HiN Processing week June 1-7 2026 Summary

After returning home, and after a week that was urban, paired, packed with the pace of Manhattan, the World Cup, and the Knicks winning the championship… I came back to Israel to land and try to summarize and digest the week we had in Cuba, Missouri.

A. I flew to the retreat with expectations that were a little hard to define, but broadly, to try to touch on some of my challenges, or more accurately, to try to understand what's going on with me regarding my mother. How I went from being a people person to someone with no patience for people…

B. Flying with an unorganized group, where, even though I knew some of the members, this was a group I owed nothing to. No need for performances, for presentations, no need to wear a mask at the next meeting — and I found that idea very appealing.

C. I started off on the wrong foot, finding myself a bit caught up in the magnets, and honestly, I really just wanted to arrive free… to do nothing, to let go…

D. But from there, things continued in a much more relaxed way. Meeting the wonderful crew at Ben Gurion Airport brought optimism and great excitement for the week ahead. A little small talk on the way, and we landed in Wallys trying to figure out what to eat, how much beer and whiskey to stock up on (lucky I don't like whiskey, or so I thought), and someone else took command of the alcohol, and we moved on to Lynn big house - a house that looked like it was taken from a Hollywood movie, four floors where each floor is a world unto itself.

In the basement: ping pong, snooker, a movie theater, but mainly the group therapy space where we worked with Keren, the psychologist, and Dr. Sar-el, the psychiatrist.

On the ground floor: an enormous living room, a dining area, a fireplace big enough to light the bonfires of Rabbi Shimon at Meron, a kitchen, and a huge porch with endless green expanses.

On the third floor: staff bedrooms.

And on the fourth floor: nine bunk beds — that's where we slept.

Outside: an amazing river, forests, open spaces, hangars with ATVs and an RZR, an ice bath corner, a barbecue, and coolers full of cans — which, remarkably, like the miracle of Hanukkah oil, no matter how many cans came out during the day, at night a dwarf named Jason came and restocked them with beer and whiskey.

The food was prepared by Lynn and her friend, who wouldn't let us into the kitchen to wash dishes, chop vegetables, or do anything at all. Everything was done with calm, serenity, a smile, and enormous love.

What did we do that week?

Every day was built from several parts:

Body & Soul — workshops with sweet Shai: meditation, stretching, movement, body drumming, Tai Chi, Qigong, writing, breathwork, ice baths.

• Breakfast/meals

• Group workshop 1

• Leisure activity

• Group workshop 2

• Daily debrief over whiskey and beer.

The group process started with a session: Why did we come?

Through drawing and writing, the pulse quickly rose, and it felt like our group — a group of combat commanders who fought on various fronts of one of the hardest wars our people have known-had come to work.

With great openness, each person went over the drawings he had made.

I wrote that I wanted to touch on my impatience, my tinnitus, and my hearing, the post-trauma experiences of my soldiers from the regular army that hit me hard in recent years, the professional price I paid during the war, and maybe as a bonus, to touch on the murder of Adir at the boarding school, under the wing of love.

And after that inward calibration, we started sharing — some through drawings, some by reading aloud what they had written — one after another. With 17 people, not everyone always speaks, not everyone always wants to speak, and sometimes they want to speak but don't always dare, aren't ready, or can't. And during that time, we listen — we listen to the pain of friends I hadn't known until moments ago, but whose sharing and pain often feel so close to my own feelings around work, relationships, family, social circles, and more.

In the next phase, we wrote our own story in chapter headings — each person starting wherever felt right.

I started at the boarding school "Wing of Love," at the call-up to war, at the rounds in Sderot, at the smell of death on the streets of Sderot and Kibbutz Kfar Aza, and the rocket strikes across the city, and the direct hit I took in a building of the Hesder yeshiva.

And what didn't I write? I don't know why — it wasn't in my head at that moment… But I didn't write about the casualty evacuation from Battalion 97 — receiving the call, rushing part of the unit over, and realizing there were two or three casualties, including apparently the battalion commander. The fast drive in the Humvee and switching to the evacuation frequency calmed the company commander, who was trying to manage the situation from the jeep without seeing the wounded.

Arriving at the field, there were 4–5 stretchers laid across and two more lengthwise. It took me a moment, and I understood there were two fatalities. A pang in the heart. Meanwhile, the helicopter was in the air; I tried to create a clear landing zone, and heard from the pilot that I could load six wounded. The pilot asked for a situation report on the casualties, but who could give me that information? Meanwhile, there were already more stretchers. I remember quiet — miraculous quiet — but I was shouting into the headset. Got the report, prepared stretcher-bearers, and just before landing, the helicopter accidentally released rounds at us and almost set one of the vehicles on fire. The helicopter bounced up and landed 10 meters forward.

We loaded six wounded, and the helicopter lifted off. The next one came to talk to me.

Same story — situation report on casualties, who were the most critical, stretcher teams, load onto the helicopter.

The helicopter took off. The next one landed. By now, I could see there were four fatalities. My deputy in the background made sure to preserve the dignity of the dead, covering the bodies. The next helicopter landed, we loaded, and we were done. Until the Identification Unit arrived to identify the dead, we loaded them carefully into the vehicles, one by one…

From there, the night was still long — but I got back to base at 2:30 AM, slept a little, and in the morning left for Shahar's judo tournament… What a transition.

I didn't write that, but now it has surfaced, so I wrote it — and released it.

