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.

When Terror Strikes

Soldiers are not fair game. Not here. They aren't nameless, they aren't headlines, they aren't one in 200,000,000 people. They're yours. Your child. Your sister, brother, boyfriend, girlfriend...friend. They go home on weekends and dream of lazy days and careers and beers and beaches and mama's cooking, of their dogs and their dog eared books, of the rave they might go to or the class they might excel in... of freedom and the life yet to be lived. You can throw any of the political science books you want at me. They are not fair game.