Let me start by thanking my many readers who expressed, either in public comments or directly to me privately, how gripping they found last week’s account of my efforts to get my biopsy results before we flew, so that I would be able to get travel insurance. I know that many of you could not believe that we would be stupid enough to contemplate travelling without insurance. What those people are failing to take into account is that in certain situations we are capable of being that stupid, and also that, however fearful I was of travelling with no cover, it was a less daunting prospect than being the one who prevented Bernice from spending a month with the family, and the almost equally daunting prospect of having to break the news to the kids, and the grandkids, that we weren’t going to be coming after all.

However gripping you found the account, I assure you that living through it was much more intense. In fact, when I passed last week’s post to Bernice for her to critique, I warned her that I thought it was a little boring to read. It appears that I was mistaken.

Let me give you one more indication of just how challenging the few days before we flew were, and just what a state I was left in. Bernice and I decided before this trip that the time had come for us to make another concession to our age. The flight that we usually take out to Portugal lands at 21:15. By the time we get through customs, collect our luggage, wait for the shuttle to the car rental office, complete the paperwork, load the car, and attempt and fail to connect my phone to the car’s screen, it is about midnight when we start our almost-three-hour drive to Penamacor.

So, we decided that this time we would find somewhere to stay overnight that was no more than an hour’s drive from Lisbon. I found a hotel that looked fine, and was both reasonably priced (particularly if you are used to hotel prices in Israel) and conveniently situated, just off the motorway we travel on. It was, unfortunately, off the westbound carriageway, but I checked and saw that there was an adjacent exit from the eastbound carriageway leading to a flyover that enabled access to the hotel.

On the evening before our flight, I went upstairs to check in online, print out our boarding cards (Yes, we really are that old!) and car rental voucher and also print out directions from google maps for the drive to the hotel on Monday night and then to Penamacor on Tuesday. (Despite the fact that we take out a data roaming package on our phones, I am enough of a belt and braces man to fear that something will go wrong, and so I always print out directions.) (Yes, we really are that old!!)

When I looked at the route on google maps, I found that the flyover had disappeared, and, although there was an exit from the motorway at a convenient location, there was no way to cross over. We would need to drive an extra ten kilometres on Monday evening, cross the motorway, and then drive ten kilometres back. Worse still, the following morning we would have to drive twenty kilometres back in the direction of Lisbon, then cross the motorway and drive twenty kilometres back.

As you can imagine, this was not exactly good news, and I was not in the best place psychologically to discover it. However, fifteen minutes’ research online made me realise that I had somehow confused two similarly-named hotels, and had booked us into the Flag Hotel Santarém, which is not in Santarém, rather than the Santarém Hotel, which is. It was easy to book a room online at the correct hotel, but, when I cancelled the other booking, I discovered that free cancellation only applied up to 24 hours before the stay begins. Even though I knew that we would not have been arriving until 25 hours later, our booking, of course, was for a room that would be available from 3PM, in another 19 hours.

Bernice and I discussed it briefly, and agreed that we would rather forfeit the cost of the room than add 60 kilometres to our journey. To my surprise, after I cancelled our reservation, I was redirected to a screen that first explained that booking.com would do their best to persuade the hotel to ignore their no refund policy, and then invited me to explain the reason for our cancellation. This I dutifully did, far more in hope than expectation. Fifteen minutes later, I received an email from booking.com informing me that they had succeeded, and our money would be refunded. This was, at that point, so far and away the best news I had heard in some time, that I almost wept tears of gratitude.

When, the following night, we arrived at the hotel just after 1AM, checked in with the minimum of fuss, and almost immediately collapsed onto a very comfortable bed, we were doubly convinced that this arrangement made sense. The next morning, when we enjoyed fruit and coffee in the hotel dining room, and set out well rested around 9AM, we were trebly convinced.

