Comparing the Vietnam War to Israel’s fight for survival. My experience in the terrorist war in Rhodesia parallels that of the soldiers in Israel mentioned in this update. I remember too well, being in the bush worrying how my wife and children were managing at home. Those were the days of petrol rationing, and shortages of grocery items. There was a waiting list of months for new cars. Old cars had to be nursed along, often kept running by the magic of innovative mechanics using non-standard parts.
It was in the era before cell phones. Communication with home was only by letters which could take a week or more to wend their way through first, the postal system, then the military system. A child’s illness. a car or house problem could cause two week’s of worry for a soldier in the bush. We learned how to live with adversity.
In the early 1970s, my wife at the time (fortunately before our children were born) turned her Ford Anglia over on the farm road while visiting my parents. Cars of that vintage did not have seat belts, but she was only slightly injured. My parents asked her not to write and tell me, knowing that I would worry. She was not badly hurt and had my car to use for work. She ignored their advice and sent me a letter telling me that her neck hurt and how badly damaged the car was.
The letter did worry me, so I went to my commanding officer and asked for compassionate leave to go home and be with her. He asked me two questions; Was she alive? Was she likely to die in the three weeks before our commitment ended? There was no point lying, the military police would have checked her condition before I would have been sent home. I spent the next three weeks worrying about her and how I was going to be able to repair or replace her car.
Such is war.
I have written several posts about my experiences as a soldier in Rhodesia, here is one about an encounter with Buffalo and other memories.
The January 4th to 10th weekly update from Israel by Dr. Binyamin Klempner.
War drives you insane. If it doesn’t, it’s because you never were sane and never will be. Driving in my car to visit the soldiers up on the Northern Front, I like to listen to Vietnam Era Rock N’ Roll. Nothing puts you in the mood for blasts and the momentum of an active war zone like Vietnam Era Rock N’ Roll. Buffalo Springfield. Santana. Big Brother and Holding Company. Credence Clearwater Revival. Cream. Traffic. The Rolling Stones. Jimi Hendrix. The Doors. The Four Tops. Jefferson Airplane. Country Joe and the Fish. Blind Faith. But, make no mistakes about it. This war that we’re fighting in Israel is not Vietnam and has little in common with Vietnam except for some of the old Vietnam-era M-16s and Helmets pulled off the shelves and restored for partial usability. In Vietnam, soldiers were barely out of childhood. In Israel, many soldiers are married men with loving families waiting for them at home. In Vietnam, soldiers were on foreign soil. In Israel, soldiers are on home soil. In Vietnam, citizens brought gifts and love to VC fighters. In Israel, citizens bring gifts and love to Israeli fighters.
Comparing The War In Israel To Vietnam
In Vietnam, soldiers spoke with foul-mouthed language. Amongst Israeli soldiers, speaking with foul language is an anathema. Soldiers fight with a clean mouth and a clean conscience. In Vietnam, sailor songwriters, like Country Joe McDonald asked, “1,2,3 what are we fighting for?” They didn’t know what they were fighting for. And they still don’t know, fifty years on, what they fought for. We know. In that way, we have a lot more in common with the North Vietnamese than with the Americans who fought in Vietnam. The North Vietnamese weren’t fighting for communism or Ho Chi Min. So too, we fight, not for the political left nor the political right nor the Israeli Military Corporation’s Top Brass, but for ourselves, for our homeland. For the Jewish People’s right to exist.
I felt the ground fall out from beneath my feet. The blast trumpeted in my ears. “Wow!” “Did you hear that!?!” I asked the marine I was on the phone with. He nonchalantly answered back, a bit surprised by my surprise, “Yep. It was a boom.” The war is real.
We spoke in spooky darkness, on the side of a road that twisted its way through the forest, unable to see each other’s faces. “You know the people in Arab El-Ramsha are Zionists.” “I know they they are,” I said. “No. No, They are Zionists. They like us. They support us.” “I know they do,” “You know, some of them even join the army and fight their co-religionists on the other side of the border.” I know it,” I assured the Paratrooper guarding the road that eventually leads to Arab Al-Aramsha. I did know this. I do have great respect for the citizens of Arab Al-Aramsha and for all Arab Israeli Citizens who are patriotic to the State of Israel and her people, but I wasn’t convincing him and he wanted me to believe that these Arabs are very good people and loyal Israeli citizens.
He was frustrated that I didn’t respect the people of Arab Al-Aramsha and I was becoming frustrated that he didn’t believe my reassurances that I did respect the people of Arab Al-Aramsha. Such is life. He then asked me condescendingly out of frustration, “What are you doing here anyway? You just came here to see some soldiers!” I shrugged as if to say, “You got me.” What could I do? I love these guys, they refuse to be blinded by blind prejudice. Allowing themselves to differentiate between similar but not the same.
The other week, I went to be menachem avel, to offer my condolences, to a couple who had lost their son in Gaza over Shabbos. Not knowing the family, I sat next to an old man sitting off to the side. Quietly. Pondering tragedy. Pondering pain. I didn’t know this man. Never saw him before. Sitting next to him, he quietly took my hand in his. We held each other’s hands for minutes. I could feel his pain. I shared his pain for which there were no words. Only the holding of a hand. Regrettably, after about five minutes or so, I separated my hand from his. A fellow of about thirty walked up to me as if I should recognize him. I didn’t. He mentioned that he’s the cook at the local hummus restaurant near me.
Support For Soldier’s Families In Israel
Then I recognized him. He said that he is the first cousin of the niftar, of the deceased, and that the man next to me is his uncle, the father of the soldier and that the woman who sat on the other side of the old man is his aunt, the mother of the deceased soldier. He then told his aunt and uncle how much I have been doing for the soldiers. They cried and thanked me for my work, insisting that I eat something. At such moments I’m grateful not to speak Hebrew. Words can be useful, but they can also get in the way of realness. Holding the hand of a mourner is real. Real consolation. Real communication. Beyond words. After having a bite to eat as per the mourners’ request, because I wasn’t at all hungry, I reached over and put the father’s hand in mine for several more minutes before taking my leave. The father said something to me in Hebrew. I don’t know what he said. But I shook my head in the affirmative as that’s what seemed appropriate and he was appreciative of this affirmation.
Supporting the soldiers is supporting the parents, spouses, and children of the soldiers who have fallen. Holding their hands. Visiting them to make sure that their pantries and cupboards and refrigerators are well stocked. Visiting them to make sure they know that they have not been forgotten. And so it is that I appeal to you, now more than ever, to give more than you have in the past. Give in the memory of this fallen soldier whose father’s hand I held so that I can give grocery coupons to his widow and to the widows of other fallen soldiers as well as to the wives of soldiers who are still in the fight but whose wives are unable to afford to feed their children, and, yes, sadly, there are front-line soldiers whose children, far from the front lines, go to bed hungry. And a soldier can’t fight his best fight when his thoughts, rather than on the battlefield, are with the struggles on the homefront.
Please donate at 
https://thechesedfund.com/
Stay safe!
Binyamin Klempner
Thanks to Binyamin for these regular updates which give a different perspective on the biased reporting in the legacy media and unfortunately the selective treatment on many social media platforms.
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