Jerusalem Post, Billboard; August 17, 2007
Our intrepid partier heads for the sticks in search of a good club
I would have never made the trek from Jerusalem to Terminal, a new line of private parties at Kibbutz Ramot Menashe near Yokneam (25 minutes south of Haifa) but for the promoter's nudgings, which happened to come in the midst of a particularly arid dating dry spell.
She raved about the music and the men, insisting they were not shallow, pretentious urban guys. Instead, she promised educated, high-quality, down-to-earth students - mostly from Haifa University and the Technion - looking for more intimate, intelligent partying.
Every Thursday night, the party at the kibbutz is themed after an 'ideology,' as co-manager Kobi Shetach put it. He himself is an education and communications student at Haifa University. Themes have included Changing the Courtship Culture, Woman's Lib, and Foreplay. I was invited on Gentlemen's Night, dedicated to bringing back the culture of gentlemen, which Shetach himself admitted is sorely lacking among Israeli men.
I figured, why not explore non-urban partying, particularly with a few nice, smart gentlemen?
A good thing my friend (a local) drove, because it was a long, windy road to Terminal, one I wouldn't have been able to navigate without a GPS. Walking in, I was taken aback.
'This is it?' I wondered.
The place looked like a converted barn, bereft of the sleek modern light fixtures, walls and rails that characterize Tel Aviv dance bars. A misshapen 'crystal' chandelier hung from the center of the lively dancefloor, and beer bottles hung from strings around the hall.
'Maybe this is how they party in the Israeli countryside?' I wondered. 'Maybe they don't need the sophisticated, often pretentious decor of urban centers?'
The atmosphere was definitely more relaxed than that of metropolitan digs, but the men looked like your average Israeli partiers; not particularly bright or beautiful. Of course, one can't judge on looks alone; could be they were all rocket scientists. Indeed, my friend actually introduced me to a physics student (who didn't give me the time of day), but there wasn't much of a chance to talk over the din of the mainstream club music spun by the DJ.
I decided to dance away my disappointment, and noticed staff handing out white roses to men, presumably for them to give to women. I didn't get a rose. No 'gentleman' treated me to a drink either, except for Shlomi, the owner, who sought to make sure a journalist from The Jerusalem Post had a good time.
Maybe he overdid it. He left me a bottle of vodka at the far end of the bar, and whenever I felt a tad bored or uninspired by the music or men, I took an unladylike shluk.
I met a 28-year-old guy (I think he was 28; can't say I really remember) who works at a toy store. He generally wasn't my type, but he was a total sweetie who bought me water and let me share my drunken pain at the conformist nature of Israeli society. We discussed politics, Olmert, and the fragility of this country. He sympathized, and warned me that Israel has only a decade to go.
Then we parted ways - he probably thought I was a little weird - with him wishing me a good decade.
I tried to dance and talk with more people as I waited for my friend to take me home. Eventually the contents of the vodka bottle also wanted to leave, and I ended up over a toilet bowl. Two gentlemen came to my rescue. Then I heard some non-gentleman murmur from behind, mocking me: 'Jerusalem Post! Jerusalem Post!'
I rode home in a stupor, realizing (to the extent that I was able to realize anything at that point) that leaving for a party in the Israeli countryside is not necessarily the cure for a lonely city girl looking for a gentleman.
Terminal, Kibbutz Ramat Menashe; NIS 20, First-timers free. Thursday night ages 25+; Friday ages 20+. Music: Hip-groove, black, hip-hop, dance, house and trance; (054) 555-8939
Friday, August 17, 2007
Continuing, but not moving on
Jerusalem Post, Up Front; August 17, 2007
Click here for original
For 19-year-old novelist Shifra Shomron, writing about disengagement was a form of therapy
Grains of Sand: The Fall of Neve Dekalim By Shifra Shomron. Mazo Publishers 188 pages; $16.95
After the first few minutes of speaking with Shifra Shomron over the phone, the similarities between this young author and the heroine of her debut novel, Grains of Sand: The Fall of Neve Dekalim, become apparent. She's busy studying for finals, and she asks to hold the interview when they are over.
Shomron, 20, like her heroine Efrat Yefet, is studious, industrious, a 'star student' and something of a bookworm. One probably has to be to publish a novel at 19. She is strikingly poised, mature and idealistic for her age. At times she passionately gives facts and information about her community like a caring yet strict teacher - which is a good thing, since her ambition is to impact society as a high-school English teacher.
Grains of Sand is the first novel to emerge out of the rubble of Gush Katif, and it is through teenaged Efrat Yefet that Shomron allows readers to become familiar with life there in the years leading up to disengagement.
As I step into the Shomron family caravilla (prefab housing unit) in Nitzan, more similarities between the author and Efrat begin to surface. A golden retriever rushes to the door and happily greets me as another fluffy-haired mutt looks on. The Shomrons' three dogs are characters in the novel, and pictures of them illustrate the book.
The portrait of an animal-loving Gush Katif family of four fits with another one of Shomron's literary purposes, to break stereotypes of settlers.
'I wanted my family to be different, to show the heterogeneous nature of the settlers that society often overlooks,' explains the petite brunette in her small kitchen/dining room.
Shomron proves to be an articulate, knowledgeable spokeswoman for her community - thanks in part to her work as an English translator for Friends of Gush Katif - but she also wrote the novel, which she began in April 2005, as a means of therapy.
'Writing my book was incredibly therapeutic for me and it was probably one of the reasons I was able to finish it so quickly - to finish writing my book in one year. It was my way of dealing with things,' she says
Shomron's actual family is much bigger than the family she portrayed. Shomron is the second of seven children. Her family made aliya from Phoenix, Arizona, in 1992 and discovered Neveh Dekalim during their search for a religious-Zionist community.
'It turned out to be a wonderful community. They were incredibly warm and they had a family adopt us and provide us with basic services,' says Shomron, her mother looking on proudly. Her father, like the patriarch in the novel, worked as a mashgiah (kashrut supervisor) at a farm in the settlement of Bedolah. He is currently unemployed, but fortunately, Shomron says, he has many hobbies, like taking care of the dogs and gardening.
Unemployment is still very high in Nitzan. 'They hang around the house all day with no reason to get up in the morning,' she notes.
Her mother instilled within her a love of reading and a sense of Jewish pride and destiny. Her parents named her Shifra after the biblical midwife who defied Pharaoh's orders to kill Jewish male newborns.
'My parents always hoped I would have the ability to stand up for what I believe is right, and Shifra stands up to Pharaoh and goes against him. It's actually an amazing biblical story. And I think that we, the people of Gush Katif, had to experience that - standing up to the government, the courts and the media to a certain extent - holding up our truth and what we believed was our right to stay in Gush Katif.'
In their tiny backyard, another scene from the book comes to life. Her 17-year-old brother is reading a book his sister lent him: the diary of Mordechai Tennenbaum, who headed the Jewish resistance in the Bialystok ghetto. In the novel Efrat reads pro-Zionist books and regularly shares with her brother Yair her admiration for feisty Zionist Jews.
In addition to books about proud Jewish identity, Shomron counts among her favorites the novels of J.R.R. Tolkien and P.G. Wodehouse, but she's not too fond of Anne Frank.
'I wasn't able to identify with Anne Frank at all. She was from an assimilated family, and even with the Holocaust going on around her, she was interested in becoming a Dutch citizen, and she was overjoyed when her father gave her the New Testament to read. I read that and think: My goodness! Doesn't she realize she's part of the Jewish nation?'
The destruction of Gush Katif gave her the impetus to finish the book and become the type of author she admired.
Grains of Sand reads like a young adult novel with a religious orientation, but it is intended for a diverse readership that seeks to deepen its understanding of Gush Katif life. The straightforward, third-person narrative, interspersed with diary entries by the heroine, takes the reader through the ups and downs of the community: the idyllic, happy, tight-knit religious home and community life of the residents; the terrifying intifada that claimed many Jewish lives there; the struggle to enjoy life amid the constant threat of mortar attacks; and the fears and doubts of the community in the year leading up to disengagement.
The novel ends right before the actual evacuation, and the reader doesn't get to witness the Yefets being taken from their home by the IDF.
'I didn't want to focus on the actual disengagement because we all saw that on television,' Shomron says. 'I wanted to focus on what we didn't know.' Some people have told her that the cliffhanger ending is a bit 'cruel,' but that's how she described disengagement. 'It ended very quickly and abruptly. In one week Gush Katif was destroyed and we were all scattered.'
She plans to write a sequel once they are settled in a permanent home, a process which can take up to five years, but for now, she says, the resolution of the disengagement is still painfully unclear.
'It's still very difficult. You always compare. You can't help but compare. There's not one thing for which I can say: This is as good as it was in Gush Katif.'
Aspects of the possible sequel are already apparent. The family is squeezed into the 90 square-meter caravilla. Walls are chipping. Boxes are still unpacked in the living room. Above them are family portraits - the brit mila of her youngest brother, the siblings decorating the succa - pictures that remind them of their happy times. On a counter nearby are some 'souvenirs' mortar shells that fell in Gush Katif.
'Heaven forbid a mortar would land here,' Shomron says. The prefab structures would collapse and there are no bomb shelters in the area, she warns.
'It's been two years and Gush Katif is never out of our mind, and as time goes on, you would think we'd be able to move on, but because we are stuck in caravan sites which are temporary, we can't move on.'
Shomron keeps herself busy with her studies at Givat Washington and working with children in her community to help them catch up with their studies. Grains of Sand has helped her cope with her loss, but the internal unrest and longing endures.