However, we were soon to be reminded that the opera isn’t over until the fat lady sings. As we walked across the hotel car park, we heard and saw a massive explosion about a kilometre away. As a huge plume of black smoke rose, I quickly calculated that the site of the explosion was in the general direction that we needed to travel in. Fortunately, Waze was working perfectly, and, by the time we reached the roundabout half a kilometre from the hotel, and saw that the traffic was already backed up from the site of the explosion almost to the roundabout, Waze had already rerouted us. As we wove our way through minor Santarem streets and then along a country road, we speculated aloud that, without Waze, we would have had no choice but to sit in the traffic jam. Instead of that, we joined another motorway in a few kilometres, and only about five minutes was added to our journey time.

When we arrived at the kids’ home, around 11:15, Micha’el told us that, had we travelled through the night, we would have hit a dreadful fierce thunderstorm. As it was, our journey was through intermittent cloud and sunshine, with some threatening skies but only a little light rain. This, of course, only make us more pleased that we had chosen to break our journey. I suspect that, as long as we take the same flight, Santarém Hotel will be a regular stopover for us.

That same afternoon, a brief storm served to give us a taste of what we had missed. For the benefit of my readers in Israel, this is a short video taken in the kids’ garden. Jealous?

Since then, our weather has improved, and the last couple of days have been hot to very hot (reaching the mid-30s today).

Other than that, I have very little to report. Thanks to the wonders of WhatsApp video chats, even Ollie is very aware of us, and it took no more than a couple of minutes for him to open up to us. He is just at an exciting stage where he understands everything anyone says, but he has a limited vocabulary: limited, but growing every day, and he certainly has no difficulty in making it clear what he wants to convey.

As for Tao, his imaginative play is, if that’s possible, even more sophisticated than when we were last here. He is still as passionate and skilled a builder with magnetiles as ever, and on the mornings when he accompanies Lua and I on our morning walk into the forest, he is always interested in looking closely at the plants and trees, at least when he isn’t forcing me to walk the plank of his pirate ship (which most passers-by mistake for the grassy knoll outside the municipal sports hall).

Bernice, as ever, has switched to an 18-hour day without drawing breath. If you’re looking for an au pair, I can highly recommend her. Sadly, I can’t compete, but I do what I can. Among my less appreciated skills is the ability to accurately predict how many extra large reusable shopping bags we need to buy to pack all of our huge initial supermarket shop. It may be a niche market, but you would not believe how much satisfaction it gives me to guess right.

And so, our first week is over, without our having done anything very much. Not, of course, that doing very much is the object of the exercise. Just spending time with the family is all we really come out for, and the week has been full of that, for which we are both truly grateful.

Blogger’s Note: Before we begin –  a spoiler alert: This story has a happy ending. However, to get the full effect as experienced by those who lived this story, try to forget this fact as you read it.

Routine blood tests a month and a half ago returned a sharply increased PSA. (For those few of my readers who are neither men above a certain age, nor women married to men above a certain age, a high PSA is an indicator of prostate cancer. In one of those quirks of nature that make internal medicine so fascinating for practitioners and so nerve-wracking for those they practise on, a high PSA is neither a necessary nor a sufficient indicator of cancer, but it is, as these things go, pretty reliable.) Certainly, as these things go, my level was about four times as high as it needed to be to raise a reddish flag.

A visit to my urologist followed fairly quickly, with all of the usual attendant indignities. (For those few of my readers who are neither men above a certain age, nor women married to men above a certain age, let me just say that a family blog is not the place to elaborate on those indignities.) When the urologist referred me for a prostate biopsy, things didn’t sound good. When he learnt that the hospital was demanding an MRI as a pre-requisite for the biopsy, despite my having undergone an MRI less than two years ago, he was, frankly, annoyed at what he saw as a completely unnecessary delay. His annoyance, to be honest, didn’t make Bernice and I feel any happier.

However, we were able to arrange the MRI fairly quickly. The scan was analysed in reasonable time as well, and we were then, and only then, able to schedule the biopsy, which I had a month ago. We were told to expect the results in four-to-six weeks, which, of course, meant that we would receive them only once we were in Portugal. This didn’t really worry us, since we knew that we could schedule appointments as easily from Portugal as from Israel, and our ever-increasing familiarity with scheduling medical appointments strongly suggested that we would be back home before any earliest appointment we would be able to schedule.

