Somewhere between Metula and Rahat, among the dunes and basalt hills, there is a phenomenon that even Harvard has not yet been able to crack: the clothing habits of the average Israeli. The one who comes to a wedding in a white polo shirt, goes to a job interview in ripped jeans, and in winter (that is, one rainy February) wraps himself in a down jacket as if he were in Iceland.
This is a nation that rejected the necktie as part of a colonial conspiracy, adopted Crocs as a national symbol, and broadcasts to the world: “We don’t dress for you. We dress for the integration.”