Sometimes, the One Who “Can’t Shoot” Becomes the Best Shooter in His Unit
Personal Story About the Power of Truly Seeing Someone
Aug 23, 2026
How are you, my beautiful, intelligent readers? Good, I hope, or at least the majority of your life is good... the rest will be alright. Amen :)
In today’s article, I’m going to share, yet again, a personal story that was truly meaningful to me and made me much more aware as a person, much more calibrated to notice, to really pay attention, and to hope that others would show me the same grace.
After all, we all need to be seen. And when someone sees us, deeply sees us, it does something so wonderful, so healing to our soul that it can only be matched by the forces of love; Or maybe that is the pure essence of love altogether. Every form of real love, not necessarily the romantic kind, is rooted in this profound ability to see and be seen. To see someone as they are, while also seeing the incredible potential of who they can become. And believing in them.
Believing is the key word here.
As I’ve shared in previous articles about my military service, I served as an infantry instructor, specializing in marksmanship. To give you a better sense of what that role involved, please read my earlier article here: When I was an IDF soldier, I missed the last bus from a remote military base in the desert. Guess who ended up rescuing me? A bus full of devoted Christians!
So, for this mission, I was assigned to the Paratroopers! YAY! I loved going there! Amazing guys, amazing spirit, serious, respectful, and simply lovely!
I even met my “one that got away” on a Paratroopers mission. Not the one I’m about to tell you about though… But that’s a story for another time, probably titled “Tzlil, You’re a Moron” 😄 He is married with children now, so let’s move on… 😉
A photo from one of my IDF missions. Gotta love the troops!❤️
So, I arrived at my assigned shooting range with my assigned Paratroopers unit for advanced M16 training. At the end of their week with me, which included, among other things, various shooting drills, including shooting while in motion, they would have to pass a versatile shooting test; If they couldn’t complete it with a good grade, meaning excellent shooting abilities and top notch accuracy, they would fail their advanced training. And eight months of incredibly hard work would be... umm, not exactly in vain, but there would be no passing, which meant all sorts of very annoying, very bummer consequences…
And I’m nice and adorable, as you’re very much aware😜but I’m also tough and demanding. Which means there is absolutely NO WAY anyone is finishing this week without a glorious pass and the best shooting grades of all the ranges running in parallel with other shooting instructors. Not because of some competition, but because these combat soldiers would later fight in the most dangerous enemy territory, relying on the shooting skills they acquired with us…
Meaning, when it mattered for real, these skills could be the difference between life and death, between taking down the enemy or getting shot by them. Pretty high stakes, wouldn’t you say? I wanted the soldiers I trained to be the absolute best. And there were no compromises here.
It’s Sunday, and here I am, entering the shooting range. These are soldiers at the end of their advanced training, so they’re not “young,” as we say in Israeli military lingo, or I guess, in English, you would call them “green.” That gives me a lot more room to be friendly with them. Not friends, because you still have to maintain discipline and obedience, but there isn’t that 100% distance you have to keep with the fresh ones, with whom you have to be kind of a b... hahaha. They need to understand they’re in the army, not kindergarten ;)
And I could write an entire article, and maybe I will, about what it means to be a woman teaching these men how to shoot. Not a man teaching them, but a woman. The respect you have to earn from every single one of them, every single week. How good a shooter you have to be because you’re constantly being challenged by them. And, of course, the fact that they haven’t seen home in quite some time and they are... how do I put this politely? Horny as it gets😂 They see you, lose concentration, and yes, it’s funny, but it’s also something you have to be aware of when you’re trying to make them listen… well, what can I say? boys will be boys.
But again, I’m running wild with my associations here and reminiscing, and that’s not within the scope of this article. So I’ll drop a picture here now, and then I’ll get to it ;)
We have a saying in Hebrew for resting after battle. It’s called menuchat halochem, מנוחת הלוחם, which I guess would translate into English as something like “the warrior’s rest.” And so, I managed to capture them in one of those sweet moments, as you can see here 😊
I gathered everyone into a circle around me. Before introducing myself and briefly going over the week’s agenda, I asked each soldier to say his name and share something about himself, whatever he felt like sharing. You know, just to lighten the mood and break the ice.
Some spoke about where they were from. Others talked about how much they missed their girlfriends, or about the exotic destinations they hoped to visit once they had finished their service. The answers varied. It was warm, relaxed, and occasionally funny.
But when we got to Ben (not his real name), all of them said in a choir:
“The one who can’t shoot!” then they burst out laughing.