'I had a hope that when I wrote everything down, I'd be able to put it behind me and move on. That was an illusion because after writing my book and even publishing it, Gush Katif continues to live with me.'
Click here for original
For 19-year-old novelist Shifra Shomron, writing about disengagement was a form of therapy
Grains of Sand: The Fall of Neve Dekalim By Shifra Shomron. Mazo Publishers 188 pages; $16.95
After the first few minutes of speaking with Shifra Shomron over the phone, the similarities between this young author and the heroine of her debut novel, Grains of Sand: The Fall of Neve Dekalim, become apparent. She's busy studying for finals, and she asks to hold the interview when they are over.
Shomron, 20, like her heroine Efrat Yefet, is studious, industrious, a 'star student' and something of a bookworm. One probably has to be to publish a novel at 19. She is strikingly poised, mature and idealistic for her age. At times she passionately gives facts and information about her community like a caring yet strict teacher - which is a good thing, since her ambition is to impact society as a high-school English teacher.
Grains of Sand is the first novel to emerge out of the rubble of Gush Katif, and it is through teenaged Efrat Yefet that Shomron allows readers to become familiar with life there in the years leading up to disengagement.
As I step into the Shomron family caravilla (prefab housing unit) in Nitzan, more similarities between the author and Efrat begin to surface. A golden retriever rushes to the door and happily greets me as another fluffy-haired mutt looks on. The Shomrons' three dogs are characters in the novel, and pictures of them illustrate the book.
The portrait of an animal-loving Gush Katif family of four fits with another one of Shomron's literary purposes, to break stereotypes of settlers.
'I wanted my family to be different, to show the heterogeneous nature of the settlers that society often overlooks,' explains the petite brunette in her small kitchen/dining room.
Shomron proves to be an articulate, knowledgeable spokeswoman for her community - thanks in part to her work as an English translator for Friends of Gush Katif - but she also wrote the novel, which she began in April 2005, as a means of therapy.
'Writing my book was incredibly therapeutic for me and it was probably one of the reasons I was able to finish it so quickly - to finish writing my book in one year. It was my way of dealing with things,' she says
Shomron's actual family is much bigger than the family she portrayed. Shomron is the second of seven children. Her family made aliya from Phoenix, Arizona, in 1992 and discovered Neveh Dekalim during their search for a religious-Zionist community.
'It turned out to be a wonderful community. They were incredibly warm and they had a family adopt us and provide us with basic services,' says Shomron, her mother looking on proudly. Her father, like the patriarch in the novel, worked as a mashgiah (kashrut supervisor) at a farm in the settlement of Bedolah. He is currently unemployed, but fortunately, Shomron says, he has many hobbies, like taking care of the dogs and gardening.
Unemployment is still very high in Nitzan. 'They hang around the house all day with no reason to get up in the morning,' she notes.
Her mother instilled within her a love of reading and a sense of Jewish pride and destiny. Her parents named her Shifra after the biblical midwife who defied Pharaoh's orders to kill Jewish male newborns.
'My parents always hoped I would have the ability to stand up for what I believe is right, and Shifra stands up to Pharaoh and goes against him. It's actually an amazing biblical story. And I think that we, the people of Gush Katif, had to experience that - standing up to the government, the courts and the media to a certain extent - holding up our truth and what we believed was our right to stay in Gush Katif.'
In their tiny backyard, another scene from the book comes to life. Her 17-year-old brother is reading a book his sister lent him: the diary of Mordechai Tennenbaum, who headed the Jewish resistance in the Bialystok ghetto. In the novel Efrat reads pro-Zionist books and regularly shares with her brother Yair her admiration for feisty Zionist Jews.
In addition to books about proud Jewish identity, Shomron counts among her favorites the novels of J.R.R. Tolkien and P.G. Wodehouse, but she's not too fond of Anne Frank.
'I wasn't able to identify with Anne Frank at all. She was from an assimilated family, and even with the Holocaust going on around her, she was interested in becoming a Dutch citizen, and she was overjoyed when her father gave her the New Testament to read. I read that and think: My goodness! Doesn't she realize she's part of the Jewish nation?'
The destruction of Gush Katif gave her the impetus to finish the book and become the type of author she admired.
Grains of Sand reads like a young adult novel with a religious orientation, but it is intended for a diverse readership that seeks to deepen its understanding of Gush Katif life. The straightforward, third-person narrative, interspersed with diary entries by the heroine, takes the reader through the ups and downs of the community: the idyllic, happy, tight-knit religious home and community life of the residents; the terrifying intifada that claimed many Jewish lives there; the struggle to enjoy life amid the constant threat of mortar attacks; and the fears and doubts of the community in the year leading up to disengagement.
The novel ends right before the actual evacuation, and the reader doesn't get to witness the Yefets being taken from their home by the IDF.
'I didn't want to focus on the actual disengagement because we all saw that on television,' Shomron says. 'I wanted to focus on what we didn't know.' Some people have told her that the cliffhanger ending is a bit 'cruel,' but that's how she described disengagement. 'It ended very quickly and abruptly. In one week Gush Katif was destroyed and we were all scattered.'
She plans to write a sequel once they are settled in a permanent home, a process which can take up to five years, but for now, she says, the resolution of the disengagement is still painfully unclear.
'It's still very difficult. You always compare. You can't help but compare. There's not one thing for which I can say: This is as good as it was in Gush Katif.'
Aspects of the possible sequel are already apparent. The family is squeezed into the 90 square-meter caravilla. Walls are chipping. Boxes are still unpacked in the living room. Above them are family portraits - the brit mila of her youngest brother, the siblings decorating the succa - pictures that remind them of their happy times. On a counter nearby are some 'souvenirs' mortar shells that fell in Gush Katif.
'Heaven forbid a mortar would land here,' Shomron says. The prefab structures would collapse and there are no bomb shelters in the area, she warns.
'It's been two years and Gush Katif is never out of our mind, and as time goes on, you would think we'd be able to move on, but because we are stuck in caravan sites which are temporary, we can't move on.'
Shomron keeps herself busy with her studies at Givat Washington and working with children in her community to help them catch up with their studies. Grains of Sand has helped her cope with her loss, but the internal unrest and longing endures.
'I had a hope that when I wrote everything down, I'd be able to put it behind me and move on. That was an illusion because after writing my book and even publishing it, Gush Katif continues to live with me.'
Friday, August 10, 2007
Engaging the disengagers
Jerusalem Post, Up Front; August 10, 2007
Click here for original
How were the soldiers who performed the pullout affected by the emotional turmoil? The fact that there aren't reported cases of trauma amongst soldiers who performed the pullout is troubling, says a grassroots investigative team.
Gil stood on a steaming sidewalk in a row of soldiers awaiting orders, while kids and teenagers darted out of the Kfar Darom homes, randomly approaching his brigade, hoping to break their firm physical and emotional barriers and get them to refuse the orders. The lawns of the terra cotta-roofed homes were sprawled with settlers and their supporters, the atmosphere tense and emotionally loaded.
"Many youngsters, mostly young girls, cursed us, yelled out us harshly: 'How can you not be ashamed?'" recalls the 23-year-old kibbutznik from the Jordan Valley.
His determination to carry out his orders was not deterred by their youthful, emotional interrogations, and today, two years after the disengagement, he remains unashamed.
"I don't think I'll be ashamed to tell my kids about it. I don't see myself as an individual person who participated. I think there is a historical process for the country, and I can say I was a part of it - a solder who was a part of it."
Gil has since completed his army service and works as an educational tour guide for young people. The disengagement - a move he favored - remains one of the most significant, difficult and thought-provoking chapters of his army service, but he doesn't classify the operation as any more traumatic or unpleasant than his service in the West Bank.
Shalev, 23, from the same kibbutz, served in Gil's unit. Looking back, he also conjures up images of angry kids and mothers cursing at him. Despite their warnings of shame and trauma, Shalev, too, emerged emotionally unscathed.
"It's hard when you speak to evacuees," he says. "Sometimes it's not pleasant to say that you were there, like when I hear about situations in which people don't have homes. It's hard, but it's not an emotional trauma. It's not that I can't sleep at night."
The unilateral withdrawal from Gaza was arguably one of the most contentious and heart-wrenching IDF operations. Prior to disengagement, there were ominous predictions of bloodshed and civil war. In the end, the sandy grounds of Gush Katif absorbed no blood, but many tears. The disengagement produced some of the most iconic images of civil strife: Grown men breaking down while giving their mezuzas their parting kiss; tough, secular soldiers weeping and praying while carrying the Torah as they joined settlers' hands in their final walk through the synagogues; teenagers clad in symbolic orange T-shirts warning soldiers they'd suffer sleepless nights and an aching conscience for destroying happy, Jewish homes.
Two years later, have predictions of post-traumatic stress hurled at the evacuation forces been realized, or are the disengagement soldiers sleeping soundly with clear consciences?
A study co-conducted by Dr. Ariel Knafo, assistant professor of social psychology at the Hebrew University, has found that the soldiers' emotional well-being has largely remained unaffected by the disengagement, with some soldiers having reported that their participation has even contributed to their personal growth.
"When we started the project, we thought there would be very serious consequences over the event," Knafo says. "We learned that some soldiers are better off now than they were two weeks before the disengagement. I think they were extremely anxious before, and actually it turned out not to be that terrible, because they prepared themselves for something more serious than what happened - potential threats, behavior of the settlers and so on. Eventually it turned out not to be so hard."
