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On the drive down to Kibbutz Sa’ad, I alternate between gazing out the window and trying to get the Homefront Command app to work on my phone. It’s November 5, the first time in a month I’ve left the environs of my city in central Israel, save the five-minute visit to my son on an army base near Jerusalem.
If you ever drive southwards towards the Negev, remember to look just ahead of you, because there, flying very low, you may see a spectacular sight of buzzards; they might have even been eagles. Hooked beaks, so clear in view, and wings spread wide as they glide in unison; a surreal embodiment of the primordial.
And further down the road, an encounter with a low-flying flock of pelicans must be one of the most breathtaking sights I have seen in my life: white bodies with wings waving gracefully through the air. They seem to swoop you up and carry you with them heavenward.
“We’re not from around here,” I say, displaying a facial expression that seems half facetious, half tongue-in-cheek. Ariella cracks up. “Of course you’re not from here! Now come here to the storeroom, I want to give