Modi'in (3) – 2003.


We drove up to the post in Modi’in; it was 2 a.m. and I felt invisible.

The road slept and the car’s purr was the only sound along with the crunching of dry leaves under boots. It was like a movie, when the headlights go dim and then dark, the double slam of car doors, more boots on Israeli summer grass,

the subdued whispers of an army reserve post.

Avihu met us, he wasn’t far from what I had pictured, not far from guys I’ve known before. Despite the gun over his shoulder, he didn’t swagger.

I felt like a child as I busied my eyes while Shachar and Avihu rattled on and I knew when they were talking about finding jobs and when they were talking about, “eize chamuda, Shachar!” – “Betach.”

I kept with the rhythm of silence and let my eyes take in the hills of 2 a.m. Jerusalem,

of gold in the darkness,

of emptiness,

of dusty boots.






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