The study surveyed 1,200 soldiers before the disengagement, an additional 231 soldiers one week afterward and 157 soldiers six months later. It checked the correlation between such factors as the soldiers' locus of control (internal as opposed to external), their degree of training and their attitude toward disengagement as a military task with their level of anxiety and difficulties carrying out orders. The ultimate findings, published in an IDF journal on military psychology, show no signs of any significant post-disengagement trauma.
"IT WAS clear that if we prepared them effectively in preventing violence and escalation, then there are good chances that they wouldn't have any negative reactions," says Haim Omer, a psychology professor at Tel Aviv University and co-author of The Psychology of Demonization with psychologist Nahi Alon. Their work with the armed forces focused on preventing violence - not trauma - although, for Omer, minimizing the level of violence and trauma are intertwined.
Omer and Alon trained IDF officers and settlers based on principles covered in their book, particularly the art of "constructive conflict," a set of strategies designed to minimize violent escalations, provocations and arguments between two sides in conflict. For example, soldiers were taught not to give in to their instincts to react to the arguments, insults, pleadings and curses of the settlers. The self-control exhibited by both the soldiers and settlers played a role in neutralizing the psychological battlefield and accelerating the relatively quick and bloodless execution of the disengagement.
Dr. Danny Brom, director of the Israel Center for the Treatment of Psychotrauma of Herzog Hospital in Jerusalem, has not received any soldiers complaining or suffering from trauma due to the disengagement, and he doesn't anticipate that he will. He attributes the lack of reported cases to the comprehensive, psychological preparation.
"They were really prepared, with very good training in all scenarios, so when they were in there - and I've heard this from a lot of people - there was nothing new," says Brom, adjusting his knitted kippa.
He closely followed the psychological training and aftermath as a mental health professional and also as a father; his son, still a soldier, served in Gush Katif during the disengagement. "It was all planned, all known, and that is what happened. I would be surprised if there are a lot of people who still have problems, because one of the issues in trauma is the discrepancy between your expectation and what's happening in reality. The further they're apart the more harmful potential it has."
The harmful results of inadequate preparation, he says, are very evident among Gush Katif evacuees and fighters in the Second Lebanon War, populations which have sought treatment at the center.
As part of their mental preparation, soldiers learned how to maintain an emotional buffer between themselves and the settlers; to demonstrate empathy with residents, but to dissociate emotionally from their cries and outbursts. Soldiers were given specific formulas to recite upon entering the homes, and they were advised not to engage in political, religious or ethical debate. The organization of the soldiers into tight-knit groups provided a protective feeling of belonging and support. In drills, soldiers rehearsed the evacuation to immunize them from potential harmful effects of the verbal insults.
Soldiers who had ethical, ideological or personal dilemmas with destroying the settlements and evacuating Jewish families were taught that they didn't have to take personal responsibility for disengagement. They could find solace in understanding that they were members of the armed forces executing a democratic, government decision that must remain impervious to a soldier's individual, political opinion.
PREPARATION AT the Counseling Center for Women based in Jerusalem and Ramat Gan trained about 800 female soldiers with an eye toward the needs and sensitivities of women, included workshops discussing the nature and effects of trauma after the pullout.
"There was definitely anxiety that this could cause post-traumatic stress problems," says Bella Savran, a clinical social worker and co-founder of the center. "So built into training was very structured training about the issue of trauma, explaining what it is, what are some of the signs that you are having post- or pre-traumatic reactions, to help soldiers be more knowledgeable and aware and hopefully less frightened if they were having any symptoms, bodily or mental."
Many of the soldiers, she says, considered trauma education the most helpful. Ten days after the disengagement, the center held debriefing workshops with some 200 soldiers who volunteered to attend.
At first many of them were hesitant in discussing their experience, says Savran, who is currently summarizing soldier feedback in an article for an American feminist therapy journal, but eventually they opened up to share both positive and negative feelings.
Among their negative emotions included feelings of isolation, guilt and shame for destroying the settlers' homes, and keen discomfort upon encountering evacuees in public places. Soldiers also described feeling moved by the devotion and behavior of the settlers and pride in having participated in a national mission of such importance.
Zvia Kfir, a social worker who led a session, recalls one soldier requesting additional individual treatment, but overall "most of them spoke about a very empowering, powerful experience - there was a feeling of togetherness, collaboration, that they placed them in groups with men as well, and it didn't matter if you were an officer or cadet, there was something very uniting."
A similar sentiment is expressed by Ariella, 22, a former officer in the Liaison and Foreign Relations Division who now works as an editor.
"It's really funny because a lot of things people were yelling at us: 'You're just going to go to Sinai and forget about it so that you can cleanse your consciences, blah, blah, blah.' At the end, most of the people in my group actually organized a trip to Eilat two weekends later. We all went together as a group... And everybody from the disengagement was there. It made me feel like it was all so national."
As someone who had made aliya only months before entering the army, the disengagement seemed at first like a mission that contradicted her Zionist calling.
"As a person who came to Israel to fulfill a certain ideology and then be commanded to go against that ideology is a very difficult thing to have to do," Ariella says. "It's a very contradictory feeling running through you."
She held an ambivalent attitude and dreaded participating in the evacuation. She considered refusing orders, but told herself and others that she didn't join the army to impose her own views on the military, nor did she want to sit in jail and sacrifice her rank. She figured other, possibly less sensitive soldiers or policemen would replace her anyway.
She got called to participate in the evacuation two weeks before it started, and she worried that she missed some of the mental preparation. Her officers assured her that she could seek psychological assistance from the army if she felt she needed it. She didn't.
"The funny thing is that I don't think about it, at least not for any extended period of time," Ariella says calmly and confidently from the office of one of her co-workers, who happened to have been a disengagement critic. The wall still bears an "orange" flag of the State of Israel, a symbol of the struggle against the disengagement. This is the first time the pretty blonde has discussed her disengagement service at length.
She knew it would be a highly emotional experience, and she describes how she cried the minute she crossed the gates of the settlements while settlers shouted at her and her brigade. She restrained herself from answering back, "in case I said something I wasn't supposed to say. When I said something back, I think it generally consisted of 'I'm sorry.'"
The shouts continued unabated as she marched on to evacuate several homes in Neveh Dekalim and the large synagogue in which hundreds of religious girls had barricaded themselves. There were moments when she felt moved by the cries of the protesters, but, with the support of the soldiers in her unit - who had received the full mental preparation - she eventually learned to disregard them.
"I just remember this 19, 20-year-old guy wearing a Golani Brigade patch on his shirt, and he had tears in his eyes, and was saying, 'I was in Golani, and when I heard there was the disengagement, I refused orders and I went to jail.' That was the first thing that got me, and then I wondered, 'How many times has he said this, and how good was he at acting?' When I realized that it was part of some big psychological plan, I stopped. My emotions turned into anger. It was probably about a couple of days into it. It helped me that my friends were telling the same thing. That it was all part of a game, and it felt that way."
She understood the need for non-residents to show solidarity with the evacuees, but thought that their presence in Gush Katif ultimately made it more difficult on the soldiers.
"We were pulling someone out of the synagogue, and we asked her where we she was from - to talk to them, to show that we were human - and she answered me from Eilat. And I thought, what are you doing there? Why are you doing this to us? I couldn't understand. That's another important thing to point out. I can't understand why it was so hard for people today to differentiate between forces that were acting and force that was deciding. The IDF was doing what it was told on behalf of the government. We didn't have a choice in the matter."
SOLDIERS WHO strongly opposed disengagement for ideological, personal or political reasons generally had a harder time opening up about their experience, and they cast doubt on the rosy picture of soldier mental and emotional health. Knafo's study could not question respondents regarding their political opinion, since soldiers are prohibited from airing their political views while in uniform, but the study has found that soldiers who took a negative stance toward disengagement generally showed more signs of anxiety and unease in carrying out certain aspects of their mission.
More than half a dozen soldiers sharply refused to be interviewed. Some said they feared army backlash, while others didn't want to dredge up the painful experience. All soldiers spoke on condition of anonymity. The IDF declined to offer any contacts for soldiers or army psychologists. Several soldiers related that the army hardly discussed the mission or held debriefings once it was over.
"They never mentioned it," says Ron, 23, from Jerusalem, a student in a religious Zionist yeshiva. "I didn't think about it. In the end it was the escape of the army. They didn't have answers. It's not talked about today."
Ron too prefers to keep his own experience "inside," and it's clear reflecting upon the event is not easy for him. His answers over the phone are quick and brief.
Prior to the disengagement, he had requested from his officer not to evacuate settlers from their homes, and instead was assigned to guard the settlements in the northern Gaza Strip from Palestinian violence and illegal Israeli infiltrators. In an officer's training course at the time, he was torn between his loyalty to the army and his sympathy for the settlers. His own siblings were among the Gush Katif protesters.
"It's bad memories for the rest of your life," Ron says. Right after disengagement, he countered his own upset by conjuring better memories; he looked through his photo album of his days studying in the pre-military academy in the Gush Katif settlement of Atzmona. "It was very black," he continues. "It's hard to describe the feeling. It's something very deep and serious. It was the most disgusting period of my life. So was the aftermath."
Despite his inner conflicts, Shai would do it again, on principle, if given the order, and he directs anger at the disengagement at the government, not the army.
"The army is the organization that unites all of Israel. If everyone would do what is good and not good for them, what would happen to the army?" he asks.
Likewise, Gil, who opposes Israel's presence in the West Bank, says he would evacuate an Arab village, however reluctantly, if given the order.
