Just hours before I arrived on the Israeli side of the Sufa border crossing to Gaza on Monday, the IDF killed three terrorists affiliated with the Islamic Jihad as they were planting a roadside bomb a few hundred meters away. Business was temporarily disrupted while the scene was being secured, but by 10 am things were back to normal. Every day 70-80 trucks carrying freight are transferred from Israel to Gaza through Sufa. As Shlomo Tzaban, the manager of the crossing, briefed the group of journalists that I was with, a steady stream of 18-wheelers making their way to the crossing whirled up clouds of dust. The returning trucks were empty, since the border crossings only serve Palestinian needs: the only things that are exported from Gaza to Israel are rockets and mortars, which you don't need trucks for.

These border crossings are a part of the unnatural umbilical chord that attaches Gaza to Israel. "When people in Gaza turn on a switch, it's our grid; when they turn on a faucet, it's our water," explains IDF Major Mike Vromen. Eighty percent of the population is completely dependent on the humanitarian aid that flows through Israel into Gaza. This is how it works: trucks with goods, funded primarily by USAID, arrive on the Israeli side of the crossing. They are checked by the IDF and then unloaded onto a 200 meter long conveyor belt, which transfers the goods across the border, where they are then reloaded onto Palestinian trucks and distributed to various parts of the Gaza Strip by a confusing array of actors on the ground: WFP, UNRWA, CHF, to name just a few. It is a multi-million dollar industry.

During a Q&A with IDF Colonel Nir Peretz later in the day, I ask what purpose the conveyor belt has. Why not just drive the trucks across the border? The colonel looks at me like I am a total idiot but sticks the knife in gently: "Gaza is run by Hamas, a terrorist organization. Do you know what they would do with our trucks if we just opened the gate and drove right through?" Well, yes, I have a pretty good idea: they would shoot at them and try to blow them up in the same way that they almost daily attack the border crossings. Case in point: the Erez crossing was blown to smithereens on May 22 when a Palestinian suicide bomber detonated 4 tons of explosives packed into his truck. So the conveyor belt does make sense, but that is also an instance of what is so disturbing, namely that an Israeli at some point came up with a practical solution of how to continue to transfer goods into Gaza even when the border crossings are constantly being attacked. The image that comes to mind is that scene from Jurassic Park where a T-Rex is being fed a live cow. What would it take for a basic sense of self-preservation to kick in here?

(Above: Scene from the Sufa border crossing; photography by Paul Widen)

In the Torah reading for Shavuot, which we just celebrated, we read, "...and they encamped in the desert, and Israel encamped there opposite the mountain" (Exodus 19:2). The Hebrew word for "they encamped" is plural, while the following "Israel encamped" is singular. Why the difference? The medieval commentator Rashi suggests that the singular expression implies that Israel appeared before God "as one man with one heart." On that one occasion there was no rivalry and no bickering.

I recently heard an expansion of this interpretation by Rav Gedalyah, a senior member of my shul. The man must be in his eighties, but he still makes it to the second minyan every morning. As for myself, I attend the early minyan, and after we finish praying a few of us stick around and drink a cup of coffee and a shot of whiskey, the final preparations before facing the new day. Rav Gedalyah usually stops by where we schmooze and wishes us a good morning and peace upon the entire House of Israel. A few days ago, however, he came earlier than usual and sat down with us for a few minutes. With Israel's sixtieth anniversary celebrations still fresh in mind, he told us a story from the War of Independence.

Like so many other Holocaust survivors, Rav Gedalyah came to the British Mandate of Palestine with absolutely nothing. Here he was quickly put to work, and when the war started he became a soldier. He and his comrades received little training and had almost no equipment, yet faced an enemy many times stronger. His motley crew was sent to Latrun, where Jordanian snipers on the hill picked them off one by one. One day when it was time for afternoon prayers the Israeli soldiers were only sheltered by a tent. Jordanian mortar fire pounded the area when suddenly one of the soldiers stepped into a hole in the ground. When he pulled out his leg he discovered that the hole was in fact the opening to a cave. They all took shelter there and started praying. Five minutes later, a Jordanian mortar shell scored a direct hit on the tent where they had previously been standing.

