Squid Game

On Sunday, September 26th, my 5'7, reasonably athletic, generally intelligent, and somewhat incompetent teenage daughter, Panini, told me she had heard good things from her friends about Squid Game and asked if she could watch it.

Coincidentally, my friends had just been messaging about it, so I asked them if it was appropriate for her. My friend immediately gave my text a thumbs-down and mentioned how violent it was. So the Boss and I discussed it a bit more and decided that, no, Panini was not allowed to watch Squid Game.

Six days later, on Saturday, October 2nd, apropos of absolutely nothing, Panini says to the Boss and me, "I have a confession: I watched Squid Game."

"You did? How much?"

"All of it."

Turns out that Panini had not only watched one episode before asking us if she could watch it, but also that she then watched eight more episodes over the next four days.

My first thought was similar to that of Dave Chappelle's when he discusses Carolyn Bryant Donham, the Mississippi woman who, in 1955, claimed that Emmett Till had verbally and physically harassed her, and who, in 2007, confessed that Till had done no such thing: "Well, thank you for telling the truth...you lyin'-ass bitch."

I actually wasn't upset at Panini because despite having stolen her friend Cece's toy from her cubby when she was four, having egregiously cheated her opponent on the tennis court when she was six, and having attempted to covertly purchase $90 worth of books for her Kindle when she was 11, she usually has a conscience.

What I quickly realized is that Panini had done the wrong thing not because she is a bad kid or a liar or similar to her mother, but instead because she was set up for failure. Meaning, if a kid has a computer and that kid is allowed to watch Netflix on that computer in her room in the basement, of course she's gonna do the wrong thing.

I mean, let's be honest: If the internet had existed when I was 13, and I had had my own computer and my own room in the basement, and certain things available on the internet today were available then, I would have skipped most of my meals.

So the Boss and I discussed the issue and agreed that the first change we needed to make was making sure Panini's computer doesn't live in her room. If she wants to watch something, she can sit on the couch like a normal person and waste away her life in public.

The Boss and I only punish our kids when the natural consequences seem insufficient. In this case, Panini already felt terrible about her heinously deceitful behavior, and we felt we had set her up for success moving forward. That said, I still messaged my friends to ask for advice and make sure they were aware of Panini's vicious lies.

The same friend who said Panini shouldn't watch the show suggested we make her write an essay. As an educator, my first thought was, "Why the hell didn't I think of that?" and my next thought was, "Giddy up."

Here's the introduction...

Democracy Made My Kid Cry

Louis Agassiz was a Swiss-born American biologist who made significant contributions to the fields of zoology, geology, and natural history. He also believed in creationism and reportedly felt "revulsion" when he first encountered black Americans. Over time, his legacy has gone from one of respect for his science to contempt for his racism.

In the past 20 years, his name has been deleted from various schools and neighborhoods. Last year, my kids' school changed its name from Louis Agassiz Elementary to Harriet Tubman Elementary. It was a democratic process, one which included administrators, teachers, parents, and even students. 

Last week, Tubman held its student design competition for its 15th Annual Fun-Run. Kids draw pictures, some adults in the building choose the top five, and then the students vote for their favorite.

OG, my talented 10-year-old artist with a heart of gold, an awesome work ethic, and an actual fucking idea, draws this insanely good picture:

Yes, that's Harriet Tubman, and yes, OG did it entirely by herself, and yes, it's meant to simultaneously honor Harriet Tubman and celebrate the school's stupid-ass Fun-Run. Perfect, right?

As soon as she submits, we start getting texts and emails from folks at school and in the community saying how awesome it is, how it perfectly embodies the spirit of the school, and how they really hopes OG wins.

But then, of course, the school lets the students vote. 

Re-phrase: A bunch of grown-ups who know something about slavery and understand the historical significance of Harriet Tubman cede their decision-making power to a few hundred children who know nothing about slavery and less than nothing about Harriet Tubman.

And this is what those little fucks choose:

The smiley faces on top are a joke, the girl on top of the sign in the middle looks like a murderer, and the dog on the bottom in the middle has its face smashed in.

Tubman's mascot is a bulldog, so I understand why Ashley (the artist) drew a bunch of dogs, but her childish cartoon pales in comparison to OG's artistic class. Still, Ashley and her wretched parents appreciated something that OG and I did not: Kids don't want escaped slaves on their t-shirts; they want sweaty puppies.