IN CASES IN which soldiers deeply identify with the settlers, says Dr. Brom, emotional complications are more likely to surface. He concludes this in part from an incident his son related to him.
"They went to shul [in Gush Katif], and that was a very strange thing. They were accepted there, they weren't sent away, but that was one of these cracks in the wall, where you suddenly identify with each other. And that was potentially a problem for the work that had to be done."
Brom adds that the gap between someone's ideal self-image and personal values versus his actions can also be the source of potential trauma.
"One of the more theoretical issues in the field of trauma is how trauma can disrupt the way you view the world and yourself," he explains. "Basically, people have the need to experience themselves as good people, and they want to know the world is a just place and that there is some order in the world. Here you are confronted with something you have to do that you might feel is unjust and you are identified with something bad and you have an ambivalent identification."
Kfir at the Counseling Center for Women noticed that soldiers who generally supported the disengagement were more responsive and receptive to the help and solutions offered them.
"It was harder for those who asked the basic question: 'How can I dare do this?' Definitely. For many of them, the fact that they performed a task that they didn't choose made it easier for them."
Shalev and Gil describe their most difficult moments as the personal encounters with the residents, cases in which the settlers welcomed the soldiers warmly without accusations, insults, shouts or curses.
"There was a family of Ethiopian immigrants," relates Shalev. "They explained how they came, how they had nothing, how Gush Katif was the only place that welcomed them. It was hard to hear their story... but that doesn't become the reason for you not to go through with it."
Throughout the evacuation, Gil knew "something wasn't right" when settlers asked the soldiers where they were headed and his officers couldn't offer a clear answer, but he didn't view their smooth resettlement as his personal responsibility.
"It makes me feel bad about the state," Gil says. "It's one of the many things that make me feel bad about the state. It doesn't take care of many things it should - the sick, the poor and also the evacuees."
Nir, 26, a secular Israeli who works as a security officer in Tel Aviv, served in Gaza during the disengagement and continues to regard the pullout as a mistake. As an officer in the air force, he carried out his orders to lead his unit in evacuating hundreds of protesters from the streets and border crossings. He has no qualms discussing his service in Gaza but admits that serving in the outer military circle as opposed to the first circle charged with the evacuation of residents may have lightened his emotional load.
"No doubt it would have influenced me differently, and this is what I heard from people who were there. They have scars that are difficult to fathom," he says.
He had debated whether or not disengagement orders could be classified as "manifestly illegal orders," which soldiers have the right to disobey. A missive from then chief of General Staff Dan Halutz discussing the legality of the disengagement dispelled his doubts. It gave two examples of manifestly illegal orders: the shooting of 48 unarmed civilians at Kafr Kasim in 1958 and Adolf Eichmann's instructions to murder Jews.
During the evacuation, Nir disregarded the angry shouts and responded more favorably to protesters who questioned him rationally about his actions. "You could speak with them and tell them, 'I don't agree with the act, but I'm in the army and I have to follow orders.'"
He didn't have too much time or mental space to debate the issue while there. "We worked mostly as robots because of the volume of work that had to be done. From lack of sleep, your body works on automatic pilot. You don't know what you're going to do the next hour. The lack of knowledge about what's next contributes to your robotic mode."
Ariella too didn't have the luxury to let her personal feelings or opinions influence her course. She recalls at one point shutting off her feelings.
"When the international media interviewed me at the time, and they asked me how I felt about it, I said, 'I'm not allowed to feel anything.' It sounds like a getaway answer, but I really felt that way."
Today, Nir says he "has more scars from Operation Defensive Shield," but the disengagement marked a turning point in his life. A few months later, he decided to scrap his plans for an army career and not renew his army contract.
"I felt like they forced something in a wrong way, like they behaved in the wrong way, as if they higher-ups wanted to prove that they can, like kids in the nursery," he related. "The way they came, the way they prepared, what they stuck in people's minds. The entire mental preparation was harder than the actual evacuation and ultimately only a third of what they taught came to pass. They really exaggerated. For officers at that level, you have to prepare something in proportion. Things bothered me after as well. I noticed people were in the army more for ego and status."
WHEN ARIELLA finished her assignment, she left the ad hoc unit created for the disengagement and returned to her regular unit. The remainder of her service remained largely unaffected by the evacuation, but she came out of Gush Katif with new friendships.
"Everyone who participated in the disengagement became very close. Most of my good friends were people in my unit during the disengagement, and that was only a few weeks out of my entire service."
During her first weekend back home, her friends described her as a "zombie," but about a week and a half later, she already began to heal from the ordeal.
"At the time I thought this is going to scar me for life, this is the saddest thing I have to do. And it still is the hardest thing I ever had to do. I had to do tough things, but nothing like this. This was something completely beyond reality. I think it's awful because I know there are people that are still affected by it today, people who don't have permanent housing, but I don't think too much about it."
She pauses and looks up, a glimmer of guilt in her eyes. "I think I should, but I don't. I think everyone is just living his own life."
(BOX) The sound of silence
Some people aren't taking the quiet of the soldiers so quietly. What psychologists praise as a successful mental preparation, some disengagement opponents and other psychologists are slamming as a successful mental "programming."
A mixed religious and secular five-member team is spearheaded by Ruti Eisikowitch, a retired Hebrew teacher, and banded together right after the disengagement to discover the cause for what seemed to them untenable: the destruction of a vibrant Jewish community by Jewish soldiers with "following orders" as their ultimate justification. They didn't think any governmental or academic institution would critically assess the mental preparation, and they took the task upon themselves - with an admitted bias.
Their work is supervised by senior educational psychologist Dr. Moshe Leibler, who has lectured about the role of psychologists in developing the mental preparation at the Sderot Conference for Society and at Judea and Samaria Research Conference.
Members of the group casually dub the preparation "brainwashing," but refrain from using the term as a professional qualifier in their work.
Eisikowitch is bothered by the relative silence on the part of the soldiers and the army regarding the IDF experience of the pullout. For Eisikowitch, the perceived lack of trauma is troubling. "They were robots, so there was no trauma. That's even worse."
She and members of the team encountered many difficulties tracking down soldiers who were willing to open up.
"Why the silence?" she asks. "I heard from my husband, sons and friends many stories of war. They weren't silent."
The investigation team spent the last year gathering information and documents regarding the psychological training, and the matter engrosses Eisikowitch daily. Upon meeting her at home near Ra'anana, her living room cocktail table was covered with a number of workbooks, presentations and CDs the army prepared about a year ahead of the disengagement. She flipped through workbook after workbook, demonstrating how the army fielded any possible hesitations among the soldiers to make sure they complied.
"War, which is supposed to be much more traumatic and difficult, doesn't have psychological training, definitely not to this extent and it definitely doesn't have pamphlets and lectures," she said, her anger visible.
The psychological training, she argues, was required to invert the natural mission of IDF and goad soldiers to perform a task some of them considered militarily and morally unsavory.
"The psychologists didn't prepare the IDF for an army mission - to protect its civilians," she charges, "but turned the soldiers into a non-thinking police force that harmed its own civilian population."
The team directs most of its criticism and anger toward the disengagement psychologists, and Leibler argues they violated their ethical code, which states that psychologists must work for the emotional and mental welfare of their clients.
"Psychologists, like doctors, have a particular ethical code they have to abide by," he says. "I think there's more of an obligation on us as mental health workers than the soldiers. They're subject to a different ethical code. As far as I know, psychologists are not permitted to cause harm to a civilian population."
About half a year prior to disengagement, Leibler worked to raise his ethical and professional concerns, and he corresponded extensively from his Kochav Hashahar home with the chairwoman of Israel Psychology Association (IPA), Yael Shoshani, after she wrote in an IPA newsletter of the importance of the IPA's role in the implementation of the disengagement. "She understood my qualms about it. It was taken for granted this was the right way of doing things," says Leibler.
The investigation team is planning to launch a complaint against the disengagement psychologists with the Israel Ministry of Health and to submit a report to the Winograd Commission arguing that the military effectiveness of the IDF during the Lebanon war was damaged by the disengagement training.
HAIM OMER, co-author of Psychology of Demonization, who trained the army to minimize violence throughout the disengagement, dismisses the assault on the psychologists' participation in the mental training as a value judgment based on a political position.
"They say, 'We find that this is evil and helping soldiers to do evil necessarily hurts them,'" he says. "The argument is political. According to this argument, you can't make any psychological preparation for warfare. If I try to help soldiers prepare for war, I violate the psychological code according to this argument."
Omer says he has publicly critiqued as irrelevant the argument that service in the West Bank and Gaza can be psychologically damaging to soldiers.
The job of a psychologist is not necessarily to prevent trauma, he says, but to assist people in coping with trauma or suffering that can arise from natural disasters or legislated measures.
"Psychologists, to my mind, have absolutely no monopoly or advantage over other professionals or other people in dealing with human suffering as such," Omer says. "Psychologists cannot prevent suffering from war, from famine, from forced migration or from evacuation. At best, what they can do is to serve people who ask for their help in trying to cope better with their suffering."
Dr. Danny Brom, director of the Israel Center for the Treatment of Psychotrauma, doesn't think psychologists can be held accountable for any of the trauma and difficulties evacuees might have experienced.
"We did some work before the disengagement, and it was a very big problem to be accepted by the [settler] community," he says. "If you came and said a few months prior that it was going to happen, it was not really acceptable. And there were even politicians who said it won't happen, and everyone was waiting for the miracle to happen and things like that, so the preparation on the political side as well was not good. The army did take responsibility for its soldiers, but the state didn't take responsibility to give a clear message that this is going to happen and how it's going to happen."
