Siren after siren. Anyone who has lived in Israel knows, when you hear that many sirens something is up. The sirens get louder. There are more and more of them. So I stop my Shabbat cooking. And I look out the window. I see the police driving towards the Arab village. Towards the side of the neighborhood that has lived with continued violence for over two years. Molotov cocktails. Firebombs. Rocks. Repeat. And while the violence has been going on, you may not have heard about it until a man died in his car on his way home from a Rosh Hashanah celebration, when terrorists throwing rocks, hit their target.

Friday used to be a day for praying. Now it is a day of preying. They call it a Day of Rage. As though the rage is scheduled for just one day. Muslim leaders, heads of various terrorist organizations, and maybe just riled up youth, have used the day once set aside to pray, as a day to prey, attack and terrorize. And while the police try to prepare for this rage, the residents in my neighborhood have been bracing themselves for this kind of an attack for months, maybe years.

The police are under attack, on the same street where rioters and terrorists have thrown their Molotov cocktails, firebombs and rocks. Repeat. That intersection has become a stage for attacks. Night after night, the same show. But somehow the police, the government and the media are not watching. The residents’ cries have fallen on deaf ears, now awakened to the endless sirens, howling through the neighborhood, as the curtain goes up.

Four police are injured after coming under attack. Molotov cocktails. Firebombs. Rocks. Repeat. Through various forms of communication, the neighborhood is alerted. Some stay inside. Some want to rush out to help. Others can’t believe it is happening. Well, some have been waiting for this day.

From pray to prey.