Ad mosai?

My old street corner.

Yellowed stone, brilliant rays, and luminescent blue.

Busy, bustling, bright.

Where we watched that train and its parking lots slowly, slowly come to life. We’d joke about paying the city for babysitting those 3 little noses, glued to the pane.

Where I’d see my kids gaily waving through the barred picture windows as I’d alight. I’d remember how we should really invest in curtains for the daytime, when the heavy metal trissim were rolled up. We never did.

Where, a short while back, a soldier was shot in the stomach under the bus shelter that sheltered nothing and no one.

Where last week, a baby went splat.

My old street corner.

Busy, bustling, bereft.

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Please Let This “Just” Be A Protest

It’s after 1 AM here in the Holy Land.
I’m still up trying to catch up on some never-ending paperwork, and I’ll admit that sometimes it’s creepy being the only one up at night here, right across the street from our terrifyingly bloodthirsty oh-so-friendly cousins.
About 3 minutes ago, I started hearing what sounded like a rowdy crowd of chanting people approaching.
I could have sworn that thought I might have heard “Allahu Akbar,” but it could just as well have been “Peanut Butter,” I guess.
You know, some people really are very passionate about that deliciously creamy condiment. (I do hope they were with me on the smooth don’t-you-dare-give-us-that-yucky-pebbly-consistency team. Otherwise I may just have to organize a counter-protest.)
Now there are many helicopters circling above, but nothing else.
The door is locked, the trissim are down, and I am frantically googling realtime news to check if anyone else heard the shouting, or if I made this whole thing up.
My heart rate is finally slowing, and I am no longer trying to decide if it is safer to wake my husband and kids and try hiding them, or to keep them all serenely sleeping and just pray.
There are days when I’ll get on a crowded bus, see a spaced out suspicious looking teenager, and frantically start reciting tehillim. If he looks really shady, I’ll even consider getting off at the next stop, just to stand there, feeling ridiculous (and late!), waiting for the next bus.
Sometimes it’s hard to know the difference between imagination and reality here.
Sometimes I feel like I’m a paranoid maniac; sometimes I feel conscientiously vigilant.
Either way, it’s a happening country.