For Leibler, psychologists recruited by the army had the professional and ethical imperative to at least raise the ethical issues involved in the forceful evacuation of a civilian population. But instead the psychologists took for granted that their participation in what they perceived as a fait accompli was desirable and ethical to minimize any possible damage.
"The psychologists didn't ask: Is it ethical to carry out an intervention that can cause harm to a civilian population? Harm is caused in war, and psychologists give counseling to the army. In the case of the settlers, is this war? What are the relevant ethical issues, and why were they not seriously debated? Not to consider it as an ethical issue because it's a law reeks of fascism. That says that legislation defines ethics and that ethics doesn't necessarily define legislation."
Brom thinks that psychologists from all sides of the political spectrum cannot necessarily divorce their professional practice from their political opinions.
"I think we're way beyond the idea that psychology is value free," he said. "Once there were opinions that psychologists have to be a blank screen and things like that. In these situations it's clearly not possible and not realistic for psychologists to say I have no political opinion."
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How were the soldiers who performed the pullout affected by the emotional turmoil? The fact that there aren't reported cases of trauma amongst soldiers who performed the pullout is troubling, says a grassroots investigative team.
Gil stood on a steaming sidewalk in a row of soldiers awaiting orders, while kids and teenagers darted out of the Kfar Darom homes, randomly approaching his brigade, hoping to break their firm physical and emotional barriers and get them to refuse the orders. The lawns of the terra cotta-roofed homes were sprawled with settlers and their supporters, the atmosphere tense and emotionally loaded.
"Many youngsters, mostly young girls, cursed us, yelled out us harshly: 'How can you not be ashamed?'" recalls the 23-year-old kibbutznik from the Jordan Valley.
His determination to carry out his orders was not deterred by their youthful, emotional interrogations, and today, two years after the disengagement, he remains unashamed.
"I don't think I'll be ashamed to tell my kids about it. I don't see myself as an individual person who participated. I think there is a historical process for the country, and I can say I was a part of it - a solder who was a part of it."
Gil has since completed his army service and works as an educational tour guide for young people. The disengagement - a move he favored - remains one of the most significant, difficult and thought-provoking chapters of his army service, but he doesn't classify the operation as any more traumatic or unpleasant than his service in the West Bank.
Shalev, 23, from the same kibbutz, served in Gil's unit. Looking back, he also conjures up images of angry kids and mothers cursing at him. Despite their warnings of shame and trauma, Shalev, too, emerged emotionally unscathed.
"It's hard when you speak to evacuees," he says. "Sometimes it's not pleasant to say that you were there, like when I hear about situations in which people don't have homes. It's hard, but it's not an emotional trauma. It's not that I can't sleep at night."
The unilateral withdrawal from Gaza was arguably one of the most contentious and heart-wrenching IDF operations. Prior to disengagement, there were ominous predictions of bloodshed and civil war. In the end, the sandy grounds of Gush Katif absorbed no blood, but many tears. The disengagement produced some of the most iconic images of civil strife: Grown men breaking down while giving their mezuzas their parting kiss; tough, secular soldiers weeping and praying while carrying the Torah as they joined settlers' hands in their final walk through the synagogues; teenagers clad in symbolic orange T-shirts warning soldiers they'd suffer sleepless nights and an aching conscience for destroying happy, Jewish homes.
Two years later, have predictions of post-traumatic stress hurled at the evacuation forces been realized, or are the disengagement soldiers sleeping soundly with clear consciences?
A study co-conducted by Dr. Ariel Knafo, assistant professor of social psychology at the Hebrew University, has found that the soldiers' emotional well-being has largely remained unaffected by the disengagement, with some soldiers having reported that their participation has even contributed to their personal growth.
"When we started the project, we thought there would be very serious consequences over the event," Knafo says. "We learned that some soldiers are better off now than they were two weeks before the disengagement. I think they were extremely anxious before, and actually it turned out not to be that terrible, because they prepared themselves for something more serious than what happened - potential threats, behavior of the settlers and so on. Eventually it turned out not to be so hard."
The study surveyed 1,200 soldiers before the disengagement, an additional 231 soldiers one week afterward and 157 soldiers six months later. It checked the correlation between such factors as the soldiers' locus of control (internal as opposed to external), their degree of training and their attitude toward disengagement as a military task with their level of anxiety and difficulties carrying out orders. The ultimate findings, published in an IDF journal on military psychology, show no signs of any significant post-disengagement trauma.
"IT WAS clear that if we prepared them effectively in preventing violence and escalation, then there are good chances that they wouldn't have any negative reactions," says Haim Omer, a psychology professor at Tel Aviv University and co-author of The Psychology of Demonization with psychologist Nahi Alon. Their work with the armed forces focused on preventing violence - not trauma - although, for Omer, minimizing the level of violence and trauma are intertwined.
Omer and Alon trained IDF officers and settlers based on principles covered in their book, particularly the art of "constructive conflict," a set of strategies designed to minimize violent escalations, provocations and arguments between two sides in conflict. For example, soldiers were taught not to give in to their instincts to react to the arguments, insults, pleadings and curses of the settlers. The self-control exhibited by both the soldiers and settlers played a role in neutralizing the psychological battlefield and accelerating the relatively quick and bloodless execution of the disengagement.
Dr. Danny Brom, director of the Israel Center for the Treatment of Psychotrauma of Herzog Hospital in Jerusalem, has not received any soldiers complaining or suffering from trauma due to the disengagement, and he doesn't anticipate that he will. He attributes the lack of reported cases to the comprehensive, psychological preparation.
"They were really prepared, with very good training in all scenarios, so when they were in there - and I've heard this from a lot of people - there was nothing new," says Brom, adjusting his knitted kippa.
He closely followed the psychological training and aftermath as a mental health professional and also as a father; his son, still a soldier, served in Gush Katif during the disengagement. "It was all planned, all known, and that is what happened. I would be surprised if there are a lot of people who still have problems, because one of the issues in trauma is the discrepancy between your expectation and what's happening in reality. The further they're apart the more harmful potential it has."
The harmful results of inadequate preparation, he says, are very evident among Gush Katif evacuees and fighters in the Second Lebanon War, populations which have sought treatment at the center.
As part of their mental preparation, soldiers learned how to maintain an emotional buffer between themselves and the settlers; to demonstrate empathy with residents, but to dissociate emotionally from their cries and outbursts. Soldiers were given specific formulas to recite upon entering the homes, and they were advised not to engage in political, religious or ethical debate. The organization of the soldiers into tight-knit groups provided a protective feeling of belonging and support. In drills, soldiers rehearsed the evacuation to immunize them from potential harmful effects of the verbal insults.
Soldiers who had ethical, ideological or personal dilemmas with destroying the settlements and evacuating Jewish families were taught that they didn't have to take personal responsibility for disengagement. They could find solace in understanding that they were members of the armed forces executing a democratic, government decision that must remain impervious to a soldier's individual, political opinion.
PREPARATION AT the Counseling Center for Women based in Jerusalem and Ramat Gan trained about 800 female soldiers with an eye toward the needs and sensitivities of women, included workshops discussing the nature and effects of trauma after the pullout.
"There was definitely anxiety that this could cause post-traumatic stress problems," says Bella Savran, a clinical social worker and co-founder of the center. "So built into training was very structured training about the issue of trauma, explaining what it is, what are some of the signs that you are having post- or pre-traumatic reactions, to help soldiers be more knowledgeable and aware and hopefully less frightened if they were having any symptoms, bodily or mental."
Many of the soldiers, she says, considered trauma education the most helpful. Ten days after the disengagement, the center held debriefing workshops with some 200 soldiers who volunteered to attend.
At first many of them were hesitant in discussing their experience, says Savran, who is currently summarizing soldier feedback in an article for an American feminist therapy journal, but eventually they opened up to share both positive and negative feelings.
Among their negative emotions included feelings of isolation, guilt and shame for destroying the settlers' homes, and keen discomfort upon encountering evacuees in public places. Soldiers also described feeling moved by the devotion and behavior of the settlers and pride in having participated in a national mission of such importance.
Zvia Kfir, a social worker who led a session, recalls one soldier requesting additional individual treatment, but overall "most of them spoke about a very empowering, powerful experience - there was a feeling of togetherness, collaboration, that they placed them in groups with men as well, and it didn't matter if you were an officer or cadet, there was something very uniting."
A similar sentiment is expressed by Ariella, 22, a former officer in the Liaison and Foreign Relations Division who now works as an editor.
"It's really funny because a lot of things people were yelling at us: 'You're just going to go to Sinai and forget about it so that you can cleanse your consciences, blah, blah, blah.' At the end, most of the people in my group actually organized a trip to Eilat two weekends later. We all went together as a group... And everybody from the disengagement was there. It made me feel like it was all so national."
As someone who had made aliya only months before entering the army, the disengagement seemed at first like a mission that contradicted her Zionist calling.
"As a person who came to Israel to fulfill a certain ideology and then be commanded to go against that ideology is a very difficult thing to have to do," Ariella says. "It's a very contradictory feeling running through you."
She held an ambivalent attitude and dreaded participating in the evacuation. She considered refusing orders, but told herself and others that she didn't join the army to impose her own views on the military, nor did she want to sit in jail and sacrifice her rank. She figured other, possibly less sensitive soldiers or policemen would replace her anyway.
She got called to participate in the evacuation two weeks before it started, and she worried that she missed some of the mental preparation. Her officers assured her that she could seek psychological assistance from the army if she felt she needed it. She didn't.