Here's the worst part: Ashley and OG are both in 5th grade, Ashley and OG are in the same class, and Ashley and OG are good friends. They knew one of their two pictures was gonna win, and they told each other they would be happy for whoever won.

As soon as Ashley's name was announced to the entire school over the PA system, OG was the first to give Ashley a hug. Ashley thought OG's tears falling on her shoulder were tears of joy. OG knew in her heart they were tears of sadness.

When OG got home, she cried a lot more and told me, "I feel sad for losing, but I feel even worse for not feeling happy for Ashley."

I told her, "Listen, baby girl. Your drawing was 1,000 times better than Ashley's, and you're way smarter and prettier than she is. Also, the kids at your school are a bunch of idiots for voting for Ashley's picture. Don't be friends with any of them. And finally, what kind of school puts a decision as important as the Fun-Run t-shirt design in the hands of children? After a years-long process of changing the school name, they had the perfect design right in front of them, and yet they still asked a bunch of piss-stained eight-year-olds to vote. I'm down with the Age of Woke, but at a certain point, we need to draw the line of who should hold decision-making power (adults) and who shouldn't (kids). Tomorrow, we'll go to Tubman and burn the place down, okay sweetie pie?"

A Hateful Yom Kippur

12 months ago, we observed Yom Kippur ("Day of Atonement") in Israel. The day was quiet, the streets were empty, and we felt at peace.

Last Wednesday, we observed Yom Kippur in Chicago. The day was over-scheduled with gymnastics, dance, and soccer practices, traffic was a nightmare, and we almost killed each other at the dinner table.

The Boss decided that on Kol Nidrei ("all vows"), the start of Yom Kippur and the holiest evening in Jewish tradition, we should have "breakfast for dinner." This involves making a shitload of both scrambled and sunny-side-up eggs, cutting up a ton of vegetables, and putting Panini to work on the waffles.

Please note that by last Wednesday evening, Panini had been upset for 48 hours straight because we were making her miss school the next day. She had already missed a day for Rosh Hashanah and, after a year of lost learning in Israel, she is generally anxious about missing school and sucking at math. So the Boss figured it would be a good idea to have her slave over a bunch of all-natural, whole-wheat, "protein-packed" waffles.

Once we finally sat down at the table (close to an hour later than normal), the Boss suggested we take turns sharing what we were sorry for. Our children were starving, Broosevelt kept asking for the eggs, and no one wanted to share the syrup. But yeah, that sharing idea sounds really good. Now's a great time to be vulnerable...

The Boss said she was sorry being on her phone too much and not always being present, and then immediately got up to text her mom.

Panini said she was sorry for yelling, crying, hitting, being mean, being unreasonable, being impatient, being rude, and some other things I can't remember.

OG said she was sorry for yelling at Broosevelt.

Broosevelt said he was sorry for yelling at OG.

Boni, of course, couldn't think of anything she was sorry for. After a few awkward minutes, she finally said she was sorry for not always being honest once we lovingly reminded her that she is a pathological liar.

I said I was sorry for having such low expectations of everyone else at the table.

While all of this is happening, the waffles, syrup, and eggs situation is out of control. Extra waffles are begrudgingly being divided into halves and fourths, everyone wants to pour their own syrup, and Broosevelt still does not have the number and type of eggs he desires.

People are also becoming increasingly rude and impatient. Panini is still complaining about missing school, three to five people laugh when Boni can't think of anything she's sorry for, and sincere apologies are met with responses such as, "Yeah, you should be sorry for that."

The anger finally culminates when Broosevelt, in a tearful state of rage, yells, "Would someone please pass me the eggs?!?"

I was so upset after dinner that I told everyone they sucked and that I needed some space. I went up to my bed and went deep down the YouTube rabbit hole of despair. Outside of the bedroom, the yelling and arguing continued, as did statements such as, "I'm done with you. Go to bed right now." Eventually I dozed off for a few minutes, but was wide awake at 9pm, at which point I came downstairs, avoided talking to Panini who was cracked out on her shitty Netflix show, and went on a neighborhood walk-about so I could collect my thoughts and figure out how to get away with murdering everyone in the house (except Broosevelt).

I know you want to know how our transition back to life in Chicago has been, but I don't care what you want. All you need to know is that the kids are back at school, the Boss is back to work, and I have way too much free time. Today is the first day that I'm effectively using that free time by entertaining the masses.