"Rashi explains the singular by saying that the Children of Israel were 'as one man with one heart,' but how is such a unity achieved?" asked Rav Gedalyah. "The experience of that day made me think of what the text says a few verses later: 'Moses brought the people out toward God from the camp, and they stood at the bottom of the mountain.' Betachtit hahar: According to the Sages, this really means 'under the mountain.' That day at Latrun we were quite literally under the mountain, we were in a hole in the ground, and I can assure you that I have never experienced a stronger unity than I did that day. And that is how we defeated the Jordanians: not through might, but through unity."

(Above: The view from the mountain of Herodium south of Bethlehem. Photography by Paul Widen)

Jerusalem Day: Jaffa Street Forty-one years have passed since Jerusalem was reunited as a result of the Six Day War. A couple of days ago the streets of Jerusalem were thus once again packed with revelers that slowly made their way, singing and shouting, through the narrow alleys of the Old City to the Western Wall. By nightfall, tens of thousands had filled the plaza facing it.

This is what is left of the holiest site of Judaism: Not the place in itself, nor a ruin, but the ruin of the wall that once marked its perimeter. Standing there means being one significant step removed from the ideal: it means standing on the Outside in some sort of genuine sense.

As I was standing there, I was reminded of a discussion I had a while back with a secular Jewish woman. I remember saying that Judaism, to me, is a witness to the fact that something is fundamentally broken in the world, and that the Western Wall is a very graphic symbol for this. I did not suggest that any practical steps be taken at this point to change that fact, but this woman nevertheless felt it pertinent to exclaim, "May it remain broken! May it remain broken!"

This, to me, is a very curious position to take, and my failure to share this woman's defeatism probably explains why I fail in political moderation. Wishing for things to remain broken can only indicate that you live in a bubble where this brokenness means quaint Diaspora culture, not persecution and suffering. From this perspective, religious Zionism is perceived as a crude and dangerous idea, an obstacle to peace, and a violent and chauvinistic perversion of Jewish values.

The vast majority of the people that filled the Western Wall plaza as Yom Yerushalaim drew to an end adhered to this idea. Pushing and shoving they hastened to the wall, where the longing for complete redemption is so palpable that you can almost cut it with a knife. "May the Temple be rebuilt, the City of Zion replenished," they sang, as the Dome of the Rock towered over them in perfect serenity. Then came the piercing call of the Muezzin: Allahu akbar; Allaaaaahu akbar, suggesting that God, perhaps, is greater than all this.

Redemption is not a guarantee in Judaism, and the opportunity can be squandered in any number of ways. The real tragedy, however, comes when an unadulterated loyalty to the hope of complete redemption is branded as fanaticism, and when people settle for, even promote, the brokenness which has defined Judaism for 2000 years. Essentially these people still live in the Diaspora, despite the fact that they reside in the Land of Israel. It is never too late to lose the Six Day War, they claim: it would in fact be of great benefit to finally reverse that victory. It is, ironically, a very Jewish thing to say.

(Photography by Paul Widen)

Standardized test: A plaque commemorating victims of terrorism Jerusalem has suffered so many terrorist attacks that the city council at some point seems to have decided to standardize the plaques commemorating the victims. A number of morose remarks could be made about this, but I'll make an effort and try to shut up. I remember being here in 2002, when a record number of 60 Palestinians blew themselves up in various parts of the Holy Land. Riding on city buses in Jerusalem was like playing Russian roulette. The falafel joint around the corner from where I lived at the time seemed like the ideal target: no guard, always crowded, situated in a small shop whose cramped dimensions would maximize the damage of the acetone peroxide explosives, along with the proverbial nuts and bolts. A 16-year old Palestinian kid blew himself up there on a sunny afternoon in July as I was at home, listening to Counting Crows:

"...So we slide inside of someone's mouth
and someone's eyes
until
there's a sound of something intimate exploding..."

People were obviously reluctant to frequent cafes and restaurants during that period, which forced almost every single food venue to post a guard at the entrance. Sidewalk cafes were fenced in, but even then there were occasional smart terrorists that would bring along guns with their bomb belts and shoot the guard before entering and blowing themselves up. Hence the question, "Yesh neshek?" ("Do you have a gun?") was posed to every patron wishing to enjoy a latte in those days. It was one of the first expressions that I learned in Hebrew.

