Joseph Zitt's [as if in dreams] 2025-06-21
Hi. I'm Joseph Zitt. I moved from the US to Israel in 2017. This is my newsletter about more-or-less daily life in my city in the shadow of war. You can select these links to subscribe or unsubscribe. There are more links at the bottom. You can also read this email online here. Here we go...
Saturday's first missile alarm is at about 2:30 AM. I stagger down the steps to the nearer downstairs shelter. Other residents and neighbors wander in. The couple with the big, friendly dog sits across the room from me. The dog curls up on the floor in front of them and goes back to sleep.
Later, family members in Continual Care tell me that there was another alarm, including sirens and overhead announcements on the House system, about two hours later. I didn't hear them. Neither the official Home Front Command app nor the newspapers mention sirens sounding around here at that time. Curious.
I awaken to the sound of the breakfast cart at about 8:15, like a cat hearing a can opener. The CEO of the House piles up my plate with items for breakfast and supper. I fall asleep again, back in my chair. I eat breakfast later in the morning.
I feel awful for much of the day. My mind can't focus. While I can tell that the cough medication is having some effect, it's far from a cure.
I head down late in the afternoon to swap out my stick of pills and check in on family. I help out as I can, but my family tells me that I look terrible and to go back upstairs.
I get as far as a comfortable bank of chairs in front of the Dining Hall before I have another coughing fit. I sit there for about an hour as other residents pass in the hall.
One comes by with a fresh container of cookies and offers me one. She discovers that she can't open it. I give it a try. I find a hidden tab that is locking the container. I pop it open. Many food containers here seem to be designed by the people who make the plastic gizmos that dogs have to battle in order to get at their food. The dogs appear to enjoy that. Humans don't.
One of the first people whom I met when I started visiting here walks by with family. She used to sit across from us at Shabbat supper. I haven't seen her in years. I'm surprised that she's still here. I call out, "Shabbat shalom!" She looks startled and a bit afraid. I sense that she doesn't recognize me. From her movements, and those of the people around her, I get the sense that she doesn't recognize much else of what's around her anymore.
A man, full of energy after forty years in the army, stops in front of me. "You have to do sports," he commands. "Just a walk, at least half an hour, around the outside of the house, every three days. Then you can make it every two days." I cough again and thank him. Noted.
I drag myself upstairs, intending to eat supper, but just sit in my big chair for close to two hours. The sound of a fork falling to the floor brings me back to the present. I eat.
Over supper, I look at the news. Not much seems new, though much that doesn't would have been breaking headline fodder two weeks ago.
I see that the Iranians have been naming an array of successors for top positions, since they have been losing them so rapidly. I picture people in line staring nervously at the lists, like musicians at a union hall finding that they'll be the next drummer for Spinal Tap.
A WhatsApp message from the House staff tells us that we'll be resuming breakfast and lunch (though not supper) in the Dining Hall as of tomorrow. Good. It'll be nice to get together with my usual crowd there, rather than in shelters in the middle of the night.
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Here’s an archive of past newsletters.
You can find me via email, Bluesky, Mastodon, Facebook, and, just out of inertia, X/Twitter. There's more about me and my books, music, and films at josephzitt.com.
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 at that Las Vegas address, 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.