So, things are fine overall, but you should know that the hate is not limited to Yom Kippur: The Boss wanted me to get new batteries for the van keys but I didn't get the new batteries, so she eventually got the new batteries herself but only put one new battery in her key, not mine. When I called her out for her passive-aggressiveness, Broosevelt offered his full support and said, "Yeah, why does mommy have such smushy boobies?

Day 369: Shirli Must Die

How can Saul bring closure to a year of chaos, confusion, and calamity? How can he wrap things up in a neat and tidy way? How can he murder Shirli without anyone knowing?

Loyal readers of Saul's Famous don't need to be reminded who Shirli is. But for those of you who suck, Shirli was our downstairs witch neighbor who spazzed when my kids jumped rope in the living room, who freaked out when we turned on the air conditioning, and who tried to eat my children.

On our final evening in Tel Aviv, we drove back to our apartment to pick up our embarrassingly large number of suitcases. On the way, we received terrible news that the Boss' aunt's brother had passed away. So there we are with the Boss' family, standing in the parking lot, stunned, saying a tearful goodbye, and guess who walks up in her revealing Japanese silk bathrobe? It takes her an incredibly awkward minute to catch up with what's going on, she expresses her condolences, and she hugs us goodbye. I didn't want to hug Shirli; I wanted to stab her.

She held Boni for nearly 30 seconds. I could see my young child squirming, suffocating, trying to reject Shirli's spell. 

Hypothetically speaking, I may have planted some ricin on Boni in preparation for Shirli's final embrace. Currently, Shirli's body may, theoretically, be rotting in Apartment 6.

I also severed ties with my best friend this past year, a short, dirty Russian named Roman. True story: A few years after the Cold War ended, Roman's parents told him they were going on vacation in Bulgaria. They did that, and then they flew to Israel. And then they never went back to Russia. Roman is still in therapy about it. 

Roman and I played tennis together once a week. I wanted to believe he was an authentic Israeli mensch: a combat unit medic, a creative filmmaker, and a loving husband and father. Turns out Roman is just another millennial egomaniac. We invite him for shabbat dinner on my birthday; he bails. We make plans for our kids to meet at the park; he has an appointment. And in my final days in Israel when we want to say our goodbyes, what does Roman do? He gets COVID. Selfish prick couldn't've waited a few more days til' we left?

Speaking of Russians, Saul would like to share his anthropological expertise regarding Russian Jewish influence in Israel. For context, nearly 40% of all olim (new immigrants) to Israel are from the former Soviet Union.

Recipients of nation-wide vocational training during the Soviet era, Russians are the backbone of dentistry and orthodontics. You may remember one of my earlier, romance-laced posts about the dental hygienist who will soon be having my 5th child.

Traumatized from bloated socialist bureaucracies, Russians keep things moving in the Israeli government. After I sat in the Ministry of the Interior waiting room for nearly an hour in a desperate attempt to get tourist visas for my family, the Russian lady at the front desk demanded one of the lazy-ass clerks meet with me. Ten minutes later, I had my visa stamps.

Still smarting from the 1980 Moscow Olympics boycott, Russians are always looking for talent. We were leaving the beach one day, and a middle-aged Russian probably named Svetlana stopped Boni dead in her tracks and said, "Eze raglayim!" ("Look at those legs!"). Svetlana took our phone numbers because she was convinced Boni needed to be a world-class gymnast who would one day look back on Svetlana's harsh training methods and cry.

Experts at cheating, scamming, and lying, Russians make everyone around them look like friars (suckers). Yula, our Russian neighbor who dances tango and drinks white wine, sold the Boss a bunch of her home-made dresses. Eli, our nebbishy Russian landlord, charged us exorbitant rent and never fixed the mold. Yuri (or Ivan or Dmitriy), a Russian academic who worked with the Boss' aunt, stole her dissertation idea and published it as his own.  

Russians are helping Israel prosper and tearing the country apart. I'm glad Roman didn't die of COVID, but some of his brethren should suffer with Shirli.

In our last week in Israel, we returned or threw away six bikes. We sold or gave away four beds, two desks, and ten chairs. We packed up and handed off tons of boxes worth of sheets, towels, dishes, glasses, silverware, pots, and pans. And, of course, we packed up 15 suitcases of clothes, shoes, books, and more stupid-ass kid shit than you can imagine.