Our family doctor then advised calling the lab after three weeks.. This was good news! A shorter waiting time for the results was obviously better, and to receive the results when we were at home, and to have a chance to digest them before going to Portugal, seemed better than receiving them there.

A couple of weeks ago, I contacted our delightful insurance agent, to arrange travel insurance for the trip. He set up a three-way call with the company we have used in all of our recent trips, and I went through the depressing list of my pre-existing conditions and medications. Our agent had previously confirmed that, as I suspected, I needed to mention the suspicion of prostate cancer, even though the biopsy results were not in.

Neither this company, nor the second one we tried, would insure me without either a clear biopsy result or a doctor’s letter, confirming that there was no reason why I should not fly. Of course, no sensible doctor would set himself up in this way to be sued by the insurer for all medical and repatriation costs if, God forbid, anything should go wrong.

Bernice and I then discussed with our agent the possibility of excluding my prostate from the medical cover, and, between ourselves, Bernice and I discussed flying with me uninsured.

Three weeks after the biopsy, and just over a week before our flight, I phoned the path lab, to ask whether the result was in. It wasn’t, but the receptionist was very sympathetic when I explained my position, said she would try to hurry the process, and asked me to phone again immediately after Shavuot. (Because, of course, Shavuot last week stole two days from the lab’s working week.)

When I phoned last Thursday morning, the results were still not in. The receptionist asked me to phone again at 3pm. As it happened, my cousin’s son was visiting Israel from England, and we had arranged to meet him and another cousin in Jerusalem at 3pm. As Bernice parked the car, I phoned the lab, to be told that the result would be ready in an hour or an hour and a half, and I should phone back at 3:40. I didn’t really understand why, if the results would not be ready then, but I didn’t query this.

I was, by this stage, feeling increasingly helpless and frustrated, There seemed to me to be a cosmic coordination of events designed just to thwart my attempt to get my results in time to get travel insurance, and there seemed to be nothing I could do. I had thought I might not be able to function while waiting to phone again. However, we had such a good time with my relatives that I actually lost track of the time, and did not phone the lab back until after 4pm, by which time it was closed and all I got was a recorded message.

The lab, of course, does not work on Friday, so I would only be able to contact them again on Sunday, the day before we flew.

At this point, our agent declared his determination to find a solution somehow. He set up a conference call with the director of the insurance company who signs off on all of the policies. After our agent had told the director what a wonderful person I was, and had told me what a wonderful person the director was, we got on famously.

He first asked me what I would do if my urologist advised me against travelling. I said that I would not travel, and he was rather more impressed than I felt my answer warranted. He assured me that many people were not that sensible. At some point, I asked about excluding the prostate from the cover, and he told me, in no uncertain terms, that I should never, ever, consider an exclusion cause, because I would not believe the lengths to which an insurance company was capable of going in order to prove that a totally unrelated medical condition that arose was, in fact, a consequence of the prostate trouble.

After further discussion, during which he proved to be a truly delightful man, he said that, whatever the situation, whether I had a result, or did not have a result, and whatever the result was, provided my urologist said I could travel, then they would insure me. When I then asked what the maximum cost of that cover would be, he obviously could not give an exact figure, but the ballpark he gave was more reasonable than I had expected.

He further said that, if there wasn’t enough time for me to produce a letter from the urologist stating that there was no reason I should not fly, and if I told him that the urologist had said I could fly, then he would accept my word.

Reassured by this conversation, I called the path lab on Sunday morning, and learnt that the results were in. Of course, the lab would not share those results with me. I asked them to confirm that they had sent them to my urologist, and was shocked to learn that they had only sent them to the doctor who carried out the biopsy, with whom I had no contact. I immediately phoned my urologist’s clinic, to confirm that they had requested the results. However, that clinic is closed on Sunday, so all I got was a recorded message.

I also immediately WhatsApped my family doctor (as he had requested) to tell him the results were in and to ask him to request the results, which he did. I asked him if he would share the results with me when he received them, but he did not respond to that message.

