When Everyone Wants to Look 22 Until They’re 87
Welcome to the country where two things happen faster than you can blink: wars — and the transformation from natural lips to “please-remove-me-from-the-oven-I’m-done” lips.
Welcome to the country where two things happen faster than you can blink: wars — and the transformation from natural lips to “please-remove-me-from-the-oven-I’m-done” lips.
Israel and Eurovision are not a “romance.”
It’s an addictive relationship, not healthy, but one we can’t live without. Like the cigarette after a night out, or the third Chaser on a Friday night — you know it’s not good for you, but you’re there.
In a country where every word is policed, every tweet can ruin a career, and “offense” is a national sport –
“Fathi & Zimri Among the People” is a small cultural explosion of free speech
“What are they trying to sell us in pop culture – and why does every rapper today sound like a spokesperson for the United Nations?”
Once, cycling was a thing for kids with shorts and bruised knees… Today? It’s a religion.
And its temples are not in Jerusalem, but on dusty trails in the south, in the endless greenery of the Carmel, or on a strange section in the middle of Nes Ziona that suddenly became “a single track of medium-challenging difficulty with technical descents and switchbacks.”
When the country is turbulent, when the news is depressing, when the people are divided, when the left and right are fighting – shawarma is waiting for us in the corner. It doesn’t ask if you voted. It doesn’t check if you are in favor of reform. It’s just there, with coleslaw, runny tahini, and a look that says: “Forget about everything, brother, one bite and you’ll understand why you were born.”
The West has forgotten that sports are supposed to be a level playing field. Not a minefield of political correctness.
The moment identity trumps facts, fairness also falls apart.
If you think that tourist trips to the tombs of the righteous began in the 1980s with rabbis caressing friends and handing out dollar bills, you’re probably right. But long before that, in 1867, a slightly different type arrived in Jerusalem, armed with a wide-brimmed hat, a sharp pencil, and capable of describing the high school in a way that would make even a guide from the “Antiquities Department” sweat.
His name was Samuel Langhorne Clemens, but everyone knows him as… Mark Twain.
Love for Israel is not a Hollywood story. It is not divided into a smooth plot with a sweet ending. It is a different kind of love – one born of commitment, not romance. It involves queues at the health insurance company, curses on the road, rent that reeks of fraud – and yet, it is a deeper, more burning love, the kind that leads people to fly here precisely when the sky is thundering.
The WOKE is like quinoa on a moped – it’s not suited to the terrain.
It may be impressive at academic conferences and in New York studios, but it just doesn’t hold water against a tank, a grandmother with strong opinions, or a former member of Congress screaming in the middle of a finance committee hearing.