It’s Not Important

The details of Israel’s raid on the Iraqi nuclear plant came sputtering over the transistor radio in the late afternoon. My Israeli friends and 1 had stationed ourselves outside of the Damascus Gate of the Old City of Jerusalem—the heart of the Arab section of the city. Damascus Gate is a favorite tourist spot, because beneath these four-hundred-year-old stones parades the whole panoply of Middle Eastern cultures: Bedouin peasant women, Ethiopian Coptic priests, pale Hassidic Jewish families, Armenian priests, Suni Moslems, Shi’ite Moslems, and, as everywhere in Israel and the occupied territories, green-suited Israeli soldiers, their submachine guns slung nonchalantly over one shoulder. My Israeli friends had chosen this spot quite purposely to hear the news. Before 1967, this was Jordan, and they wanted to gaze upon one victory while relishing yet another.

Listening to the news is something of an Israeli fetish even in calmer times. It is commonplace for shopkeepers, secretaries, housewives, military officers, everyone, to pause in their activities every hour on the hour and turn to their ubiquitous radios. Drivers on buses, whether in the wilderness of the Negev desert or in the heart of Tel Aviv, raise the volume of their radios for the benefit (requested or not) of their passengers. “Lo shomata hadashote?” (“You haven’t heard the news?”) is as much a reproach as a question.

About the Author

Mona Charen

Mona Charen is a syndicated columnist, the policy editor of The Bulwark, and the host of the podcast Beg to Differ.

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The details of Israel’s raid on the Iraqi nuclear plant came sputtering over the transistor radio in the late afternoon. My Israeli friends and 1 had stationed ourselves outside of the Damascus Gate of the Old City of Jerusalem—the heart of the Arab section of the city. Damascus Gate is a favorite tourist spot, because beneath these four-hundred-year-old stones parades the whole panoply of Middle Eastern cultures: Bedouin peasant women, Ethiopian Coptic priests, pale Hassidic Jewish families, Armenian priests, Suni Moslems, Shi’ite Moslems, and, as everywhere in Israel and the occupied territories, green-suited Israeli soldiers, their submachine guns slung nonchalantly over one shoulder. My Israeli friends had chosen this spot quite purposely to hear the news. Before 1967, this was Jordan, and they wanted to gaze upon one victory while relishing yet another.

Listening to the news is something of an Israeli fetish even in calmer times. It is commonplace for shopkeepers, secretaries, housewives, military officers, everyone, to pause in their activities every hour on the hour and turn to their ubiquitous radios. Drivers on buses, whether in the wilderness of the Negev desert or in the heart of Tel Aviv, raise the volume of their radios for the benefit (requested or not) of their passengers. “Lo shomata hadashote?” (“You haven’t heard the news?”) is as much a reproach as a question.