By the end of Sunday (yesterday), I was a nervous wreck. I had, by that time, packed, with a sinking heart. Part of me was convinced that packing would prove to be a waste of time since my urologist would tell me that I needed to start treatment for cancer immediately. Part of me wanted to pack as much as possible for the kids because who knew if I would ever be able to fly to Portugal again. Part of me was very worried about flying without insurance. All of me was feeling that I was coming apart, and was increasingly frustrated by a medical system that seemed to be not responding to my requests. I felt I was trapped in a Kafka novel.

This morning, I phoned the urology clinic. When I told the receptionist the results were in, she started trying to schedule an appointment with the urologist for this Thursday. When I explained that I was flying today, and really needed to speak to the urologist on the phone before mid-afternoon today, she said that the doctor never gave biopsy results over the phone. When I pleaded with her, she went off to speak to the urologist, and returned to tell me that he would check the results and phone me later in the day.

The insurance agent and I agreed that, if I had heard nothing by 2pm, we would arrange insurance for Bernice. Bernice and I spent a couple of hours this morning doing the last-minute packing and straightening the house, growing increasingly fragile and, on my part at least, fractious. I didn’t know whether pestering some combination of the lab, the urology clinic and my family doctor, would be counter-productive. Eventually I phoned the lab, to learn that they hadn’t received a request from my urologist, and that they had also sent the results to a urology professor in the hospital, with whom I had made an appointment for after our return from Portugal, expecting that I would, by then, be needing some treatment. I have no idea why they thought he was the referring doctor.

In a panic, I then phoned the urology clinic to ask them to request the results. The secretary explained that she could not do that, but put me through to the nurses’ station, since the nurses could make such a request. The nurse I spoke to explained that she could not make a request that overrode or bypassed my urologist, but he very kindly went into the clinic’s computer system and was able to tell me that he could view the results. Of course I asked whether he could share them with me and, quite rightly, he said that he could not.

My mind was at least now put a little more at ease. A little later, our taxi arrived. I hoped I would not have to conduct in the taxi what was, Bernice and were certain, going to be a difficult conversation with the urologist. The urologist didn’t phone. We made our way to the railway platform, just missing one train. With a 30-minute wait, I hoped the call would come while we were in the relative anonymity of the railway platform. It didn’t. The train arrived. Still no call. We reached the airport. As we readied ourselves to go up to the departure lounge, Bernice and I resigned ourselves to the fact that we were not going to get an answer before we flew. Obviously, the urologist would wait until he had seen his last patient and, by the time he phoned, we would be in the air.

Just then, my phone rang. It was the urologist. His opening question to me was, on reflection, bizarre.

“So, what did you want to ask?”

If I hadn’t been on the brink of a nervous breakdown, I might have mustered an answer along the lines of: “I wanted to know what made you go in for urology?” Instead, all I said was: “I wanted to know the results of my biopsy.”

“It’s all clear. There’s no cancer. You’re fit to fly.”

I don’t know exactly what expression was on my face, but I don’t think Bernice had any idea what I had just heard. I quickly thanked the urologist, and told him that, despite having  prepared myself for a whole range of possible answers, that one had been completely unexpected. And then, I had the unadulterated joy of sharing the news with Bernice.

As we queued for the hand luggage security check, our agent called, and we had a conference call with the insurers, whose clerk made me go through my entire medical history, again. He obviously had to contact the director, to receive confirmation that my word about being cleared to fly could be accepted. The director was, of course, not to be found, and on another call, so it was about fifteen minutes before our four-way conference call could close the deal.

By the time we got to the gate for our flight, Bernice and I both felt completely drained, but already about 2000 feet high. Now, a couple of hours later, as I write to you halfway to Portugal, from the discomfort of economy class on a Boeing 737, I am so looking forward to a month with the family in Penamacor. This time more than ever, it is going to feel like a real holiday.

I have remarked previously on the diversity of my readership. This was brought home to me again this morning, just after I sent out my email explaining that delivery of this week’s post would be delayed.

Within half an hour, one dear, kind reader had written expressing the hope that all was well and nothing untoward was causing the delay. I was able to reassure her, along the lines that I will elaborate on below.