When we got back to Chicago, everything reversed: We unpacked our suitcases and opened up all the boxes we'd stored, one of which was literally labeled "OG's crap." The good news is that I found my unused iPhone case and autographed Roger Federer tennis balls. The bad news is that my wife and children all suffer from hoarding, and that stupid-ass kid shit has taken over our house.

The Boss took nearly two weeks off from work and, in her first meeting back last week, one colleague was pissed about lack of productivity and another shed tears of self-doubt. The Boss currently spends all day in the house on Zoom, holed up in a corner of OG's bedroom on a hard wooden chair. She ventures out of her cave around 4:30pm, takes care of one to three crying children, makes dinner, eats dinner, and goes to bed. Things are good!

Panini the JAP went to Iceland with the Boss' parents as a Bat Mitzvah gift. She had a fantastic time and took beautiful pictures. At this moment, however, she is jet-lagged in her new room in the basement with unpacked suitcases and shit all over the floor. She hasn't seen her friends in more than a year and the Chicago Teachers' Union is already complaining about returning to in-person learning in a few weeks. If Panini thought this past year was difficult, she's about to get a metaphorical dose of the Delta variant.

OG misses her friends in Israel and FaceTimed with one of them the other day. It's a good thing she hasn't brought closure to our time there cuz she's got nothing here. Her best friend no longer goes to the same school, two of her other friends moved to the suburbs, and Panini abandoned her as a roommate. 

Broosevelt brought his Israeli soccer skills back to Chicago, but he wore his full Messi uniform to soccer camp two days in a row. I didn't have the guts to tell him that that was not a cool move. 

Today, Boni neither got dressed nor left the house. She did, however, eat Froot Loops, peanut butter and jelly, Cheez-its, Chipotle, and an ice cream sandwich. Yeah I'd say that about sums up Boni's current existence.

As for me, I'm cool as a cucumber. No job? No worries. No purpose? No problem. I bought 48 beers and 6 White Claws today, and I'm headed out of town this weekend so the Boss can have more quality time with the kids. You're welcome.

The Boss has been speaking Hebrew with our children, but they've already started responding in English. Going to the park was cool for about one day, but now the kids know where I hide the iPad. There's a reason we haven't seen any friends: We don't have any.

This is all Shirli's fault. 

Here's hoping that her demise leads to our prosperity.

Day 319: Panini's Bat Mitzvah Gift

Panini is almost 13 and is having her Bat Mitzvah in Tel Aviv on July 19, 2021.

This post is my gift to her, and I would like to give her the greatest gift a father can give to his daughter: the truth.

Panini, my sweet girl, some say the truth hurts. I say the truth shall set you free...

The truth is that your Hebrew is phenomenal. You go to a Hebrew-language school, you hang out with Hebrew-speaking Israelis all the time, you understand everything everyone says, and you read my WhatsApps for me without a problem. But I’ve heard you actually speak fewer than 100 words in Hebrew since we arrived. You either speak Hebrew when I’m not around or you’ve figured out how to successfully navigate life without talking.

The truth is that you fully committed to your soccer team this year: two practices and one game a week, long car rides to games, and hot, sweaty afternoons and evenings. While you were playing, your friends were often hanging out at the pool, but you rarely complained. Sure, it would have been nice if you’d gotten more playing time here and there, but don’t worry: Every team needs a bench-warmer.

The truth is that you tried hard in school. Despite the fact that nearly all of your classes were in Hebrew, you were often on Zoom, and your elitist private school with elaborate breakfasts, turf fields, and spoiled children was a balagan (mess), you remained patient and diligent. But let’s be honest: You may not have learned a damn thing. You coasted through most of your classes, only did homework for English, and probably got a little dumber this year.

The truth is that you made an outstanding effort to cultivate friendships, both in the neighborhood and at school. All of Saul’s readers remember how difficult 7th grade was socially, but almost none of them had to do 7th grade in a foreign country. Despite the insecurities of puberty, the linguistic and cultural barriers, and the COVID-related starting and stopping, you formed two solid friend groups and built meaningful relationships. Sure, there’s been some drama here and there, but your friends are good people with big hearts. That said, you and I both know that a couple of those bitches gots to go.

The truth is that you’re an amazing big sister. You read your siblings books, you play games with them, and you pin them to the ground when they deserve a beating. But sometimes you take advantage of your power and privilege and slap OG in the face.

The truth is that you’re responsible, loyal, and kind. You pack your bag before you go to sleep, you bake cupcakes for friends’ birthdays, and the other day you got me a carton of glida (ice cream). But man, you do some stupid shit sometimes. You left that glida in your backpack the entire school day, so by the time you gave it to me, everything was soaked with Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.