I watched Ben’s face flush as he tried to smile, though it was clear he was anything but amused. They continued laughing, nudging and tapping him on the shoulder like irritating older brothers teasing the youngest child.
“What? What do you mean by that?” I asked, genuinely confused. What did they mean, he can’t shoot? They had been training for eight months. He had practiced countless times. How could that possibly be true?
“Hahaha, he just doesn’t know how to shoot! You’ll see!” They erupted in laughter again. Ben gave a forced laugh along with them, but I could sense there was more to the story. Something wasn’t right.
After our cheerful little introductory circle, I sent them off to prepare for the shooting exercise: loading the exact number of rounds I had assigned, setting up the targets at the specified distances, and taking care of the rest of the preparations. While they were busy, I approached their two commanders,
“What’s the story with Ben?” I asked. “Why do they laugh at him like that?”
Without hesitation, they answered:
“Because he’s terrible at shooting. We’ve had several meetings with senior commanders about making him repeat the entire eight-month training program with the next intake of recruits.”
“Maybe he shouldn’t be a combat soldier at all,” the other commander added. “He’s that bad.”
I was stunned. How could that be possible?
“He can’t hit anything. He’s a failure. You’ll see in a minute,” they assured me.
Honestly, I assumed they were simply giving him a hard time. There was no way that, after eight months of training, this guy could not hit a single target. No way in hell! But I was wrong.
I miss those army days, checking targets at the range ;)
I won’t build any suspense here guys: Ben did suck... Excuse my French.
Not only could he not produce a grouping (meaning a cluster of bullets landing close to one another, less than five centimeters apart) but he wasn’t even hitting the target. Not once!
Okay, so the process of elimination officially began: I checked his weapon to see whether there was a calibration issue. There wasn’t. It was perfectly zeroed. I fired it myself and hit the target without a problem, so that clearly wasn’t the issue; I replaced it with another soldier’s weapon, but still no luck. He was nowhere close to the target. He was a disaster, exactly as they had promised.
Damn it, watching him stand there so beaten down :( emotionally devastated and being teased by his friends, broke my heart.
Making him repeat that brutally difficult eight-month training program all over again, if they didn’t kick him out of the paratroopers altogether, was not something I was willing to let happen without a fight. There had to be a reason he was failing this badly.
And I was going to find out what it was.
Me again ;) About 17 years ago…
During lunch breaks, I skipped the base mess hall and ate field rations with the soldiers at the shooting range. MREs, as the Americans call them… correct me if I’m wrong. Ben and I would eat quickly and then head back onto the range for some extra training, just the two of us. That was important quality time. Just him and me.
“I’m a lost cause,” he would tell me. “You’re just wasting your time,” he’d declare after every few missed shots. “I’ll never succeed,” he kept trying to convince me.
“Shut up and shoot,” I would respond, correcting his body position, watching his breathing, monitoring his every movement, changing the ranges, trying everything I could think of.
Nothing worked! Zero hits on the target. A banana shooting that weapon would have produced the same results…
“Ben, I’m not giving up, and you’re not allowed to give up either! We’ll find the problem and we will fix it!” I looked deep into his eyes, almost begging him to have hope.
And another day went by. And then another. And with every passing hour, we were getting closer to the final shooting test. All while I was training every other soldier and making damn sure they were top notch.
No pressure… Right?
Think, Tzlil! Think! I yelled at myself... in my head, of course. I’m not speaking to myself out loud just yet. Maybe someday I’ll be willing to show the world just how crazy I really am😜
Okay! There’s one thing I haven’t checked closely enough yet! The way he pulls the trigger!
Just another day at the office ;)
I prepared what we call a rojum, basically a small pyramid of stones. Never mind why I set it up, the distance at which I placed it, or any of the other technical details, because they are not really relevant. What matters is what happened next.
“Focus and aim at the center of the rojum,” I instructed Ben, then lay down on my stomach beside him so I could closely observe exactly what happened when he pulled the trigger. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a few soldiers standing at the entrance to the range, watching us with visible skepticism.
Ben pulled the trigger and, as usual, hit absolutely nothing. But this time, I knew why. It was clear as day. Oh my God, how could I have missed it?
“Let me see your hands,” I told him.
He looked at me, confused.
“Hold both hands out in front of you, palms down and parallel to the ground. Keep them still.”
He couldn’t.
His hands trembled slightly. Even as he stared at them, trying to force them to stop shaking, they would not. He looked at me, then at his hands, then back at me.
