Why I won’t break my fast on the 17th of Tammuz

I’d run into the chatzer without shoes, so the gravel was digging into the soles of my feet as I found my place in our chet. My long black wrap around (uber tznius) skirt was immediately streaked in pinky orange dust. My mefakedet saw me and told me to turn around and zip up my sweater with my back turned to our group, exposing myself to the shetach, where we were supposed to set up tents for the night. Without preamble she explains why that activity has now been abruptly cancelled. “War has officially broken out.”

BBQ’s, Street Parties, Rikudei Am and Independence.

We're out of the cab on our way to Kikar Safra, the square in front of City Hall where a bimah was erected and sober revellers would unselfconsciously dance those Zionistic dances out of step. The ones they learnt in gan and elementary. The ones immortalised by women wearing shorts and white shirts in black and white photos. The ones they saw in historical videos of kibbutz life and that moment when Independence was declared.