The truth is that you are physically stunning. Many of Saul’s readers are 5’2, pale-skinned, brown-haired basics, and every single one of them wants to be you: 5’7, great butt, gold skin, long legs, wavy blonde hair, soft eyes, and a perfect nose. You’re built like a Greek goddess, and I can’t wait til’ you’re done with puberty and realize how absolutely beautiful you are. But I guess that’ll have to wait because right now you look in the mirror and, instead of seeing Charlize Theron, you see Danny DeVito.

The truth is that you are sensitive, thoughtful, compassionate, vulnerable, and communicative. But you’re also kind of a spaz, and the yelling and crying will not get you anywhere but to the Land of No Boyfriends.

The truth is that I love you. I love you so, so much. I cry when I think about how amazing you are, and I’m so proud of the young lady you’ve become.

Mazal tov on your Bat Mitzvah, Panini. Don’t screw it up.

Day 312: Justice

Mr. Jason teaches English at my school. He gets food on his face when he eats, his eyes look crossed cuz he has thick glasses, and he walks funny cuz I think one of his legs is shorter than the other. I love Mr. Jason. He doesn’t care that most of his students don’t like him, he makes fun of himself, and he freely admits to having no idea how to parent his child. And best of all, he’s British. He speaks Hebrew with a thick British accent, calls me “mate,” and pronounces “terrible” exactly how you think he pronounces it.

Last fall, Mr. Jason showed up to work bleeding profusely. He took a turn too fast on his electric bike, the bike slid out from under him, and he went flying. So there he is in the staff room, smiling, putting toilet paper on his wounds, and asking if he should stick around to teach his classes. And all I can think of is the 80s classic European Vacation: “Oh, it’s just a flesh wound!”

Mr. Jason has since been in two more bike accidents. Recently, he tried to pass the car in front of him, but the car turned and threw him and his bike to the ground. He told another teacher and me about the accident, and we were like, “Dude, if you were riding behind the car, it’s kinda your fault.”

Why am I telling you so much about Mr. Jason? Cuz justice, that’s why. Cuz when you ride a bike fast on a street with big, dangerous cars, you better be careful. I’m not saying I wanted Mr. Jason to get run over; I’m just saying that shit happens for a reason and justice was served.

Justice was recently served to my favorite police officer, Derek Chauvin. After the verdict, when I thought about how fucked up he’s gonna get in jail, I felt a brief moment of sympathy. But then I snapped back and thought, “Nah, this dude deserves everything he’s gonna get in jail. Everything.” I’m not saying I want him to get beaten and humiliated and raped; I’m just saying that shit happens for a reason and justice will be served.

I’ve been thinking about justice a lot recently. Was it just for Hamas to fire 4,000 rockets at Israel? Was it just for Israel to respond the way it did? If I eat a giant bowl of Frosted Flakes, must I suffer the way I do?

In a last-ditch attempt to stay on as prime minister, Bibi Netanyahu, aka “King of Israel,” tried to stop a coalition from forming by escalating Israeli-Palestinian tensions. The war started, people died, the war ended, and the coalition formed anyway. Netanyahu is no longer prime minister, and he is facing charges of bribery and fraud. Justice may be imminent for this genius dictatorial piece of shit.

Many thousands of Israelis have applied for and gotten citizenship in various European countries if they can offer any type of proof that their ancestors were expelled from a particular country. Dr. King said, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” For Jews whose ancestors were kicked out of Spain 500-ish years ago, I suppose it’s better late than never.

Israelis don’t pull over for ambulances. Like, at all. So I’m assuming people die here cuz it takes too long for ambulances to get to them. One day, some Israeli bastard who didn’t pull over for an ambulance will call for an ambulance but people won’t pull over for that ambulance and then that Israeli bastard will die and justice will have been served.

In America, teachers, coaches, camp counselors, etc. are not really allowed to put their hands on kids. In Israel, however, when a kid in a pool is misbehaving and the lifeguard tells him to get out but the kid won’t get out, the lifeguard gets into the pool, grabs the kid by his arm, and yanks his ass out of the water. Israeli pool justice is swift and severe.