“You, my friend, have developed a fear of shooting. You’re anticipating the sound and the recoil. Instead of pulling the trigger in one smooth, continuous motion, you squeeze it just a tiny bit, unconsciously preparing yourself for the shot. Your shoulder moves forward ever so slightly, and only then do you complete the trigger pull. That tiny movement throws off your accuracy completely. That’s why you’re not hitting anything! God is in the details!”
Before he could even process the mambo jumbo I had just thrown at him, I took off my shooting earmuffs and placed them over his ears. This gave him an additional layer of hearing protection on top of the earplugs he was already wearing. And although I knew the earmuffs would make it a little harder for him to maintain a proper cheek weld on the rifle, I thought it was worth it. And I was right.
Slowly, Ben started hitting the rojum. At first, he hit the edges. A few shots later, he was hitting the center.
He was thrilled! His confidence shot up almost instantly. His friends from the unit were clapping like proud parents at their kid’s recital, and I felt this unbelievable sense of relief. Indescribable really.
After two more days of nonstop shooting, I took my earmuffs back from Ben. He looked a little worried, as though I were taking away his security blanket.
“You don’t need them anymore. Believe me,” I reassured him. “Just don’t think about it. Let it flow.” And so he did. Pulling the trigger like a pro. Hitting the target. And passing the final shooting test with an excellent grade!
About three years had passed since that mission. I was entering the parking lot of a Tel Aviv mall and, like everyone else in Israel entering a shopping center, had to be checked by an armed security guard before driving in... you know, because there are fanatical Islamist jihadists trying to kill us and all…
I rolled down my window to say hello to the security guard so he could see that I wasn’t a suicide bomber or anything of that sort, and guess who it was?
Yes, my smart reader! You guessed it right!
It was BEN.
He had just been released from his compulsory service and was working to save money for his big post-service trip to South America. We were both so excited to see each other again! He even gave me a hug through the window🥹🥰
Then he told me something that nearly made me cry as a huge wave of emotion hit me all at once: not long after I trained them, he became a sharpshooter. He still serves as one in the reserves.
Meaning, he became the best shooter in his unit!
The best!
This article is getting too long for Substack and too short for a book, but I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I had the privilege of really seeing Ben, even when he had failed to see himself.
By refusing to give up on him, I was, in a way, seeing myself…
Long before I became the shooting instructor who refused to give up on the soldier everyone else had already labeled a failure, I was that kid.
I was a child who simply didn’t fit.
A little girl who had already lost faith in the education system by the age of eight. A little girl with learning disabilities, severe ADHD, dyscalculia, dysgraphia, sensory processing disorder… Should I keep going? Trust me, that is more than enough…
But I was also incredibly lucky. At some point, someone looked at that little girl and saw far beyond the list of diagnoses.
Two weeks ago, completely by chance, I saw her again.
I was walking to my car when I noticed an older woman struggling with her groceries, so I offered to help. I looked at her and suddenly realized who she was: the woman who had changed the way I saw myself as a child. I had not seen her in 24 years.
We hugged. We were both incredibly emotional. And standing there with her, I suddenly realized that all those years ago, I had been her Ben.
She taught me different ways to learn, ways that helped me overcome some of my difficulties. But what she truly gave me was something much greater: she believed in me at a time when I had very little reason to believe in myself. She convinced me that I could and that I would.
Maybe someday I’ll tell you the full story. But for now, I’ll just say this:
The one who can’t shoot.
The one who can’t learn.
The one who can’t.
Look again.
Because sometimes, the one who “can’t shoot” becomes the best shooter in his unit.
Sometimes, there is just a tiny thorn lodged in our foot, hidden from sight. We keep walking in pain because no one has noticed it, including ourselves. Until someone does; Someone looks closely enough to find the thorn, cares enough to pull it out, and suddenly, we can run freely.
All it takes is for someone to truly look. To truly see us running, even before we believe it’s possible.
Always be that person with good eyes.
That is the kind of person I always aspire to be.
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Tzlil Berko is a seasoned professional in private security with experience in tactical gear and simulation technologies. Her thesis research focuses on terrorism in the Metaverse.
She is a fellow at the Investigative Project on Terrorism (IPT), where she publishes on counter-terrorism and emerging threats. Tzlil is also a creative writer, represented alongside her parents by The Blair Partnership Literary and Entertainment Agency, and is the co-creator of a television project inspired by the published books of her mother, Dr. Anat Berko, and their extraordinary family story.
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