Now, to be fair, the last suicide bombing in Jerusalem was perpetrated on September 22, 2004, but if you are the owner of a cafe, how many bomb-free months do you count before you decide to expand your establishment unto the abutting sidewalk? There might be a secret algorithm here that I am unaware of, not entirely dissimilar to the one that prompted the standardization of commemorative plaques. Or there just comes a day when nothing else could make more sense.

Well, that day might have arrived already, without fanfare. Sidewalk cafes withoutCafe Betzalel: A peaceful place for now fences or guards are popping up here and there in the center of town as a result of this definitive lull in the Second Intifada (or whatever we choose to call this period of low-frequency warfare). Last Friday afternoon I enjoyed a live performance by a local band as I sipped on a cold Goldstar beer at one such place, Café Betzalel, named after Betzalel ben Uri, the ancient Hebrew building contractor who won the tender for the construction of the Tabernacle, way back when. The name means "in the shadow of God," aptly capturing the ambiguity of life in Jerusalem: the imminence of the Divine, and the darkness it sometimes entails.

Just one successful bomb attack will of course destroy not only the chosen target, but every expanding business in town owned by someone who thought that the violence had actually ended. But during the lull we live.

(Photography by Paul Widen)

When the Germans cast their votes on March 5, 1933, 43.9% voted for Adolf Hitler'sAt the funeral NSDAP. This party, though clearly anti-Semitic, did not win this election, the last German election before World War II, based on promises to exterminate Jews. People voted for them because they were sick of their shattered economy, sick of the humiliation after a war that was lost, and sick of the failed leadership of the Weimar Republic. And well, sick of the Jews, too, but that goes without saying.

The civilized countries of the world tried to negotiate. They compromised, they turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to the outrageous steps that were being taken by the Nazis with increasing audacity, steps that an idiot could tell would lead Europe and the rest of the world straight to hell. It took almost nine years for the civilized countries of the world to unite and get their act together, but by then the Holocaust was consuming tens of thousands of Jews a day and most of Europe was occupied by a death cult. It took another three years before Germany and its allies were defeated. By then, 72 million people were dead. Read that again: 72 million.

The victory over the Nazi evil was accomplished by an unflinching determination,In mourning which in practice meant a willingness to sacrifice massive numbers of soldiers. Just paving the way for D-Day killed 12 000 men, with another estimated 10 000 allied soldiers killed on that one day.

But more to the point, the victory was accomplished by holding the Germans and the Japanese responsible for their leaders. Women, children, and other non-combatants were seen as legitimate targets by the Allied forces. In order to break the morale of the German and Japanese soldiers, systematic bombing of civilian targets was adopted. Hundreds of thousands of German women and children were killed in the name of the civilized nations of the world. Two atomic bombs were dropped on civilian targets in Japan just to make a point. It sort of took the fun out of winning, but the objective was accomplished: Unconditional surrender.

Bekitzur, as they say here in Israel, in short: If you get into a conflict with an enemy that is hell-bent on your annihilation, you win only by repaying the courtesy. You kick their ass until they cry uncle. First of all, however, you need to believe in the fundamental righteousness of your cause. You have to not just think that you are right: You have to know that you are right.

In the renewed peace talks between Israel and the Palestinians, both sides, as well asIn anguish US-representatives, have repeatedly said that the conflict can't be solved through violence. This is nonsense, of course. The Arab/Muslim world doesn't have the means to solve it through violence, though they have tried (and failed) repeatedly for the past 60 years. Just a couple of weeks ago, PA President Mahmoud Abbas explained to the Jordanian daily Al-Dustur that he is opposed to ”resistance” (Palestinian code for terrorism), not because it's wrong, mind you, but because he doesn't think the Palestinians can succeed. He didn't, however, rule it out as a future option. Israel, on the other hand, doesn't have the will to solve the conflict through violence: The Jews can't stomach the utter carnage this would entail. Not even after the slaughter of eight Yeshiva students in the heart of Jerusalem on March 6, the subsequent celebrations in Gaza, and the official PA daily Al Hayat Al Jadida's extending honor to the perpetrator, does official Israel react with more than stern condemnations. Israel seems unable to tell friend from foe even when the friend is bleeding to death in a Synagogue and the foe openly celebrates this in the street. But let's not fool ourselves: This conflict can be solved through violence like any other conflict. It's usually how conflicts are solved.

