I’m currently sitting in the south of France.  The sun is shining.  The air clear and welcoming.  I am fortunate to be able to spend time here.

This time last week, I was in Gaza.

Within 30 minutes of landing in Tel Aviv, the first rocket alarm went off – a stern warning in Hebrew, followed by a curt message in English ordering those just landed to head to the shelters.  Most people trudged obligingly in the signposted direction, a few stood rooted to the spot crying uncontrollably, apparently frozen by fear.  We were unable to fit into the first shelter.  It took five minutes to get to the next one, by which time we were told the alert was over and we could go back to our private vigils at the baggage carousels.

Rockets of any type are undoubtedly terrifying.  They are indiscriminate.

As we crossed from Israel into Gaza, we saw fire coming from both sides.  The Erez crossing to/from the Gaza Strip is far from user-friendly.   A labyrinth of turnstiles that must be negotiated are …

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