"The funny thing is that I don't think about it, at least not for any extended period of time," Ariella says calmly and confidently from the office of one of her co-workers, who happened to have been a disengagement critic. The wall still bears an "orange" flag of the State of Israel, a symbol of the struggle against the disengagement. This is the first time the pretty blonde has discussed her disengagement service at length.
She knew it would be a highly emotional experience, and she describes how she cried the minute she crossed the gates of the settlements while settlers shouted at her and her brigade. She restrained herself from answering back, "in case I said something I wasn't supposed to say. When I said something back, I think it generally consisted of 'I'm sorry.'"
The shouts continued unabated as she marched on to evacuate several homes in Neveh Dekalim and the large synagogue in which hundreds of religious girls had barricaded themselves. There were moments when she felt moved by the cries of the protesters, but, with the support of the soldiers in her unit - who had received the full mental preparation - she eventually learned to disregard them.
"I just remember this 19, 20-year-old guy wearing a Golani Brigade patch on his shirt, and he had tears in his eyes, and was saying, 'I was in Golani, and when I heard there was the disengagement, I refused orders and I went to jail.' That was the first thing that got me, and then I wondered, 'How many times has he said this, and how good was he at acting?' When I realized that it was part of some big psychological plan, I stopped. My emotions turned into anger. It was probably about a couple of days into it. It helped me that my friends were telling the same thing. That it was all part of a game, and it felt that way."
She understood the need for non-residents to show solidarity with the evacuees, but thought that their presence in Gush Katif ultimately made it more difficult on the soldiers.
"We were pulling someone out of the synagogue, and we asked her where we she was from - to talk to them, to show that we were human - and she answered me from Eilat. And I thought, what are you doing there? Why are you doing this to us? I couldn't understand. That's another important thing to point out. I can't understand why it was so hard for people today to differentiate between forces that were acting and force that was deciding. The IDF was doing what it was told on behalf of the government. We didn't have a choice in the matter."
SOLDIERS WHO strongly opposed disengagement for ideological, personal or political reasons generally had a harder time opening up about their experience, and they cast doubt on the rosy picture of soldier mental and emotional health. Knafo's study could not question respondents regarding their political opinion, since soldiers are prohibited from airing their political views while in uniform, but the study has found that soldiers who took a negative stance toward disengagement generally showed more signs of anxiety and unease in carrying out certain aspects of their mission.
More than half a dozen soldiers sharply refused to be interviewed. Some said they feared army backlash, while others didn't want to dredge up the painful experience. All soldiers spoke on condition of anonymity. The IDF declined to offer any contacts for soldiers or army psychologists. Several soldiers related that the army hardly discussed the mission or held debriefings once it was over.
"They never mentioned it," says Ron, 23, from Jerusalem, a student in a religious Zionist yeshiva. "I didn't think about it. In the end it was the escape of the army. They didn't have answers. It's not talked about today."
Ron too prefers to keep his own experience "inside," and it's clear reflecting upon the event is not easy for him. His answers over the phone are quick and brief.
Prior to the disengagement, he had requested from his officer not to evacuate settlers from their homes, and instead was assigned to guard the settlements in the northern Gaza Strip from Palestinian violence and illegal Israeli infiltrators. In an officer's training course at the time, he was torn between his loyalty to the army and his sympathy for the settlers. His own siblings were among the Gush Katif protesters.
"It's bad memories for the rest of your life," Ron says. Right after disengagement, he countered his own upset by conjuring better memories; he looked through his photo album of his days studying in the pre-military academy in the Gush Katif settlement of Atzmona. "It was very black," he continues. "It's hard to describe the feeling. It's something very deep and serious. It was the most disgusting period of my life. So was the aftermath."
Despite his inner conflicts, Shai would do it again, on principle, if given the order, and he directs anger at the disengagement at the government, not the army.
"The army is the organization that unites all of Israel. If everyone would do what is good and not good for them, what would happen to the army?" he asks.
Likewise, Gil, who opposes Israel's presence in the West Bank, says he would evacuate an Arab village, however reluctantly, if given the order.
IN CASES IN which soldiers deeply identify with the settlers, says Dr. Brom, emotional complications are more likely to surface. He concludes this in part from an incident his son related to him.
"They went to shul [in Gush Katif], and that was a very strange thing. They were accepted there, they weren't sent away, but that was one of these cracks in the wall, where you suddenly identify with each other. And that was potentially a problem for the work that had to be done."
Brom adds that the gap between someone's ideal self-image and personal values versus his actions can also be the source of potential trauma.
"One of the more theoretical issues in the field of trauma is how trauma can disrupt the way you view the world and yourself," he explains. "Basically, people have the need to experience themselves as good people, and they want to know the world is a just place and that there is some order in the world. Here you are confronted with something you have to do that you might feel is unjust and you are identified with something bad and you have an ambivalent identification."
Kfir at the Counseling Center for Women noticed that soldiers who generally supported the disengagement were more responsive and receptive to the help and solutions offered them.
"It was harder for those who asked the basic question: 'How can I dare do this?' Definitely. For many of them, the fact that they performed a task that they didn't choose made it easier for them."
Shalev and Gil describe their most difficult moments as the personal encounters with the residents, cases in which the settlers welcomed the soldiers warmly without accusations, insults, shouts or curses.
"There was a family of Ethiopian immigrants," relates Shalev. "They explained how they came, how they had nothing, how Gush Katif was the only place that welcomed them. It was hard to hear their story... but that doesn't become the reason for you not to go through with it."
Throughout the evacuation, Gil knew "something wasn't right" when settlers asked the soldiers where they were headed and his officers couldn't offer a clear answer, but he didn't view their smooth resettlement as his personal responsibility.
"It makes me feel bad about the state," Gil says. "It's one of the many things that make me feel bad about the state. It doesn't take care of many things it should - the sick, the poor and also the evacuees."
Nir, 26, a secular Israeli who works as a security officer in Tel Aviv, served in Gaza during the disengagement and continues to regard the pullout as a mistake. As an officer in the air force, he carried out his orders to lead his unit in evacuating hundreds of protesters from the streets and border crossings. He has no qualms discussing his service in Gaza but admits that serving in the outer military circle as opposed to the first circle charged with the evacuation of residents may have lightened his emotional load.
"No doubt it would have influenced me differently, and this is what I heard from people who were there. They have scars that are difficult to fathom," he says.
He had debated whether or not disengagement orders could be classified as "manifestly illegal orders," which soldiers have the right to disobey. A missive from then chief of General Staff Dan Halutz discussing the legality of the disengagement dispelled his doubts. It gave two examples of manifestly illegal orders: the shooting of 48 unarmed civilians at Kafr Kasim in 1958 and Adolf Eichmann's instructions to murder Jews.
During the evacuation, Nir disregarded the angry shouts and responded more favorably to protesters who questioned him rationally about his actions. "You could speak with them and tell them, 'I don't agree with the act, but I'm in the army and I have to follow orders.'"
He didn't have too much time or mental space to debate the issue while there. "We worked mostly as robots because of the volume of work that had to be done. From lack of sleep, your body works on automatic pilot. You don't know what you're going to do the next hour. The lack of knowledge about what's next contributes to your robotic mode."
Ariella too didn't have the luxury to let her personal feelings or opinions influence her course. She recalls at one point shutting off her feelings.
"When the international media interviewed me at the time, and they asked me how I felt about it, I said, 'I'm not allowed to feel anything.' It sounds like a getaway answer, but I really felt that way."
Today, Nir says he "has more scars from Operation Defensive Shield," but the disengagement marked a turning point in his life. A few months later, he decided to scrap his plans for an army career and not renew his army contract.
"I felt like they forced something in a wrong way, like they behaved in the wrong way, as if they higher-ups wanted to prove that they can, like kids in the nursery," he related. "The way they came, the way they prepared, what they stuck in people's minds. The entire mental preparation was harder than the actual evacuation and ultimately only a third of what they taught came to pass. They really exaggerated. For officers at that level, you have to prepare something in proportion. Things bothered me after as well. I noticed people were in the army more for ego and status."
WHEN ARIELLA finished her assignment, she left the ad hoc unit created for the disengagement and returned to her regular unit. The remainder of her service remained largely unaffected by the evacuation, but she came out of Gush Katif with new friendships.
"Everyone who participated in the disengagement became very close. Most of my good friends were people in my unit during the disengagement, and that was only a few weeks out of my entire service."
During her first weekend back home, her friends described her as a "zombie," but about a week and a half later, she already began to heal from the ordeal.
"At the time I thought this is going to scar me for life, this is the saddest thing I have to do. And it still is the hardest thing I ever had to do. I had to do tough things, but nothing like this. This was something completely beyond reality. I think it's awful because I know there are people that are still affected by it today, people who don't have permanent housing, but I don't think too much about it."
She pauses and looks up, a glimmer of guilt in her eyes. "I think I should, but I don't. I think everyone is just living his own life."
(BOX) The sound of silence
Some people aren't taking the quiet of the soldiers so quietly. What psychologists praise as a successful mental preparation, some disengagement opponents and other psychologists are slamming as a successful mental "programming."
A mixed religious and secular five-member team is spearheaded by Ruti Eisikowitch, a retired Hebrew teacher, and banded together right after the disengagement to discover the cause for what seemed to them untenable: the destruction of a vibrant Jewish community by Jewish soldiers with "following orders" as their ultimate justification. They didn't think any governmental or academic institution would critically assess the mental preparation, and they took the task upon themselves - with an admitted bias.