So what is violence? How can we understand it? ”When a people uses violence, it isIn despair an instrument, a tool by which to try to pry loose resources unobtainable by other means,” Roger Friedland and Richard Hecht write in their book To Rule Jerusalem. ”But violence is also an expression of commitment, a demonstration of what one holds most dear. Violence leaves bloody traces: wounds and corpses. It marks a community's values on human bodies, through blood sacrifices that only make sense in terms of the purposes for which the were offered. Violence is a language; force simultaneously a physical and a moral phenomenon. Efforts to decompose it must inevitably crumble.”

When the Palestinian Arabs cast their votes on January 25, 2006, 44.45% voted for Hamas. This party, though clearly anti-Semitic, did not win this election, probably the last Palestinian Legislative election before World War III, based on promises to exterminate Jews. People voted for them because they were sick of their shattered economy, sick of the humiliation after several wars that were lost, and sick of the failed leadership of the Fatah party. And well, sick of the Jews, too, but that goes without saying.

(Above: Scenes from the funeral of the victims of the Merkaz HaRav Yeshiva; Photography by Paul Widen.)

I suppose that the revolutionaries are those who are capable of coming to terms with the brutality of the world, and of responding to it with increased brutality. --- Michel Houellebecq

I just finished working on an article about the Jewish community (or settlement, if you wish) in the West Bank city of Hebron for a Swedish magazine. It was originally meant to be a simple interview with the community spokesperson David Wilder, but once it was finished, my editor wanted me to "balance" the piece with a "voice from the other side." Allowing a Jewish settler to speak unchallenged would create the impression that his views were somehow endorsed by this magazine, heaven forbid.

And what are his views? Simply put, David Wilder believes that Jews have the rightA Prayer By The Grave Of The Patriarchs to live in Hebron, just as they have the right to live in any other part of the Land of Israel. We don't really discuss it, but it is obvious that this right has had to be maintained through continued sacrifice. During the last 40 years, 103 Jewish civilians living in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank have been murdered by their Arab neighbors, simply for being Jewish. At times, the Jews have responded in kind: On February 25, 1994, Baruch Goldstein stepped into the Mosque by the Cave of the Patriarchs in Hebron and gunned down 29 Muslims before being beaten to a pulp.

In Zionist theory, Hebron can be said to be the logical end point of the argument. People who otherwise agree with the basic Zionist tenet that Jews have the right to live in Israel will be hard-pressed to concur that this right extends to Hebron. That is probably why there are fewer than 1000 Jews living there, with at least 100 Arabs to every one of them. Hostility long ago reached the point at which the IDF had to enforce a separation between the populations, effectively destroying any semblance of normal life for thousands of Arabs. H2, the area where the Jews live, is a ghost town. The Arab shops have been closed for years and a lot of people have moved out. It is an ugly sight, I can assure you --- yes, brutal. It is perfectly understandable why people feel reluctant to take their Zionist claims all the way to Hebron.

But this is where it all started, the idea that God gave a piece of land to a certainMitzpeh Shalhevet Settlement: Cleared by order of the government person and his descendants. It is repeated every day in the morning prayers: "...and You established the covenant with him to give the land of the Canaanite, Hittite, Emorite, Perizzite, Jebusite, and Girgashite, to give it to his offspring; and You affirmed Your word, for You are righteous..." God gave the land with an obligation to conquer and expel, as one rabbi phrased it a few years before he was murdered outside of his settlement together with his wife.

It is not an easy thing to stomach, and most people don't. Just like they rush through their morning prayers without thinking about the words they utter, they claim that they are Zionists without giving much thought to the fact that every square inch of this land is soaked in the blood of Jews who died defending it and that there is no foreseeable end to this struggle. Maintaining a Jewish civilian presence in Hebron might require brutality, yes, but that's increasingly true for the rest of Israel as well. The neighborhood has always been rough, and it is getting worse.