Humans eating bats or whatever the hell happened in China is responsible for COVID, so this pandemic is a form of justice. Israelis are also too close to nature. Screeching birds wake up Broosevelt at 5am. Ants are all over our bathroom. Poisonous snakes line the path to the beach. Howling jackals run through our neighborhood at midnight. Yes, this is all true, and here comes the best one: Panini and I got off the highway in southern Tel Aviv on the way to her soccer game and all of a sudden there was a big, brown horse running wild down the busy street. I’m not sure what that horse did wrong in its previous life, but it was running right into oncoming traffic, so I’m pretty sure justice was served.

We went to the northern tip of Israel a few weeks ago and spent time in a Druze village. (FYI: Druze speak Arabic and their faith originates from a sect of Islam, but they don't identify as Muslim.) We ate an enormous dinner of majadara (lentils and rice), dolma (grape leaves), tzatziki (yogurt with cucumber), labne (thick Greek yogurt), taboule (bulgar with parsley and vegetables), roasted chicken with potatoes and cauliflower, zucchini stuffed with rice and meat, olives, and, of course, salat (diced tomatoes and cucumbers with olive oil and lemon). For dessert, we ate home-made doughnuts and knafe (shredded filo soaked in sweet syrup). The next morning for breakfast, we ate three different types of Druze pita filled with labne, potato, and/or spinach, accompanied by olives, honey, apples from their orchard, and three different types of jam. We decided to buy some of these local delicacies. The Boss’ mom, a cute, little lady who is one of my favorite mothers-in-law, was told it cost 300 shekel but only paid 200, perhaps because she had a senior moment or perhaps because certain members of certain faiths are always looking for a deal. Justice was finally served when she was publicly shamed for not paying the kind Druze gentleman the correct price.

The Boss was recently on CNN International because she published some half-decent study about the impact of remote learning on the mental health of kids which luckily got picked up by TIME magazine and then CNN. Anyone who knows anything about science knows that the Boss benefited from good timing, not from great science. Justice was served when the Boss got bitten by a bug while she was sleeping and then woke up on the morning of the interview with a super swollen eyelid which was definitely not noticeable on camera...

Panini is my hero and best friend, but the crying and yelling and spazzing and crying has gotten out of hand. Justice was finally served when she came home sweaty and gross from an intense soccer game but there was no hot water and she cried through her entire cold shower while the Boss and I sat on the couch and one of us laughed hysterically.

OG refuses to leave her ripped plastic bag of Pop-Its fidget toys at home, so she takes them to school where her friends play with and break them. Leave your shit at home, and there won’t be any tears. Bring your shit to school, and experience the wrath of 4th grade street justice.

Broosevelt couldn’t keep his fingers out of his mouth for a couple of weeks, but justice was served when he had to stay home for two days due to a high fever and dry-heaving in the toilet (see below).

Boni got the same fever a couple of days later and has been home for three days. I’m not sure what she did to deserve it, but she does kick Broosevelt in the beitzim (balls) sometimes.

After years of hard work, sacrifice, and total dedication to my work and family, I am finally getting the justice I deserve. School is basically finished, so I often spend the late evenings playing tennis or basketball, or walking barefoot around the neighborhood, enjoying the warm breeze, smelling the flowers, thinking my thoughts, and giggling out loud to myself. This justice may be temporary but, like Panini’s cold shower, it tastes so sweet.

News flash: My brother-in-law and his husband are new fathers, but they gave their kid a French first name, a Hebrew second name, an initials-only third name, and a hyphenated last name. It might be tough growing up with two dads in backwards-ass America, but now this kid is in serious trouble with all those goddamn names. I’m not saying I want the kid to get bullied and come home in tears; I’m just saying shit happens for a reason and justice will be served.

Day 279: The Bunker

Today, friends, is a lesson in competing narratives.

Narrative 1: The colonial Zionist entity known as Israel attempted to forcibly expel a number of Palestinian families from their homes in Sheikh Jarrah in occupied East Jerusalem. In response to these illegal evictions, Palestinians protested around Jerusalem’s Al-Aqsa mosque on the final Friday of Ramadan. The Israeli military responded violently, stoking international outrage and wounding more than 300 Palestinians. Hamas then issued an ultimatum for Israel to remove its forces in Sheikh Jarrah and from the Al-Aqsa compound. When Israel refused to comply, Hamas in Gaza fired rockets towards various locations in Israel. Though most of the rockets were intercepted by Israel’s Iron Dome defense system, Israel’s aerial attack in Gaza killed at least 26 Palestinians, including a number of children. Netanyahu announced today that “both the might of the attacks and the frequency of the attacks will be increased.”

