Recollections of a one-time encounter with Isaac Herzog that began pleasantly but went sour.
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I called a taxi that would get me out of a bad neighborhood, but the situation didn't get less scary inside the cab.
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There is nothing for me in a distant land. I have to return, gird my loins, roll up my sleeves and join the Jews and Arabs who are still fighting for our future.
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Pendants worn by both Palestinian and Jewish patriots prove that the one-state solution is already a reality.
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Sometimes I wonder if my pleasant childhood memories of my hometown are mere nostalgia. Was the situation in Tira always violent and nasty?
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I'm starting to think that the unadulterated pain that comes with voluntary exile for political reasons is gradually losing intensity in favor of a routine life without national pathos.
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