Coming from a completely non-Jewish background, this is the Judaism that I amNot Everyone Was Thrilled About The Forced Evacuation exposed to in Israel. My secular Jewish flatmate in Jerusalem is increasingly concerned about the amount of time I spend in my West Bank Yeshiva. "Why don't you move to New York?" she almost pleads and assures me that there is Jewish life there, too. "Residual Judaism," I reply with a smile. "There is absolutely no life in it."

"But it is so much nicer..." she tries, before realizing that "nice" is obviously not what I'm looking for.

So what am I looking for? I think my life took a decisive turn about eight years ago when I first encountered the writing of the French author Michel Houellebecq. In between reports from the Second Intifada that had just broken out in Israel, his words were etched into my conscience: "In the midst of its natural barbarity, humankind had (not often) managed to create areas of love and warmth; small, protected zones where love and inter-subjectivity thrived."

Today I think that I have found one of those zones, perched on a hilltop in the West"The People of Israel Lives" Bank. I think I have come to terms with the brutality of the world; I have yet to respond to it, beyond moving here, which for some is brutal enough, but I am not sure if it qualifies me as a revolutionary. I suppose this move is a way to graphically express the fact that I have given up on the world in a sense, a consequence of the fact that I can no longer, as I used to, claim that it is redeemed. Israel, as a state and as a concept, is in itself another expression of this for me, an expression of the obvious, undeniable fact that we live in an unredeemed world. Israel is the last outpost, mankind's last attempt at redeeming itself; There is nothing beyond it, and all the evidence seems to suggest that things are going straight to hell. It is, to once again quote Houellebecq, an expression of the general impossibility of things.

Photography by Paul Widen

I spend most of Saturday in a shelter with over 200 volunteers who are in Sderot with the organization Lev Echad. Their aim is to show solidarity with the population and help in any way possible, but the situation in the town of 25,000 has become completely untenable. Sporadic rocket explosions have been heard since the previous night, usually without warning, which leads to speculation that the Color Red early warning system is out of order, or that there is a new type of rocket that the system fails to register. The words 'Russian roulette,' often used to describe life here, gain real meaning.

Residents of Sderot take cover during a Color Red Alarm, Feb. 29 However, during a lull in the rocket attacks in the late afternoon, the volunteers venture out in groups of two or three to knock on doors and see how people around town are doing. I join Avraham and Atara, while Kobi, Shlomit, and Shira tag along, as they are heading in the same direction. We do not get far before the Color Red alarm actually sounds, which means we have 15 seconds to take cover. Avraham points to a flight of stairs leading from the street up to the the front yard of a house, and we all crouch down there. A few seconds pass before I hear the incoming rocket, and for every nanosecond that the whistling grows stronger, I know it's going to strike really close. Really close.

The impact is massive, in the yard of what later turns out to be a kindergarten, just across the street, ten meters away from where we are taking cover. Kassam rockets do not fall down: They strike. There is a deafening explosion and a cloud of fire, smoke, and dirt. Car alarms instantly go off, there is no silence, no respite, it is all noise.

My ears are ringing and I am thinking a mix of "fucking-shit-what-a-rush-that-was-fucking-close" and "sorry mom" (she asked me to stay away from the Gaza border). Thoughts of God are in there too, somewhere. I look at the people around me. Shira is sitting between the two other girls and looks like she wants the earth to swallow her. "Are you OK?" I say. She nods through her tears. "Are you OK?" I repeat and look at the other guys. Everyone says that they are OK. "Avi, you're bleeding," I inform him. "I know," he says and smiles as he touches a scratch on his face. He is 19 and just started his army service in the Armor Corps. He is a tough guy. "You're bleeding from your fucking nose, too," I point out. "I'm OK," he assures us.

Then there is the wailing of a woman, piercing through the car alarm, like somebody is in pieces. I hesitate: I'm not sure I can handle shredded people. Seconds later the first paramedics are on the scene, but there are no wounded in sight. "Let's head back to the shelter," somebody says, which sound like a good idea. We run through the debris, up the street, ears still ringing.