Narrative 2: Israel recently attempted to reclaim land in a Jerusalem neighborhood known to Jews as Shimon Hatzadik (Simeon the Just), a revered third-century BCE Jewish priest whose tomb is located there. The neighborhood is often visited by Jewish pilgrims and the owners of the land in question, a private Israeli NGO, have legal title to the property and claim that, in the absence of rent being paid by the tenants, the tenants ought to be evicted for breaching the law. In response to Israel’s activity, Palestinians began violently protesting at the Al-Aqsa compound, which Israel was forced to shut down due to security concerns. Since then, Hamas, hoping to increase its stature among Palestinians after the Palestinian Authority recently cancelled elections, has fired over 1,000 rockets towards urban centers across Israel, which has responded by warning civilians and targeting Hamas terrorists in Gaza.

My niece in Colorado doesn’t want to come to Israel because she thinks Israel is the bad guy. The Israeli dude who came to fix our ceiling fan (which Broosevelt and Boni destroyed) thinks Israel should send Gaza back to the Stone Age. There are clearly different perspectives, narratives, and experiences regarding this conflict.

And so it was in the bunker last night…

Around 9pm local time, three of my children were sleeping soundly, Panini was on her phone as always, and the Boss was thinking about how lucky she is to be married to me. I was reading in bed when the first siren went off. We grabbed the children, a water bottle, our keys, and our kafkafim (flip-flops), and left the apartment. We were planning to go to the miklat (bomb shelter) in the basement, but everyone on our floor was just standing outside in the hallway.

My thought: Why the fuck are we in the hallways? What if a rocket came through the window right there? These lazy-ass Israelis won’t even walk down three flights of stairs.

My neighbor’s thought: Stupid-ass Americans. Why the hell are they wearing kafkafim?

Boni’s thought: Can everyone shut the hell up? I’m trying to catch some shut-eye on Daddy’s shoulder.

Eventually, we headed down to the miklat, a concrete room in the basement with a few dusty chairs, an old baby stroller, and some plastic flowers.

Shirli was there. You remember Shirli, don’t you? She’s the witch who lives below us. 

My thought: Shit, Shirli’s here. Don’t make eye contact.

Shirli’s thought: Look at those slimy little creatures. Which one should I eat first?

Broosevelt’s thought: Wow, turns out I’m more scared of Shirli than I am of these rockets.

So it’s Shirli; my brood of six; another family of five; a few older couples; two daughters and their mom; a small, white, fluffy, trembling white dog; a big, beautiful, grey dog named Dust, and a young couple (owners of Dust) with a newborn baby. I offered my chair to the newborn’s father.

My thought: This dude is standing the whole time with a baby in his arms. He should sit.

His thought: I served in the military for three years, and this American asshole thinks I need to rest right now?

The Boss’ thought: Do you not see me sitting on the ground with two children in my lap?

We spent about ten minutes in the miklat, came back upstairs, and crawled into bed. Ten minutes later, there were more sirens, so we counted heads again and went back to the basement.

People started to get tired and bored. Dust took a nap. I thought about why it takes so long for my toothbrush to charge. OG asked me if she could do a dance performance for everyone. Panini said her phone was dying, and Broosevelt immediately asked, "Who's dying?"

Eventually, we went back upstairs, crawled into bed, and fell asleep. At 3am, the sirens came back on and we again rushed down the miklat. Sirens blared almost non-stop, and this time there were some super-loud booms, most, if not all, of which were Israel’s Iron Dome defense system intercepting Hamas rockets.

My thoughts: Why is there an open window in the corner? I understand we need fresh air, but doesn’t that defeat the purpose? Will Panini ever get off her phone? Why do my nipples keep chafing when I play basketball?

Broosevelt’s thought: I have the sickest set of action figure Brawl Stars of any kid in the neighborhood.

Dust’s thought: Why in the fuck do I keep giving my paw to everyone but not get any god damn treats?

Shit felt pretty real for those 45 minutes, but eventually things subsided. We went back upstairs, I crashed on the couch, and the Boss slept in our bed with OG, Broosevelt, and Boni (who fell off the bed a few hours later).

We woke up this morning drowsy, but there was no school for the kids.

Boni's thought: Hooray!

The Boss' thought: Oh shit.

My thought: If I had murdered Shirli last night, would the people have cheered?