Just before her considerate email arrived, another reader WhatsApped me to complain about my messing with her head again, by ensuring that she would not know it was Tuesday.

Let me make it clear that I value both responses….indeed, any response. I think I am the blogging counterpart of a battered husband, craving any attention, however abusive. At the same time, I know which of these two correspondents is more likely to be getting a present from me in her Christmas stocking this year! Caveat lector.

And so, down to business, which, this week, is the problem. On Motzei Shabbat in shul, as we finished davening arvit, a fellow-congregant turned round to tell me that there was ‘good news’: over Shabbat, we had successfully rescued and brought home four hostages. In blog land, everything that happens has to be tested for its quality as grist to the blog mill. Most of that testing takes place, for me, starting with my walk home from Shul on Friday night and continuing until I upload my completed blog post on Sunday, Monday or, as this week, Tuesday. I am constantly mulling over what I am going to write about and how I am going to write about it. At times this mulling is further back in my consciousness; at times it is right up their front and centre; but it is always there.

Once I had heard the news of the rescue, I started thinking of what aspects of it I could write about. I gradually realised, over Saturday evening, that I actually felt less incentive to write about it than I would have expected. I’m not sure why that is, but I think it is in part because I wrote at length and fairly depressingly about ‘the situation’ last week, and I felt you, and I, deserved a week off. I also realised that my joy at the news was very tempered, and I felt that I was a little out of synch with the national mood, which, over Shabbat, was euphoric.

I’m not sure how to explain my reaction. Of course, the news that four hostages are reunited with their families is wonderful. The backstories of some of these hostages would be mocked in a Hollywood blockbuster, but they are heart-wrenchingly true.

Noa Argamani was probably the first human face of hostages after October 7, with the release of the video showing her being driven off on the back of a motorcycle, terrifiedly begging not to be killed. Her rescue came early enough to allow her to be reunited with her mother, suffering from stage-4 brain cancer. Tragically, it seems that Noa’s rescue may have been only just in time.

More tragic is the case Yossi Jan, the father of hostage Almog Meir Jan. Yossi lived alone. According to his sister, he has spent the last eight months at home, glued to the television, riding the rollercoaster of repeatedly raised and dashed hopes. During that time, his weight dropped 20 kilo. When the army were unable to reach Yossi with the news of Almog’s rescue, they contacted Yossi’s sister, who drove to Yossi’s home and found him dead on the settee.

As I contemplate the rescue, two facts refuse to leave my mind. The first is that the direct price, for Israel, of the rescue of these hostages was the equally precious life of Amon Zmora. I need to tall you two things about this man, and I honestly don’t know which to tell you first. In the context of the rescue, and in the context of Israel’s national destiny, he was Chief-Inspector Amon Zmora of the National Counterterrorism Unit (Yamam), a unit of the Border Police. This means he was a superbly trained, highly intelligent, fearless patriot. In the words of the commanding officer of the Border Police: “[He was a] brave and valuable fighter who put the security of state and the citizens of Israel first”.

In the context of his personal life, he was the 36-year-old husband of Michal and father of Noam and Itai. In the words of Michal: “He was a sweet and wonderful man, a fabulous partner and a perfect father. That’s how we’ll remember him, and hope you will, too.”

It is, of course, possible to remember him as both, as both the person he chose to be and the warrior he had no choice but to be. Which is more significant? I’m not sure I know. Perhaps, all I can say is that there are times when we are called upon to put aside our personal life for some time so that we can ensure that all of us can enjoy a personal life in the future. Some, heartbreakingly many since October 7, have been called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice in that situation, to pay for the nation’s future with their own personal future. What I am in no doubt about is that the nation of Israel, the Jewish people, and each of us individually owe a debt of gratitude to Amon, and to all of those who have given their lives, and whose lives have been ripped away, since October 7. The Government website today lists the names of 1328 Israeli civilians, and 75 other nationals, 650 individuals serving in the IDF, and 85 other security and first response personnel, killed on or since October 7. We all know that this is by no means the bottom line, but only an interim figure.

