“Don’t be silly,” I reassure Itzik, as we sip on our sachlabs on Rothschild early last Thursday evening. “Nothing will happen in Tel Aviv.”
It might as well be the cue for the siren.
There are a surreal couple of seconds, during which the occupants of adjacent tables exchange puzzled, yet pregnant, glances: “Is it . . . ? What now . . . ?”
I jump up as if stabbed with a shot of adrenaline. The dogs bark. We dart inside the café, my spanking new Galaxy S II abandoned alongside the sachlab. Clive Dunn has only been gone a week, and I have already forgotten his famous “Don’t panic! Don’t panic!” (while discovering that it is true . . . no one “like[s] it up ’em”). It is the first time that I have heard a siren not marking the commencement of Shabbat or a Holocaust/Remembrance Day.
Everyone huddles together at the rear of the café. A 60-something female hears my accent and, as if encouraging a boy about to consummate his transition to manhood, asks me if it is my first time. I nod sheepishly. She imparts advice that I am in no state to listen to.
A distant boom. Perhaps two. And, within half an hour, I am home, packed and on Highway 1, on my way to the capital. I am ‘caught’ by my neighbours in the act of attempting to wheel my bag quietly out of the building. “I am not escaping,” I protest. “I have a fortieth birthday party in Jerusalem!” And it is true. But I don’t expect them to believe me. And I don’t think that they do.
I tease Itzik – a Tel Aviv real estate agent who has continually belittled my second home in Jerusalem – from the car, telling him that he won’t be getting a key (‘forcing’ the coward into having to stay with his father in Petach Tikva instead).
And Itzik is the first to call me, gloating, the following early evening, within seconds of the siren sounding in the capital. I have darted into the stairwell, where the neighbours are quickly gathering, before shooting back in to get the dogs. My Orthodox neighbour overcomes her fear of Stuey and Dexxy, whom, until now, she has refused to even pass on the stairs. “Shit,” I exclaim, in an attempt to lighten the tension, “I left the back window open.” But the attempt at humour is lost.
I meet an American woman on Saturday, who is considering taking refuge in London. Who am I to judge? I still do. And I delete an old law school friend from Facebook after he posts the “You take my water . . .” nonsense, with the caption: “Address this, Mark Regev . . .”
In fact, the next time I hear a Palestinian mention ‘his’ olive tree, I will make it my job to find said plant, uproot it, and stick it up his . . . well, in a place that it will get no light. These people attach no value to human life, never mind olive trees.
Make no mistake, when Hamas talks about an “end to the Occupation” (which, in principle, I am also in favour of ending), it is talking about an end to Israel. And, if it was up to me, I would bring those f*ckers to their knees before even agreeing to listen to talk about a ceasefire.
There is a wonderful feeling of togetherness here at present. I had been putting the finishing touches to a blog critical of Israelis. But I can’t publish it now. These are special people. And they are giving their all for our People . . . and – if the world would only open its eyes – for the values that civilised people everywhere hold dear.
To the residents of the south, we should have empathised more fully with your sacrifice and suffering, and with the intolerable circumstances under which you have had to live this past decade. To former Defence Minister Amir Peretz, respect for promoting – when few believed in it (or you) – Iron Dome. And to the soldiers awaiting your orders on the edge of Gaza, though it looks unlikely now that you will receive them, chazak ve’ematz.
To get more from opinion, click here to sign up for our free Editor's Picks newsletter.