After we finished writing our chapter headings, we marked with stickers the painful parts, the beautiful parts, and the unresolved parts…

And from there we began to share. 17 men, fighters, commanders… started talking — each just one word, which became a session of an hour and a half — mainly because you can't stop. Everything mixes together: civilian life, the war, the physical injuries, and the invisible ones that accompany each person in their own way. The reactions of friends who experienced similar events, who face the same struggles — one after another, they share, cry, listen, cry, laugh, and it cycles back, and time runs out…

Then comes processing time — by the stream, in town, with horses, or in the evenings with board games, beer, whiskey, and a good cigarette. And there too, endless laughter, and sharing that comes from the heart and enters the hearts of friends we barely knew before.

In the next session, we continue — with the red stickers — getting ready to speak, the pulse rises, body temperature rises, another friend starts to talk — and again we listen, hurt, and cry together.

And the stories are so similar and so different — from physical injuries to invisible ones, from children, to family, to loneliness and relationships. Each person has their own story.

In the mornings, we wake up early — some go walking, some running, some to prayer — but at 7:00 AM, everyone is with Shai.

Meditation, body tapping, movement, and writing.

One exercise was to write for 7 minutes continuously — what brought us to this journey, or what my expectations were, something along those lines — and there too we started writing and didn't stop, the hand keeps going and going — a bit like what I'm doing right now. Giving myself the ability to unload the thoughts and digest the experience we went through.

After the good breakfast — which every day included pancakes, strawberry and blueberry donuts, bagels, and cheeses — we returned to the circle. But now, wiser from experience, knowing it's worth holding those two hours, I came down with a black coffee and a glass of cold water.

And again — our stories. This time, another friend told his story. Everyone a little closer, listening, responding, embracing with words and when needed — with actions. A personal gesture, a glass of water, a kind word.

On one of the days, after the group session, we split in two: half went to ride horses at a therapeutic farm in the area, and the other half went to the town of Cuba on Route 66 and saw the town, and heard the inspiring story of the only Jewish family in Cuba, Missouri (in the middle of nowhere), and saw their modest home on the incredible property with horses, a lake, a pool, and their family story.

And the other half on horses — riding, working with the horse's movement in the arena, using only your gaze. How the horse feels your energy, and from there, how the people around us feel our energy. Not new, fairly obvious — but when your heart is this open, every small thing feels like something really big.

The next morning (I've lost track of the chronology), we had a breathwork workshop. We went down to the cabin on the grounds, lay on yoga mats, and for 20 minutes breathed in through the mouth and out through the mouth. Two stages of inhaling and one exhale. In the briefing, Shai mentioned our jaws might lock up, our hands might lock — and honestly, I didn't understand what he was talking about.

We began — inhale, inhale, exhale, again and again — and each person went somewhere different. During the breathing, Shai handed out eye masks so we could enter the darkness, but I was already deep in another world and only noticed at the end. After 20 minutes, I finished with trembling hands and vibrations in my jaw. From there, my thoughts flew in so many directions. Immediately after, we went to do the ice bath to practice breathing while the body is under stress.

I got in, and the body went into stress — serious stress. Pounding pain in my arms, and I got out quickly, not surviving the 2 minutes. Honestly, I was disappointed in myself — but thanks to Yinon and Shai, we got a re-run on Saturday.

And after the ice baths — where we also saw the battle of one of the guys who missed the first dip, getting in again and again- his determination to succeed was just incredible.

From there, to the river like a pack of guys from Pardes Hanna, wanting to do a meditation by the water. We earned another 20 minutes of quiet, disconnection, and experience.

And we returned for the second-to-last round — where by then we were already ready to pack up and close, but one of the guys felt it was the right time, and thankfully we managed to hear another friend who found the strength to share and gather his strength from his struggles through his friends.

Honestly, there's a chance this is what the entire week was. The professional term for this type of process is "the hall of mirrors," and after this week, plus some processing time, I'm starting to understand the concept.

For the final morning, after a bit more meditation, we came to a closing session — a little different from what we'd done until now. A round of thanks where each person thanks a friend for something they received from them, and adds what they're taking from the week.

We began the circle with the drawings of those who drew laid out on the floor, and in the background, Eviatar Banai's song "Night Will Shine Like Day." As someone who doesn't usually listen to lyrics in songs, I found that every single word touched my heart. And again — a circle of 17 reserve commanders who fought in the war, who barely knew each other before last week, now standing together as one block, with such a powerful emotional connection that I can't remember the last time — or if ever — I felt that among a group of people. The connection of people who went through a deep, meaningful, painful, and constructive journey together.

When my turn came at the end, I was privileged to thank a dear friend who opened his heart to its deepest depths and allowed us to be with him. And at the same time, I began to understand what this week had done for me. I didn't get to share everything I had planned or wanted to — but my clear understanding is that I can no longer leave my scratches in the back of my heart and mind. They literally take up storage space. The containers have filled up — after three challenging years, within a significant and demanding decade.

But for the next decade to be good, I need to stop and take care of myself. To treat the hearing, to work through the residue that Adir's murder left behind. Talia and the kids deserve to get the Daniel of old — calm, patient, funny — not the one who ignites in an instant, who jumps at every loud noise, the one who is hard to anger and easy to calm, not easy to anger and hard to calm. And maybe the main insight: I am not made of Teflon — I'm more in the direction of Scotch tape. A brilliant line, one of the friends said.

And there is a way forward.

And even though the road is long and winding — like the ice bath, a few breaths, and you stop feeling the pain… just like that.

But there is a way, and there is understanding. And I am certain it will lead me to good places.

What a privilege, and how much gratitude I have that I was able to take part in this week.

Daniel