[as if in dreams] a newsletter from Joseph Zitt - 16 October 2023
The rain comes and goes overnight and into the morning. The kittens in the yard stumble around, soggy and confused. While they're almost full-grown, this is the first extended rain that they've experienced. At least it means that the sirens are quiet. Apparently the rockets don't work well in the rain.
I head out for work when the rain lets up. My rain jacket is a bit too warm for this early in the autumn. I vaguely recall that the lining comes out, but I forget how. I would probably have to struggle to get it back in when needed.
The trash heaps seem more full than usual. Specific spots on many blocks serve as dumping points, either by law or habit. Pickup is on Monday mornings, so they fill up on Sundays. Children poke at some of them as I pass. Older children watch the younger ones to warn them of danger. Even among the soggy cardboard boxes, they find toys or other interesting things.
I listen to an English language news podcast on the way. It's all war news, but it seems that's all the news is now. One story talks about the fortified areas built under many Israeli hospitals. While some usually serve as parking decks, they can be converted quickly into fully functioning facilities. I've been told of one rocket (possibly during this war, possibly during the last) that hit a hospital but hurt no one, since everyone was underground. Unfortunately, even with all the fortified tunnels built across the border, we haven't heard of any of them there being used to save lives this way.
The supermarket downstairs from my office is fully stocked again. The shortages due to supply chains and labor appear to have been worked out. The bakery is functioning. The aisles aren't crowded, though I do have to maneuver around racks of goods waiting to be shelved.
I walk over to the short queue for the self-service registers. My hands are full of the usual items. I never remember to bring a plastic bag down with me from my office, where I have been stuffing them inside another bag on my desk. The customer in front of me, who has a cart with a lot more items, waves me on ahead of her.
I read more news as I eat my lunch. Things appear to be in stasis for the moment. Everyone seems certain that our army will cross the border, but no one knows when or exactly how. News sites show images of skillfully arrayed masses of memorial candles in front of our city hall and elsewhere. It appears that the water is being turned back on south of the wadi where the refugees are streaming.
The sirens blare just as I finish eating. We all sprint dutifully into the stairwell and check our phones for details. Someone passes cookies around again. After a surprisingly short time, the loudspeaker squawks something I don't understand.
Home Front Command says we're supposed to wait for ten full minutes after any siren before we leave the sheltered area. That would give time to be sure that there isn't a second volley, and to give time for fragments of intercepted rockets to land. Everyone heads back to the office anyway. I ask the boss if the announcement was an "All Clear." He replies in English: "That 'All Clear' was unclear."
My Hebrew tutor is posting brief news stories to an online group of her students, with important words highlighted and translated into English. I don't know if she's back in the country yet. We're supposed to have a Google Meet session on Wednesday morning. I have to take a look at the vocabulary from the last session, before the start of the war. I don't recall what words I learned then. But I'm pretty sure that I will never forget the words for "hostage," "shelter," and "siren."
By the time I head out of work, it's already getting dark. I know that we'll change the clocks on a Thursday night sometime in the next few weeks. The newspapers will tell me when.
I hear a series of booms in the distance as I turn onto a residential street. I stop in my tracks. So does everyone else. We look around nervously. We listen for sirens, but don't hear them. A man with a black hat and a baby carriage moves first, crossing the street. More relaxed, but wary, the rest of us also walk on.
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The newsletter’s official mailing address is 304 S. Jones Blvd #3567, Las Vegas NV 89107. (I’m in Israel, but if physical mail comes to me there, it’ll get scanned and emailed. I don’t expect that to happen much. If you want to send me physical mail, ask me for a real address.)
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L'hitraot.