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Yoel Ben-Zur accepted me for work in the cowshed. The approval event was short, personal and trenchant. You should have seen him: leaning back on his chair, two of its feet in the air, and a pair of heavy work shoes resting on the log − also known as the coffee table − outside the milking facility. Hands crossed behind his neck, he gave me a cursory scan, squeezed his bristling mustache and said,...