The Ambassador: Waiting for Qassams
Moments before Martin flies back to Canada, NB takes him to the most dangerous place his Timberlands have ever been to, to see brave Jews, spend money in deserted stores, visit soldiers, and smoke a joint at sunset - Sderot
Like most of you, I have never been to Sderot. The southern town that has been in the headlines for the past months seemed to me just like it looked on the auditions for "A Star is Born": the place to be if you want a good chance at appearing on the nightly news. Sderot is the town where anxiety and fear are routine and leaders ignore. It is, of course, the only place lower on the food chain than Kirayt Gat.
One evening I was staring at the screen. The announcer dryly reported about more Qassams in Sderot. The familiar images blinked in front of my eyes: Hysterical people screaming, silent kids, and the inevitable photo of the police sapper carrying a piece of a scorched pipe.
Then the phone rang. My militant, Jerusalemite friend, Amnon, was on the line. "Pack your Canadian, man," he yelled, "we're going to Sderot." I wondered why we couldn't stay home, turn on the stove and play with a lighter, but, Amnon explained it was a Zionist act: We go to show support, spend some cash in the deserted stores, visit soldiers at the checkpoints, smoke a joint at sunset, and return home.
"Show your cousin some real brave Jews. Not just cowardly leftists." Apparently, that was Amnon's way of expressing his disgust of last week column.
Like being allergic to snow in Iceland
The view from the car's windows was turning yellower as we drove south. The temperature was rising. We passed unfamiliar communities with ancient wild names: Azrikam, Sde Uziyahu, Rishon LeZion. On the outskirts of Sderot, Amnon, the former tank commander, gave us a security briefing: "If we hear the 'Red Color' alert, we must hide behind a concrete wall or under a staircase." Lucky for me, I thought, because my plan was to climb on a roof, wave my hands and sing the national anthem.
To my surprise, Martin seemed indifferent. The young Canadian was approaching the most dangerous place his Timberlands ever been to, and yet, not a single muscle in his face twitched. I asked him if he wasn't afraid. His answer made my jaw drop: "Being afraid in Israel is like being allergic to snow in Iceland." Amnon and I looked at him admiringly. The kid learned something after all.
We tied our horse to a tree and walked into the nearest bar. The "Q" grill-house in central Sderot is the town's situation room: journalists nervously strike the keypads of their dusty laptops, local blue-color workers bite into their huge pitas; old French people wipe their mouths with paper napkins and whisper grace.
We dined on a sumptuous meal and a cold beer and looked outside. From inside the restaurant, the town looks like a typical southern town: A bit sleepy, a bit sweaty. A short stroll around town proved us wrong.
Underground chic
A careful examination revealed a town in separation anxiety: We were the only clients in every store we walked into, the big outdoor market practically empty, soldiers and volunteers were the only ones on the streets.
The few locals we did see were the same ones we later met in the market, at town hall and by the bank, as if they were extras in a low-budget movie that are forced to participate in every scene. Sderot is not a sleepy town – it's in a coma.
The town's center is covered with graffiti. Most slogans praise Peretz and Olmert for their efficient handling of the security situation and commend their mothers for choosing such a stable, ancient profession. Despite the underground chic and the graffiti that makes Sderot a perfect location for a fashion shoot, the neglect, the heat, the dust, the deserted streets and projects, make it – how to put it? – a real downer.
We settled in front of one of the groceries (Sderot's version of a coffee shop) and drank another beer. Despite his affiliation to peace activists, Martin couldn't understand the problem. "Why doesn't the IDF enter Gaza and put an end to it? How difficult can it be to catch a couple of Qassam-shooting guys?" Amnon asked if he had ever seen Gaza and Martin said he saw it on TV. We immediately knew what our next mission was.
'Anti-Qassam marijuana'
A phone call to one of the dozens of Ynet reporters stationed in town, pointed us at the right direction to the best observation point: On a hill near Kibbutz Nir Am you can get a perfect view of Gaza. More journalists flock to that hill than to the Knesset's cafeteria during lunch break.
We reached the hill and waited till the analyst from Channel 2 finished his report. We said a quick hello and as he drove away, we lit a Qassam-sized joint as a talisman against the rockets. It apparently worked as no rockets landed for the duration of our stay.
I hate to say it, but I really hoped to catch one fall. Not on a house or a person, of course, but in an open field or something. I wanted to see the town receive an adrenaline injection and wake up to life. I wanted to experience the terror, be a part of it for a few moments. I wanted to write about a Qassam landing a few feet away from me, about Martin the wimp who started crying, and his brave cousin who had to save him.
But, no. It was the quietest day in the western Negev of the past six months. I guess we were lucky. Anyway, after a lengthy observation of the Gazan wasps-nest, Martin was convinced that entering Gaza would be quite different from a Friday afternoon's stroll on the beach.
On the way back we looked for depressed soldiers to give them a couple of Cokes and a watermelon. We reached a small post with several huge D-9s parked next it in the boiling heat. The tired soldiers watched us with amazement. Martin jumped off the vehicle with the watermelon and approached them. On their part, the soldiers didn't know if to shoot him or go get forks. A few moments later we sat in the shade sipping warm Cokes, eating peanuts and teaching Martin how to check the oil in an armored vehicle.
It was a truly nice group: A skeptic Tel Avivian journalist, a Zionist Jerusalemite photographer, an enthusiastic Canadian kid, a smiling dark sergeant, a silent blonde-haired private, and a new immigrant, chatty, soldier. We were all sitting 300 feet away from the border with Gaza frantically looking for a can opener.
Next week: Every bad thing must end – Martin goes home. Want to say goodbye?
Previously on the Ambassador: Martin landed in NB's living room, explored the White City, the kibbutz and the north. Against all hope they visited Jerusalem and also traveled to NB's favorite place in the country, and went with an Arab-love to a demonstration in Biliin.