Their work is supervised by senior educational psychologist Dr. Moshe Leibler, who has lectured about the role of psychologists in developing the mental preparation at the Sderot Conference for Society and at Judea and Samaria Research Conference.
Members of the group casually dub the preparation "brainwashing," but refrain from using the term as a professional qualifier in their work.
Eisikowitch is bothered by the relative silence on the part of the soldiers and the army regarding the IDF experience of the pullout. For Eisikowitch, the perceived lack of trauma is troubling. "They were robots, so there was no trauma. That's even worse."
She and members of the team encountered many difficulties tracking down soldiers who were willing to open up.
"Why the silence?" she asks. "I heard from my husband, sons and friends many stories of war. They weren't silent."
The investigation team spent the last year gathering information and documents regarding the psychological training, and the matter engrosses Eisikowitch daily. Upon meeting her at home near Ra'anana, her living room cocktail table was covered with a number of workbooks, presentations and CDs the army prepared about a year ahead of the disengagement. She flipped through workbook after workbook, demonstrating how the army fielded any possible hesitations among the soldiers to make sure they complied.
"War, which is supposed to be much more traumatic and difficult, doesn't have psychological training, definitely not to this extent and it definitely doesn't have pamphlets and lectures," she said, her anger visible.
The psychological training, she argues, was required to invert the natural mission of IDF and goad soldiers to perform a task some of them considered militarily and morally unsavory.
"The psychologists didn't prepare the IDF for an army mission - to protect its civilians," she charges, "but turned the soldiers into a non-thinking police force that harmed its own civilian population."
The team directs most of its criticism and anger toward the disengagement psychologists, and Leibler argues they violated their ethical code, which states that psychologists must work for the emotional and mental welfare of their clients.
"Psychologists, like doctors, have a particular ethical code they have to abide by," he says. "I think there's more of an obligation on us as mental health workers than the soldiers. They're subject to a different ethical code. As far as I know, psychologists are not permitted to cause harm to a civilian population."
About half a year prior to disengagement, Leibler worked to raise his ethical and professional concerns, and he corresponded extensively from his Kochav Hashahar home with the chairwoman of Israel Psychology Association (IPA), Yael Shoshani, after she wrote in an IPA newsletter of the importance of the IPA's role in the implementation of the disengagement. "She understood my qualms about it. It was taken for granted this was the right way of doing things," says Leibler.
The investigation team is planning to launch a complaint against the disengagement psychologists with the Israel Ministry of Health and to submit a report to the Winograd Commission arguing that the military effectiveness of the IDF during the Lebanon war was damaged by the disengagement training.
HAIM OMER, co-author of Psychology of Demonization, who trained the army to minimize violence throughout the disengagement, dismisses the assault on the psychologists' participation in the mental training as a value judgment based on a political position.
"They say, 'We find that this is evil and helping soldiers to do evil necessarily hurts them,'" he says. "The argument is political. According to this argument, you can't make any psychological preparation for warfare. If I try to help soldiers prepare for war, I violate the psychological code according to this argument."
Omer says he has publicly critiqued as irrelevant the argument that service in the West Bank and Gaza can be psychologically damaging to soldiers.
The job of a psychologist is not necessarily to prevent trauma, he says, but to assist people in coping with trauma or suffering that can arise from natural disasters or legislated measures.
"Psychologists, to my mind, have absolutely no monopoly or advantage over other professionals or other people in dealing with human suffering as such," Omer says. "Psychologists cannot prevent suffering from war, from famine, from forced migration or from evacuation. At best, what they can do is to serve people who ask for their help in trying to cope better with their suffering."
Dr. Danny Brom, director of the Israel Center for the Treatment of Psychotrauma, doesn't think psychologists can be held accountable for any of the trauma and difficulties evacuees might have experienced.
"We did some work before the disengagement, and it was a very big problem to be accepted by the [settler] community," he says. "If you came and said a few months prior that it was going to happen, it was not really acceptable. And there were even politicians who said it won't happen, and everyone was waiting for the miracle to happen and things like that, so the preparation on the political side as well was not good. The army did take responsibility for its soldiers, but the state didn't take responsibility to give a clear message that this is going to happen and how it's going to happen."
For Leibler, psychologists recruited by the army had the professional and ethical imperative to at least raise the ethical issues involved in the forceful evacuation of a civilian population. But instead the psychologists took for granted that their participation in what they perceived as a fait accompli was desirable and ethical to minimize any possible damage.
"The psychologists didn't ask: Is it ethical to carry out an intervention that can cause harm to a civilian population? Harm is caused in war, and psychologists give counseling to the army. In the case of the settlers, is this war? What are the relevant ethical issues, and why were they not seriously debated? Not to consider it as an ethical issue because it's a law reeks of fascism. That says that legislation defines ethics and that ethics doesn't necessarily define legislation."
Brom thinks that psychologists from all sides of the political spectrum cannot necessarily divorce their professional practice from their political opinions.
"I think we're way beyond the idea that psychology is value free," he said. "Once there were opinions that psychologists have to be a blank screen and things like that. In these situations it's clearly not possible and not realistic for psychologists to say I have no political opinion."
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Tasting Titora (restaurant review)
Jerusalem Post, Weekend Magazine; August 2, 2007
Titora lies nestled on a road that literally has no name, amidst the rundown hothouses of Moshav Shilat a few minutes from Modi'in. The abandoned farm setting suits the quaint and rustic restaurant, built in an old storage barn for bouquet wrappings. A garden filled with thyme and peppermint plants and adorned with passion-fruit vines leads to relatively small and modestly decorated indoor and outdoor seating areas.
Titora may be hard to find for non-locals, but the location couldn't be more convenient for Jerusalem and Tel Aviv residents who use Road 443 to commute. It's a place to stop for lunch or a late-night drink, and also an apt middle point for residents of the two cities looking for an equidistant place to meet.
Residents of Modi'in and surrounding areas, particularly those who don't keep kosher, should consider Titora a find in an area not commonly associated with fine dining.
Chef-owner Bucky Dasa has used his experience as a restaurateur in Tel Aviv to combine high culinary standards with a homeyness and authenticity less prevalent in Israel's metropolis. The menu is eclectic but with a Medierranean touch, and it's clear that careful thought was put into each dish to produce aesthetic, creative and delicious results.
I started off with the passion-fruit shrimp (NIS 39), a favorite at the restaurant. It comes with six pieces of shrimp sauteed in sauce made from fruits plucked from the garden. The seafood absorbs the flavor of the tangy, sweet and buttery sauce, and the seeds of the passion fruit add a little punch.
The salmon ceviche (NIS 33) was well-done, in both senses of the phrase. It was served on a bed of beet carpaccio (thin, freshly sliced beets) swimming in olive oil and topped with freshly plucked thyme. The long, amorphous pieces of salmon on their own tasted decent, but when I wrapped the fish with the carpaccio, the appetizer turned into a particularly scrumptious, fun-to-eat and refreshing treat. Save the olive oil as a dip for the hot Moroccan bread - a wonderful combination.
The Buri Buri (NIS 68) is a generous and unusual, fresh and tasty dish. Two hefty fillets topped a mound of grilled eggplant sprinkled with lentils and parsley. The dish is garnished with olive oil and dried fruits.
The combination of all these ingredients is unconventional, but they created a perfect blend of aromas and flavors - sweet, healthful and earthy. Definitely recommended for fish and eggplant lovers.
The beef fillet (NIS 88) cooked in port wine sauce was a much heavier dish, but not any less creative or good. The beef, served with onions stuffed with nuts, bulgur and cinnamon, was superb, soft and sweet, with an extra delightful flavor added by the garlic jam sprinkled on top.
It's hard to find anything bad to say about Titora. The food is excellent, the service is friendly, the prices justified and the atmosphere pleasant.
While its isolated location on the side of an obscure road is part of its charm, it seems like it deters people from discovering it. The restaurant was empty around 6 p.m., although I'm sure if the restaurant were more accessible to passersby, it would be much more crowded.
Titora is open for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The outdoor patio is well-equipped to handle strollers. On Saturdays the restaurant doesn't serve its regular menu, and instead opens up as a buffet revolving around an asado meat grill (NIS 89 per person).
Shilat Industrial Zone, (08) 976-1499
Breakfast: 9-12; business lunches: 12-5;
dinner: 5-1 a.m.
Not kosher
Titora lies nestled on a road that literally has no name, amidst the rundown hothouses of Moshav Shilat a few minutes from Modi'in. The abandoned farm setting suits the quaint and rustic restaurant, built in an old storage barn for bouquet wrappings. A garden filled with thyme and peppermint plants and adorned with passion-fruit vines leads to relatively small and modestly decorated indoor and outdoor seating areas.
Titora may be hard to find for non-locals, but the location couldn't be more convenient for Jerusalem and Tel Aviv residents who use Road 443 to commute. It's a place to stop for lunch or a late-night drink, and also an apt middle point for residents of the two cities looking for an equidistant place to meet.
Residents of Modi'in and surrounding areas, particularly those who don't keep kosher, should consider Titora a find in an area not commonly associated with fine dining.
Chef-owner Bucky Dasa has used his experience as a restaurateur in Tel Aviv to combine high culinary standards with a homeyness and authenticity less prevalent in Israel's metropolis. The menu is eclectic but with a Medierranean touch, and it's clear that careful thought was put into each dish to produce aesthetic, creative and delicious results.
