You try holding your breath for 24 hours—and then have a thunder storm so severe that bombing and sirens couldn’t possibly be heard. The cease fire seems to be holding; quiet nights have passed. The children in the south went back to school—albeit heavily accompanied by parents.
The communications network during war is amazing. Two seconds after the cease fire, everyone knew. But then, every time there was a strike, someone would ring someone and strangers would stop each other on the street to pass along the information. And yet, when my grandson was on a field trip in Jerusalem and there was a code red, the entire grocery store we were in knew nothing. Someone didn’t ring someone. Instead, he rang and said I’m OK, don’t worry. About what? Who ever expected Jerusalem to be a target?
Breath is being held. This might become a permanent activity.
They said and we said and since nothing was written or signed, who knows what will tip the balance back into war? Not us. So we go back to whatever we were doing before war broke out and hope for the best.
Problems post bellum: Are the trains and planes back to their normal schedule? We’re not hearing the planes overhead any more. Do the old men with the antiquated grocery store—and lower prices—carry walnuts, or will it be necessary to buy them at the big expensive store we don’t like? Ordinariness feels so good.
Day 3 of the cease fire. War is painful and expensive and I refuse to believe that anyone actually wants it, Pat Condell notwithstanding.
Breath is still being held.
cross posted Geoffff's Joint