish. Gave at the beginning of the war or didn’t give at the beginning of the war. Like what I have to say or dislike what I have to say. Please support the work I do. It’s not about me. It’s about soldiers, the same age as those college students, who are willing to die for you.
https://thechesedfund.com/theunityfarmfoundation/support-our-israeli-soldiers
Wishing you safety. Wishing you joy. Wishing you peace. Real peace.
Binyamin Klempner