I started off with the passion-fruit shrimp (NIS 39), a favorite at the restaurant. It comes with six pieces of shrimp sauteed in sauce made from fruits plucked from the garden. The seafood absorbs the flavor of the tangy, sweet and buttery sauce, and the seeds of the passion fruit add a little punch.
The salmon ceviche (NIS 33) was well-done, in both senses of the phrase. It was served on a bed of beet carpaccio (thin, freshly sliced beets) swimming in olive oil and topped with freshly plucked thyme. The long, amorphous pieces of salmon on their own tasted decent, but when I wrapped the fish with the carpaccio, the appetizer turned into a particularly scrumptious, fun-to-eat and refreshing treat. Save the olive oil as a dip for the hot Moroccan bread - a wonderful combination.
The Buri Buri (NIS 68) is a generous and unusual, fresh and tasty dish. Two hefty fillets topped a mound of grilled eggplant sprinkled with lentils and parsley. The dish is garnished with olive oil and dried fruits.
The combination of all these ingredients is unconventional, but they created a perfect blend of aromas and flavors - sweet, healthful and earthy. Definitely recommended for fish and eggplant lovers.
The beef fillet (NIS 88) cooked in port wine sauce was a much heavier dish, but not any less creative or good. The beef, served with onions stuffed with nuts, bulgur and cinnamon, was superb, soft and sweet, with an extra delightful flavor added by the garlic jam sprinkled on top.
It's hard to find anything bad to say about Titora. The food is excellent, the service is friendly, the prices justified and the atmosphere pleasant.
While its isolated location on the side of an obscure road is part of its charm, it seems like it deters people from discovering it. The restaurant was empty around 6 p.m., although I'm sure if the restaurant were more accessible to passersby, it would be much more crowded.
Titora is open for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The outdoor patio is well-equipped to handle strollers. On Saturdays the restaurant doesn't serve its regular menu, and instead opens up as a buffet revolving around an asado meat grill (NIS 89 per person).
Shilat Industrial Zone, (08) 976-1499
Breakfast: 9-12; business lunches: 12-5;
dinner: 5-1 a.m.
Not kosher
Women: Put down your swords!
The Jewish Journal; August 2, 2007
Click here for original
"I let men be men, and I give up the right to castrate men forever."
Do I really have to say this? I wondered to myself as I tried my best to participate without skepticism in a relationships seminar I'd signed up for not long ago. Do I really "castrate" men? Do I expect them to behave more like women and as a result emasculate them? Do I not understand the differences between men and women in relationships, and is that one source of my dating woes?
I didn't have time to think too deeply about these questions, because I was immediately instructed, along with some 100 other women in the room, to stand up and recite this mantra. And I did. Some women started crying in bouts of catharsis. I didn't really feel anything when I said it, except a little wonder at myself for joining the chorus.
The mantra had jump-started the two-day workshop for women titled "Celebrating Men, Satisfying Women," which I attended not long ago at a conference room in a hotel near LAX. The program was created by a woman named Allison Armstrong, a self-professed expert on men, and it promised to foster better communication, understanding and respect between the sexes.
The session leader admitted that the language of the mantra was purposefully hyperbolic, but said that one point of the seminar was to allow us to embrace male characteristics that might fluster women, but which are an indelible part of the male psyche. This may seem like an anti-feminist lesson to some, but it is by empowering men, the workshop taught, that we actually empower ourselves. By "putting down our sword" and letting men be the best men they can be, women can begin to view men not as antagonists, but as partners.
I had decided to sign up for this workshop after attending the introductory preview course, "Making Sense of Men," which outlined some "secrets" of male attraction to women. I'd heard about it on the radio and it was free, so why not? It turned out to be pretty enlightening, making the point that confidence, a passionate interest and authenticity are among the specific qualities in a woman that can tip a man's attraction from purely physical to enchantingly spiritual.
The two-day workshop was less enlightening. The first day felt like a recap of "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus." It outlined differences between the sexes, some of which are already common knowledge to many women, like: men are single-focused; men act from reason before emotion; and, most of all, men like to be the providers.
At the start of the second day, we were given a formula with specific phrasing on how to ask men for what we need. The point of some of the phraseology is to cater to a man's instinct to provide and feel appreciated for what he has done in the past. It all seemed contrived. The instructions actually made me more confused, and little time was left open for questions throughout the seminar.
I wondered if I should drop out and ask for my money back, which was quite a nice sum: about $400.
I stayed because the end promised to tie everything together: a panel of men who would field our questions about men.
But when we were prohibited from asking the men questions about sex -- of course, the most alluring topic -- I decided to head out. The topic of sex was reserved for a different, equally expensive workshop, titled "Celebrating Men in Sex." Then came the live advertisements: If you sign up today, you get a discount.
It all seemed a little exploitative to me. Women are so vulnerable when it comes to relationships that they'll spend a lot of money when someone promises them insights into positively transforming how they interact with men. Perhaps some women need the live oration of this kind of seminar, where they actively recite phrases and perform exercises. As for me, I'd rather read a good book that costs about 20 bucks and includes critical research, detailed examples, back-up and references.
When I told the workshop manager that I wasn't satisfied and wanted a refund, she was very kind and understanding, giving me the best advice of the day: It's important for women to do what's true for them and to be themselves with men.
Although I missed the men's panel, I decided to create my own. Given my confusion about the workshop lessons, I checked the premises and prescriptions of the seminar with my male friends and even with men I've dated. How do you feel about women making the first move? What qualities do you like in a woman? Do men really need a woman to completely zip up when they talk? How should a woman ask a man for what she needs?
It was amazing to discover how receptive and talkative these men became when I asked them about what makes the male species tick. Their answers actually validated many of the ideas I'd learned in the seminar, while challenging others.
That's when I realized the best workshop I could ever attend is the workshop of my own life. By communicating openly, honestly and freely with the opposite sex -- platonic or romantic -- is how we all, men and women alike, put down our swords. And it's free.
Click here for original
"I let men be men, and I give up the right to castrate men forever."
Do I really have to say this? I wondered to myself as I tried my best to participate without skepticism in a relationships seminar I'd signed up for not long ago. Do I really "castrate" men? Do I expect them to behave more like women and as a result emasculate them? Do I not understand the differences between men and women in relationships, and is that one source of my dating woes?
I didn't have time to think too deeply about these questions, because I was immediately instructed, along with some 100 other women in the room, to stand up and recite this mantra. And I did. Some women started crying in bouts of catharsis. I didn't really feel anything when I said it, except a little wonder at myself for joining the chorus.
The mantra had jump-started the two-day workshop for women titled "Celebrating Men, Satisfying Women," which I attended not long ago at a conference room in a hotel near LAX. The program was created by a woman named Allison Armstrong, a self-professed expert on men, and it promised to foster better communication, understanding and respect between the sexes.
The session leader admitted that the language of the mantra was purposefully hyperbolic, but said that one point of the seminar was to allow us to embrace male characteristics that might fluster women, but which are an indelible part of the male psyche. This may seem like an anti-feminist lesson to some, but it is by empowering men, the workshop taught, that we actually empower ourselves. By "putting down our sword" and letting men be the best men they can be, women can begin to view men not as antagonists, but as partners.
I had decided to sign up for this workshop after attending the introductory preview course, "Making Sense of Men," which outlined some "secrets" of male attraction to women. I'd heard about it on the radio and it was free, so why not? It turned out to be pretty enlightening, making the point that confidence, a passionate interest and authenticity are among the specific qualities in a woman that can tip a man's attraction from purely physical to enchantingly spiritual.
The two-day workshop was less enlightening. The first day felt like a recap of "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus." It outlined differences between the sexes, some of which are already common knowledge to many women, like: men are single-focused; men act from reason before emotion; and, most of all, men like to be the providers.
At the start of the second day, we were given a formula with specific phrasing on how to ask men for what we need. The point of some of the phraseology is to cater to a man's instinct to provide and feel appreciated for what he has done in the past. It all seemed contrived. The instructions actually made me more confused, and little time was left open for questions throughout the seminar.
I wondered if I should drop out and ask for my money back, which was quite a nice sum: about $400.
I stayed because the end promised to tie everything together: a panel of men who would field our questions about men.
But when we were prohibited from asking the men questions about sex -- of course, the most alluring topic -- I decided to head out. The topic of sex was reserved for a different, equally expensive workshop, titled "Celebrating Men in Sex." Then came the live advertisements: If you sign up today, you get a discount.
It all seemed a little exploitative to me. Women are so vulnerable when it comes to relationships that they'll spend a lot of money when someone promises them insights into positively transforming how they interact with men. Perhaps some women need the live oration of this kind of seminar, where they actively recite phrases and perform exercises. As for me, I'd rather read a good book that costs about 20 bucks and includes critical research, detailed examples, back-up and references.
When I told the workshop manager that I wasn't satisfied and wanted a refund, she was very kind and understanding, giving me the best advice of the day: It's important for women to do what's true for them and to be themselves with men.
Although I missed the men's panel, I decided to create my own. Given my confusion about the workshop lessons, I checked the premises and prescriptions of the seminar with my male friends and even with men I've dated. How do you feel about women making the first move? What qualities do you like in a woman? Do men really need a woman to completely zip up when they talk? How should a woman ask a man for what she needs?
It was amazing to discover how receptive and talkative these men became when I asked them about what makes the male species tick. Their answers actually validated many of the ideas I'd learned in the seminar, while challenging others.
That's when I realized the best workshop I could ever attend is the workshop of my own life. By communicating openly, honestly and freely with the opposite sex -- platonic or romantic -- is how we all, men and women alike, put down our swords. And it's free.
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