The Squatter

I was in a cab, on my way from the airport. The sunlight was harsh on my bloodshot, tired eyes. The cab driver spoke English poorly, but well enough to tell me how the government was doing everything wrong. If only they weren’t so worried about the opposition, he said.  The opposition is weak, and should be ignored.  What they need to do is go back into Gaza to weaken Hamas. 

I was barely listening. I had flown in from Canada overnight, landing in Tel Aviv at seven a.m. The purpose of my trip was to find the squatter. I needed to meet the Squatter. A very niche corner of the Internet was alight with conversations of the Squatter, and how he had changed lives with his novel perspective of healthy movement. People came from all over the world to squat with him. His sayings were analyzed and interpreted in many different ways.

A few years ago, I came upon an article that mentioned him in passing. The brief description of him intrigued me. I did more research. There were articles and forums that discussed his life story and his teachings. People practiced and lived by his teachings all over the world. His philosophy was quite simple: squat as much as you can, every day. It would solve both physical and psychological issues; I read multiple articles from people who claimed squatting helped cure them of anxiety and stress. 

I became aware of the power of squatting when I was still in high school. Bodyweight squats were a staple of training for sports and general fitness. But I always felt that there was something more to squats. We weren’t doing enough of them, or weren’t spending enough time sitting in the bottom of the squat. I was not sure what it was, but I knew that there was something more to be had.

In university, I started lifting weights, and squatting was a big part of it. It was exciting to explore a new dimension to squats, but again, something was missing. I wondered if I was crazy. My friends eyed me warily when I talked about squats in an almost spiritual manner. I was prepared to drop the idea, and to try to be normal.

But then I read about the Squatter. Everything his fans claimed he said resonated with me. He seemed to see squats as a key to the puzzle that is the meaning of life. I started practicing more squats, spending more time in a deep squat as I went about my day. I built a very low table so that I could even squat while I was on my laptop or writing. I felt happier than I ever had before, and more in control of myself. The changes were drastic. 

Eventually I decided that I had to meet the Squatter. I had been following his teachings, but had not learned from him personally. What if what I practiced was a bastardization of his true philosophy?

The only problem was that everything about the Squatter was mysterious, including where he lived and practiced. No-one seemed to know his name or where he came from. 

Eventually, after countless hours of searching, I found a forum post mentioning that he might be in Israel. That’s how I ended up in Tel Aviv, listening to a cab driver’s political musings.

That night, I crashed on my friends’ couch. Knowing how much finding the Squatter meant to me, they said I could stay for as long as it takes. I suspect they thought I was going crazy, having been unemployed for too long. To them, my Squatter search was a distraction,  something I could move forward with while my job search seemed to stall. 

To begin my search, I went to gyms all over Tel Aviv. I asked if they knew about the Squatter. Everyone at very commercial gyms said no. Some people at Cross-Fit and functional training gyms had vaguely heard of him. But no one knew more than I did. Some were surprised that he lived in Israel: they had assumed he would be in India, or Nepal. 

After a week, I was starting to feel disheartened. The gloom of my unemployment started to return. To shake it off, I went to Frishman Beach for some restorative squatting. Sand always made squatting extra effective. As I stared pensively at the Mediterranean Sea, a man came up to me. 

“Do you mind if I join you?”

I looked up to see a short man in his late sixties with unruly white hair and a large kippah that did not quite cover his bald spot.

“Sure.” 

I did not know what he meant, but soon found out as he squatted down next to me. His squat was smooth, and bio-mechanically sound. He did not grunt, nor show any discomfort getting into the position. 

“My name is Shragai,” he said.

“I’m Daniel.”

“Are you American?”

“No, I’m Canadian.”

“What brings you to Israel?”

I told him about the Squatter, and that I was desperate to meet him, how I had been searching in vain all week  I did not want to go back to Canada without meeting him, but I was not hopeful.

“Why do you want to meet this man?”

I explained his philosophy and how it had immeasurably improved my life.

“I don’t know anyone known as the Squatter. But it sounds like you are describing my friend Doron. All he does is squat all day. Occasionally people come to him to ask for advice. He’s the  one who taught me to squat a few years ago.”

