Churchill walked slowly, leading his chestnut mare Ginger, after the beast had thrown him as they were crossing the wadi. He didn’t harbor any resentment toward her. “All your mares should be sent to the slaughterhouse,” I said from the saddle of my horse.” I was as enraged as he should have been. “How can you say such a thing? She’s a wonderful horse. It’s just that now and then she gets a little…”
She threw him out of spite. Nothing startled her and she had no other reason to do it. She simply saw an opportunity and took it. Some horses are like that. Churchill had four mares and they were all problematic. To paraphrase Tolstoy, each was unhappy in its own way. Haika suffered from a skin disorder, her mane, back, and tail covered in itchy sores. Beautiful Diana had only one eye, which didn’t bode well for the safety of the rider.
I’ve already told you about mean-spirited Ginger, and I’ll only add that the letters MG were branded on her rump, a sign that at some point in her life she had been on Kibbutz Marom Golan. The fourth horse, Havitush, who had once bitten Churchill, was so fat that she looked like Petra the cow. But Churchill was never confused by the facts. “What’s wrong with you?” he said. “They’re great horses, the best in the country.” Anyway, what right do I have to criticize the poor mares. They’re probably all in Khan Junis now.
We met years ago. He was the most prominent cattle breeder in the country, and we got the calves to start our herd from him. There was an instant connection. Despite the gap in our ages, we became soul mates. He knew I would do anything for him, and I knew it was mutual. He was born Eli Margalit in the Yad Eliahu neighborhood of Tel Aviv, but aside from his wife, Daphna, everyone called him Churchill.
He wouldn’t even turn around if you called him by any other name. He arrived in Nir Oz with the group of youngsters from the youth movement HaShomer HaTzair tasked with setting up a kibbutz there. Unlike many kibbutz members who aren’t comfortable anywhere else, he always worked outside the kibbutz and made a good living. He loved the kibbutz, but he had several advantages over the average kibbutz member. As I said, he also worked elsewhere and was never short of money.
And he had his own car. In the long years during which the members had to sign up to get a few hours’ use of a car with a number stamped on it like a cow, he often went abroad for work or with his horse-loving friends. Not surprisingly, when he sat on the kibbutz lawn on a Saturday morning, he could never understand what people were complaining about.
Churchill was something like a western Negev version of Zorba the Greek. Everyone was beguiled by the man who was nothing but love for animals and the innocent heart of a child inside a large frame with an unkempt beard. Petra loved him too. A cow that started out as a calf on his farm, she acted more like his faithful dog. She roamed freely outside the cattle pens, eating all day until she looked like a barrel with legs. When Churchill came by, he’d call out, “Here, Petra,” and she would totter happily up to him as fast as her short legs would allow, eager for him to scratch the flabby skin under her huge neck.
Back then, we would lie on the grass on our farm on Friday afternoons together with our sheep nutritionist, the late Yossi Leffer, a hero of the Six-Day War, and the rustic farmer Shalomiko. We’d eat the kebabs my wife Inbal made, seared on a small grill, and wash them down with cold beer. The reservoir near the cattle at Nir Oz would be brim full. A few kibbutz members with good hands built small cabins on the waterside. One day Churchill told Shraga that they were going to share the excellent one Shraga built.
Who could refuse him? Sometimes we’d bring our kids along to the cabin and eat the delicious labaneh he made before taking a boat out on the water. “I have two goats,” he’d say in mock seriousness to anyone who asked for the secret of its outstanding flavor, “one is black with a white head and the other is white with a black head. Today I made the labaneh from the milk of the black one.”
In addition to his biological family—Daphna and the children Noa, Danny, and Nili, who was released from captivity in Gaza—he had another family: his equestrian crowd. The group meant a lot to Churchill and the rest of the guys. They had been friends for decades, brought together by a love for horses that united them like brothers.
People who seemingly had little in common in their everyday lives formed a lasting bond from hours in the saddle and shared meals before, after, and even during the ride. Countless rides through the region of Beit Guvrin and horseback outings both in Israel and abroad, in places like Kirgizstan, Albania, Montenegro, Morocco, Ethiopia, Bulgaria, and Italy. I went along on his last trip in the Pyrenees in Spain. It was an amazing experience of friendship, horses, mountains, forests, breathtaking views, an abundance of flowing water, and a lot of meat and wine. Nearly everything a person could want. They were planning a trip to Iceland next summer.
Gilad SharonChurchill and I shared a deep love for horses, dogs, cattle, and sheep. We spoke of the things that interested us: births in the herd, the amount of rain, the crops, the price of lambs and calves, and the cost of feed. We had long telephone conversations when I went to feed the horses. Like me, Churchill had been feeding his horses his whole life. That is also the way he died.
What on Earth possessed you to go feed the horses at 7:30 in the morning on that abominable Saturday? The whole kibbutz was in flames, with terrorists everywhere, and Churchill went to the stables instead of staying with Daphna and his granddaughter Romi in the secure room in their home. There he was slaughtered by the barbarians, next to the horses he loved. He just couldn’t let them go hungry.