Four more hostages rescued. Perhaps the rescue of a handful of others may be possible, some of those also held above ground, in densely-populated civilian centres, prisoners in the homes of complicit Gazan civilians. The rescue alive of any hostages held underground is almost certainly impossible. We are now on Day 241 of October 7. 120 abductees have not yet been returned from incarceration in Gaza. Tzahal has confirmed that 43 of these are no longer alive. That means that no more than 77, at most, are still alive.

And that is the second fact that I cannot shake from my mind. 77, at most, are still alive. Probably, most of those are being held in tunnels, and, therefore, cannot be rescued alive. There is no more incentive, from Hamas’ point of view, to accept an agreement than there ever was. Each day tears Israel apart internally a little more. Each day isolates Israel internationally a little more. I hold out precious little hope of a hostage agreement, and precious little hope of further rescues, and precious little hope of a conclusive end to the war in Gaza. Precious little hope. But what hope I have is so precious!

In other news: next week should see us flying to Portugal on Monday, so I’m not 100% sure when I will be publishing. I will, however, be aiming for 7AM Portugal on Tuesday, which is the normal time. I know there are at least two of you who will feel reassured to hear that.

Between now and then: Chag Sameach (apologies, Andrea, for missing the start of your chag in Australia) and may we all hear good news.

Today’s post comes to you from Chelm, which, from so many points of view, is what Israel has become in these surreal days.

Yesterday, the High Court of Justice began a hearing on the haredi conscription law. You can find a good 3000-word summary of the 75-year history of this issue, up to April 2024, here. Since the temporary stay that the Government gave itself to come up with a new law expired this year on April 1 (not an inappropriate date), there is no longer a legal basis for the exemption of haredim from national service. In the hearing yesterday (Sunday), the Government was not represented by the Attorney General, since he refused to back the Government’s decisions. It seems to me that, if you are not going to take the advice of your legal adviser, you need to replace your legal adviser with someone whose advice you do respect, but what do I know?

Adv. Doron Taubman, representing the government, argued that it did not dispute the fact that it was legally required to draft haredi men and that to refrain from doing so was illegal. However, Taubman argued that the Defence Ministry had the prerogative to decide when and how to enlist these haredi men into the IDF and that the court should not intervene.

On the issue of funding, Taubman agreed that yeshivot should not receive funding for haredi men who ignored draft orders. However, even though the law exempting haredi men expired, they had not actually been summoned yet and therefore were not violating any draft orders. The government could thus continue issuing the funding. In other words, he argued that the deadline has no significance and the lack of resolution can continue indefinitely.

During his address to the court yesterday, the chair of The Movement for Quality Government in Israel’s chairman, Adv. Eliad Shraga, cited his six children who are all currently serving in the war. Petitioners also included a group of 240 women who are mothers of soldiers. I mention this to underline how raw emotions are on the side of the petitioners. For none of them is this a legalistic debate.

Everyone knows (or should realise) that, regardless of what decision the court comes to, the situation on the ground is not going to change overnight. The primary, if unspoken, objective of this hearing is to find a way to prevent the civil war that threatens to erupt between the haredi world and the non-haredi world.

It does seem to me that, in the immediate wake of October 7, and in the months since, there have been not insignificant stirrings in some parts of the haredi sector. Small groups of haredim have enlisted, and others have gone to the front to offer food and emotional and spiritual support to the soldiers. There is the beginnings of a movement to form yeshivot hesder within the haredi community, a channel popular in the national religious sector, combining religious study with military service over an extended period.

However, any attempt to go head-to-head with the haredi community, and any attempt to impose a blanket solution from above on the entire haredi community, will never succeed. There are thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, who are declaring that they will die rather than enlist. This looks to me remarkably like saying that either you let me study Torah in my every waking moment, or I will give up my life and not study Torah on earth at all.

