Confession of a War Tourist

The sky over Tel Aviv, the citadel with the theater of the absurd! The evacuations to bomb shelters continue; from this vantage, the desolate Negev desert seems like Paradise. In the world of real adventures, I suddenly beckon: isn't war fun to watch, a respite from Netflix's re-runs and stale shows? The big alarm sounding the arrival of rockets flood the night. I yearn for Bedouin tunes to let me fall sleep, worrying what if this goes on and I'm addicted to war? How do I de-tox my brain glued to the latest news of killing fields, the latest number of casualties, the latest crimes of war? Am I de-sensitized to others' pain, tuned out to cries of victims? God has blessed this land for the war tourists. The hail of bullets are decorations of the country. The gods guard it like a virgin plague. I'm in captivity of their charade. A mother's cry interrupts my thoughts: Where's my baby? Both sides have upgraded their arsenal, implacable foes without pity or remorse, an impressive feast for war lovers.