I lit up. I could not believe that I might be squatting with a friend of the Squatter.

“Would I be able to meet Doron?” I asked, trying to contain my excitement.

“Absolutely. He loves meeting new people. I am visiting him this weekend. You can drive down with me. He does not live near Tel- Aviv though, so it’s a pretty long drive. He lives in Be’er Milka.”

“I would love to drive down with you.”

We exchanged phone numbers to coordinate the drive down, then he smoothly stood up and continued his stroll down the beach.

That evening, I told my friends about meeting Shragai, and how I was driving down with him to Be’er Milka.

“Where?” they asked.

“It’s very close to the Egyptian border.”

“Why is the Squatter there?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you know this Shragai can be trusted? He could be taking you to the middle of nowhere to murder you.”

“I saw his squat, and it was beautiful. I don’t know if I can trust him, but this is my only lead. I have to follow it.” 

At 6:00AM on Friday, I stood outside the central bus station in Tel Aviv, waiting for Shragai. A rusted, off-white VW van pulled up, its diesel engine rumbling. Shragai’s car.

I climbed aboard, and we drove off. 

As we drove South, the urban landscape changed to rocky, hilly desert.

I was initially worried that I was being kidnapped, but Shragai’s banter put me at ease.

 At one point during our conversation Shragai stopped me. He did not want me to use the term the Squatter.

“Doron is not the Squatter. Doron is Doron. Why does he have to be more than that?” 

So I started referring to the Squatter as Doron.

We finally reached Be’er Milka. I was struck by how small it was. Even calling it a community was a stretch. There where a few trailers, and some mud-brick homes. On the outskirts of this settlement was a small house, large by mud-brick standards. This is where Doron lived. 

Shragai parked the van on Doron’s dusty, unpaved, driveway. We stepped out and approached the house. Instead of knocking, Shragai yelled.

“Doron! Are you home? I brought a guest.”

After a few seconds, the door opened. The man who stood at the door was in his fifties, had piercing green eyes and a freshly shaved head that gleamed in the early morning sun. He wore only a loincloth. He greeted Shragai warmly, then turned to me, introduced himself and invited us in. 

To my surprise, the inside of his house was modern. Though sparse, the house exuded warmth. And, as could be expected, there were no chairs or couches. The dining table was low. There were a few pillows stacked up in the corner.

We all squatted in the living space. After Doron and Shragai caught up for a few minutes, they turned their attention to me. Why was I here? I explained my background, and how I desired to meet the Squatter himself so as not to follow a bastardization of his teachings. 

Doron was confused. 

“What do you mean, teachings?” he asked, clearly confused.

I told him what I’d read on the Internet, on all the forums and how his name came up in a quasi-spiritual way all the time.

“There are no teachings. I only encourage people to squat. Nothing more. Any special feelings that come out of it are in the minds of other people.” Doron explained.

I was confused. What about all the benefits that I had accrued from squatting?

“I’m not saying that there are no benefits. But I tell people to squat more to feel physically better. I’m not a guru. I’m a data scientist. All I did was lead some hip mobility sessions at work during lunch at my last job, and look at what happened: the Internet blew things out of proportion.” 

“You are a data scientist? Then why are you living out here? Why not in the city?” 

“I used to live in Tel Aviv. Eventually, I tired of the pace of life, so I moved here. I work remotely now.”

I told him I was currently unemployed and looking for work in data science, and he offered to put me in touch with some of his contacts in Tel Aviv. 

We spent the rest of the day with Doron. We made lunch together, had tea and spent the day squatting and talking. I eventually felt comfortable to ask the question that had been on my mind since meeting him.

“Why a loincloth? Why don’t you wear regular clothing? You look a real guru.”

“I live in the desert, away from most people. I work from home. I squat all day. A loincloth is the perfect attire to squat in. And if I have to video call into work, I put on a t-shirt and make sure not to get up in the middle of the call. Have you ever worn a loincloth? I feel like if you did, you would understand.”

I admitted that I had not.

When we finally left, Doron told me I was welcome back anytime, and gave me his phone number and e-mail for if I ever needed anything.