The Stench of Filth

He has no smell. That’s what frightens me. Netanyahu doesn’t reek. He doesn’t exude the stench of corruption or the sour tang of fear. He’s too clean, like the handle of a public restroom door. You know the filth is there, but you touch it anyway. The grime lingers in the air, clinging like Dead Sea salt on a suffocating night.

It isn’t him. It isn’t just him. It’s the system that shields him, cradling him like a spoiled child who will never face the consequences of his actions. The ministers surround him with the grateful eyes of servants, the business people who gift him cigars and champagne as if offering incense to an idol. It’s the system that smiles while it consumes everything in its path, leaving behind a trail of scorched paper and rotting promises.

I could list his crimes. The boxes of cigars, the favors to tycoons, the laws bent until they cracked. But that would give too much credit to the official narrative. The trials aren’t the issue; they’re the facade. Netanyahu doesn’t need justice; perhaps we don’t deserve it either.

Do you feel it? This filth? It isn’t just on his hands. It’s on me, on you, on every person who has chosen to live under this regime. Because, deep down, it’s easier. It’s easier to believe that a strongman, even one who’s rotten, is better than chaos. Letting him rule and manipulate us while we retreat to our homes and pretend we still have choices is more accessible.

And yet, we are what he fears most: the moment we realize it’s not him who’s in charge. It’s us. It’s always been us. But how can we recognize that when we’re already neck-deep in the muck he’s spread around us?

Netanyahu doesn’t reek because he’s our creation. He’s the exact reflection of what we’ve allowed this country to become. He lies, and we believe him. He steals, and we justify it. He kills, and we accept it as long as he promises to keep us safe. The enemy isn’t in Gaza or Lebanon. It sits at the heart of power. But more than that, it resides within us.

I wander aimlessly, not because I believe there’s a way out, but because standing still feels like surrender. The streets are empty, but the filth remains. It doesn’t have a stench, but it’s on my shoes, in my gut, in the words I never said. I try to rid myself of it, but it clings as though it were part of my skin.

And perhaps that’s what hurts the most: realizing we aren’t victims. We’re accomplices. And in the end, the filth will remain when he falls—because he will fall. And the question we’ll be left with will be simple and brutal: who else can clean it up?