Halfway back we run into some other volunteers. Shira is obviously shell-shocked, so she is taken back to the shelter with the other girls, while the rest are asked to work the area, knock on doors and look for trauma victims. I hurry down a narrow alley with Avraham at the end of which we come upon an old lady. "Shabbat shalom," we greet her. It feels like a sick joke. "Shabbat shalom," she mumbles back as she looks down the street, where rescue personnel is cordoning off the area. "Nim'as lanu," she cries faintly, "We've had enough. Seven years of this and nobody cares. What if it would have been a weekday? That yard would have been full of kids."

Shrapnel from a Kassam rocket Five minutes later the scene is crowded with various rescue vehicles and their respective crews, people from the neighboring houses, and the vultures of the press. This is business as usual, this is 40 times a day. Nobody is physically injured besides Avraham, and he is busy trying to help others. We meet two kids, not older than 12, that show us around the back of the kindergarten. "That was a Grad, a Katyusha, not a Kassam," says one of the boys with the authority of an expert. "Look at the extensive damage to the building, all the windows are shattered." They are absorbed by it, these saucer-eyed kids that possess knowledge that kids shouldn't have. Their own house is right next door: It was struck by a Kassam two months ago.

Avraham and I head back to the shelter. We pass by a Synagogue where an old man is trying to gather a minyan. "Mincha, Mincha!" he calls out. Business as usual. We decline the offer, scramble together a couple of bottles of beer and find a quiet spot around the back of the shelter. I am shaking, and I realize that I have been shaking the entire time. "L'chaim tovim," I say as I raise the bottle with an unsteady hand, "To a good life." Avraham objects: "Rak l'chaim," he says with a humble smile, "Only to life. That's all I'm asking for: Life. It doesn't have to be good."

We drink in silence. In the background we hear heavy machine gun fire from Gaza. "That's our tanks," says Avraham. "That's where I'm going to be soon, I hope. In Gaza, kicking some ass."

Twenty people were killed in Gaza on Thursday as the Israeli Air Force (IAF) carried out several strikes against terrorist targets in the Strip. IAF's response came after over 50 Kassam rockets were fired at the Western Negev on Wednesday, killing 47-year old Roni Yihieh, a father of four. As the IAF carried out the strikes in Gaza, terrorists continued to fire rockets at Israel's border communities. At least 15 longer-range Grad rockets reached as far up north as Ashkelon, one of them scoring a direct hit on a house. Several people were wounded and treated for shock.

At least two rocket squads were believed to have been hit during the IAF operationsA Kassam missile landing in Sderot on Thursday. However, there were also civilians among the casualties, including at least five children. Four young boys were said to have been killed by an IAF missile while playing soccer in an open field. The IAF has yet to accept or deny responsibility for the strike.

However, this didn't just start yesterday. The latest escalation of violence shrouds the fact that over 8500 rockets and mortars have been fired at sovereign Israel from the Gaza Strip the last seven years. The town of Sderot, with its 25 000 citizens, has become synonymous with this type of low frequency warfare. Due to the massive influx of heavy weaponry into the Strip in the end of last month when the Gaza-Egypt border was breached, the city of Ashkelon is now also within range of fire. While the profound dismay expressed continuously by the people of Sderot has not resulted in any decisive response by the Israeli government, it is hard to imagine that Ashkelon, with a population exceeding 100 000, will accept the same fate quietly.

International calls on Israel for restraint and a proportionate response to these attacks belie the inherent disporportionality of the conflict itself. The expressed object of Hamas is to kill Jews, and they now have the means at their disposal to do this more effectively. Whereas the Kassam rockets fired since the beginning of the Second Intifada are often dismissed as being merely big firecrackers, the Grad rockets are essentially equal to the Katyusha rockets fired from Lebanon during the summer of 2006. Their explosive payload is at least 10 times that of the much smaller Kassam, and their sudden appearance on the scene puts a quarter of a million Israeli citizens within their deadly range. The attack on Ashkelon yesterday probably marks the beginning of a calculated escalation by Hamas, which in the near future will lead to an inevitable showdown in the Strip. When this happens, it is crucial that Israel acts decisively, that the response is strategic and clear headed, aimed at revolutionizing the reality on the ground. The tactical strikes at random terrorist targets that we saw yesterday, with a good 25% of the casualties being civilian collateral, will not do the job.