Everything’s Upside Down

Israel, at this moment, is a country surviving on sheer exhaustion. Not on cunning, not on courage — but on the raw, guttural weariness that keeps a government feeding off our fear, draining our open veins, burning into our eyes until they’re accustomed to the fire. And here’s Bibi, calling himself a leader, chewing on whatever flicker of hope remains. He doesn’t govern or guide; he devours, prey by prey. And now, his latest move is Israel Katz, a man who, instead of holding the country from the edge, seems barely able to shoulder the weight of his suit.

But what strikes me, what gnaws at me as I watch all this, is the disgust. The irony of this theater is that, suddenly, Gallant becomes a hero, even a martyr. As if he hadn’t been at the heart of everything, his hands stained with the same blood that makes us grit our teeth. And now, the country mourns him like some sacrificial lamb. It’s a joke. And it’s an expensive joke — because while the people pretend to have a short memory, Bibi is there, pulling the strings, shaping the narrative. He plays each of us, leans into our fatigue, and fools us all with shameless coolness.

And Katz? Katz, that empty suit, is the last play. A puppet. A man Bibi controls with a nod, like a puppet too dull to feel the strings. For Bibi, it doesn’t matter that Katz couldn’t tell a defense strategy from a spreadsheet. He doesn’t want a Defense Minister; he wants a mannequin who says yes, always yes, on command.

Then there’s the rest: the farce with the ultra-Orthodox. The noise over conscription, the “necessity” that they join us. Sure, let them enlist. But it’s a detail: an addendum, a footnote in this long tragedy. What matters is that Bibi luxuriates in the chaos while the country pretends to be burning for justice. He drinks every shout like wine. For him, we’re all pawns, exhausted, predictable, and ready for the next move.

And yet, maybe I get it — the ones who march. Those who head to the Ayalon, even knowing the flames, are a lie. Because I know that exhaustion. I’ve felt it in my bones, in my joints. I’ve been there, yelling like a condemned man, clutching a flag as if it were the last real thing. And I respect it; I appreciate the weariness of those who still believe. But I don’t know. The truth is, I don’t know if these marches have a destination. Because, deep down, I feel we’re in an endless loop, shouting into the void. And Bibi, up there, laughing.

Meanwhile, here I am, slumped on my couch, watching one screen showing an image of Israel and another of the U.S., ignoring a beautiful woman waiting for me in bed, arms open. Go figure.