A middle finger from the court of pharaoh

Yesterday, a dust storm rose—a Khamsin. Hot and terrible, it rolled in from the deserts of Egypt, carrying the foul breath of sand and wrath,
a wind that scoured the sky, stripping it of its deep, sweet blue and made it an apocalyptic swirl of brown and chrome

It happens every year—like a curse on our calendar.
Always right after we wash our cars and windows  for Pesach, Egypt’s revenge.

And the Khamsin comes —
not gently, but with fury:
the wind howls, the dust swirls.

The Whirlwind — a chaos so fierce it feels biblical.

And as if THAT weren’t enough,
Yesterday, the sky cracked open—
not with clean, redeeming rain,
but with muddy drops that fell like tears through filth and ash.

Dust rained down with the water.

The barometric pressure dropped.

The air turned thick, sour with storm.
And when it was over, every surface wore a film of filth—
a sepia smear on every window, as if the land itself had wept mud.

A ghostly middle finger from Pharaoh’s court.

A whispered curse:

“Oh, you’re celebrating freedom again, are you?
Cleaned your windows, did you? Well then – Chag Sameach, you desert-stiff-necked people –  here, have a sandstorm.”

It happened just as it always does – right before the moon of Nissan swells full in the sky, ripe as prophecy.

And so this storm – as stunning and maddening as it was – rooted us here once more.

Not just in place, but in time.

In the unbroken loop of memory and myth, in the heat and grit of inheritance.

The Khamsin reminds us that the past is never quite past, and this land always tells of our connection — even through dust.