This presumably makes sense within their haredi world, and is interpreted as a death that is a Kiddush Hashem, a sanctification of God’s name, but it is a sickening rejection and scorning of the life that tens of thousands who live, serving in the army to preserve the Jewish state, and dedicating their every spare moment to Torah study. If our victory depends on our military endeavours and God’s intervention, then we do not need to divide the people into soldiers and learners, we can strive to make each person a soldier and a learner.

Yesterday, the mayor of Kiryat Shmona, one of the evacuated Northern towns, met with senior army officers to ask some tough questions about the conduct of the ‘war’ on the Northern border. (The quotation marks around ‘war’ in that sentence reflect the fact that Hizballah – which is arguably the de facto government of Lebanon – has been, for months, daily targeting Israeli military installations and civilian centres all along the Norther border. The army has responded by bombing launch sites and targeting Hizballah personnel. Tens of thousands of Israelis have been evacuated from the border area. Is that a war? If not, what is it?

Anyway, the mayor met with senior officers hoping to receive clarification about the prospects for the development of hostilities, projected plans for returning civilians to their homes and places of education and employment, and so forth. These seem to be legitimate questions, and one would expect the officers to approach such a meeting with a measure of sensitivity for the suffering this uncertainty is causing the population, and its elected representative, the mayor. In a family blog, I hesitate to quote from the meeting, but it is reliably reported that, at one point, the Chief of Northern Command told the mayor to ‘stop f***ing with my mind, go back to your hotel, and await orders.’

Elsewhere in Chelm, members of Knesset, meeting last week with representatives of the families of hostages, screamed uncontrolledly at them, and could not be called to order. (I should add that, to my surprise, I was impressed to see that Itamar ben-Gvir appeared to keep calm and attempted to lower the temperature in the room, although the Chair did not actually allow him to speak.)

And now we have, I think, a proposal on the table for the freeing of the hostages, the dead and the alive. Of course, the proposal was revealed to the world by Biden (since Bibi could not be seen to be proposing it without the extreme right leaving the government). Bibi was then able to avoid having to confirm or deny that it was a proposal Israel had made.

The next stage was for Bibi to show the details of the proposal to the war cabinet, but to refuse to show them to the wider cabinet (which would need to endorse the agreement for it to become official), since, apparently, he had no faith that the details would not be leaked. So, we apparently have a Prime Minister that has appointed an Attorney General whose advice he won’t take, and who has appointed to positions such as Minister of Justice, Finance Minister, Minister of the Interior, people whom he cannot trust not to leak details of sensitive documents presented in Cabinet meetings. I’m not sure Chelm does this justice.

Apparently, Bibi met with Smotrich this morning to go over the deal with him. Smotrich and Ben-Gvir have both stated that if Israel adopts the plan, they will leave the Government.

This morning, a new item appeared. A Hamas representative stated that they will not consider Biden’s proposal until they know that all of the parties in the Israeli government support it.

Perhaps the Chelmiest part of this whole insane situation is that almost everyone – and principally the US, the rest of the world, the families of the hostages, Bibi – behaves as if there is another side with whom Israel can strike an agreement. It has been clear from October 7 (and earlier, for those not seduced by the ‘conception’) that there is no other side. Hamas cannot be trusted in anything they do or say. On October 7, they carried out a horrific pogrom. Since October 7, they have, every day, gained ground, spreading lies, offering up Gazans as sacrifices, playing the Israeli trauma expertly, sitting quietly and letting this country tear itself apart.

Tangentially, to remind you of the level of brutality of October 7, Israel has held, since the days after October 7, unidentifiable remains of a body of someone from Nir Oz. Just yesterday, eight months after the most sophisticated forensic identification project in the history of the world began, the experts, including archaeologists, were able to identify the remains as those of Dolev Yehud, z”l, previously believed abducted to Gaza. Dolev, a civilian paramedic, went out on October 7 to treat injured fellow-kibbutzniks while the kibbutz was occupied by terrorists, leaving, in his shelter at home, his eight-month pregnant wife and three children aged five to nine. A week and a half later, his wife gave birth.

Next week, I think we’ll talk about the French Open tennis and the cricket T-20 World Cup…but then again, this week I thought we were going to talk about the next stage in the air conditioning saga – so, who knows?