There was a fight on the bus today in Jerusalem, and it was pretty intense

There was a fight on the bus today, and it was pretty intense.

The bus was crowded, thick with tension after last night’s Houthi cluster bomb attack and the strike on Qatar. And of course, the city was still reeling from the terror attack in Ramot just two ago.

A woman with snow-white hair — clearly taking “May you live to be 120” very seriously — climbed on. She had a cane in one hand and was shlepping a bag from the shuk filled with apples, cucumbers, and a bottle that looked suspiciously like whisky.

And that’s when the fight broke out.

A man with gray hair leapt up, gallantly gesturing: “Sit here.”

An Arab girl jumped up too: “No, no, fadali, sit here!”

A Yeshiva bocher stood: “My seat is closer.”

I rose and said: “I’m getting off at the next stop, please sit.”

“But I’m getting off at the next stop too,” the gray-haired man insisted.

“But my seat is closer!” argued the bocher.

And then the yelling started — each of us fighting for the privilege of giving up our seat.

The white-haired woman wagged her finger at us.

“Children, please. I was born before the State of Israel. I smuggled arms to build this country. I can stand perfectly well.”

She smiled, and the years fell away. I saw her as she was: a pioneer, a warrior, a queen.

Still, none of us would sit back down.

“Sit, children, sit,” she said, laughing.

None of us did.

May we be worthy of a city where these are the only fights that matter.