Kav Imut, part 1

A cautious return: Home Command tells us that we can cautiously begin to return to our normal lives, but all of us above the kav imut—this invisible line that runs from Akko and Karmiel all the way up to the border—must remain close to shelter. The first few times I hear the instructions (over recorded phone messages and radio announcements), I think that they are saying kav yamut (line of death), and I think, sheesh, the Home Command doesn't mince words, eh?

But kav imut actually means the demarcation line during warfare, indicating areas that can come under fire. Boring, perhaps, but equally dangerous when it means that you can be hit by a ketusha.

Why am I still writing? One friend told me that it would be an act of "criminal negligence" (her words) if I stopped posting. Perhaps she, too, fears that this cease-fire is tenuous, and anything could happen at any time. More to the point, we still have thousands of soldiers risking their lives to keep Hezbullah out of southern Lebanon, and until UNIFIL troops are in place, our death toll will continue to mount. This harsh reality is brought home to us yesterday evening when Gill must cancel a bike ride to rush off and attend a funeral of a young reservist, the son of one of his clients. Every day more faces and names appear on TV and in our papers.

The mole people emerge: Actually, we are not poking our heads out cautiously and blinking in the sunshine like a bunch of moles; rather, we are bounding from our holes like hyperactive prairie dogs. I decide to take a very long walk specifically during the "high-barrage window" (most of the sirens and strikes during the war occurred between 10:00 and 15:00). The first sign of renewed life is the sight of five city employees tackling the bombed traffic circle two blocks from my house. I watch them dig out the destroyed irrigation system, replace pipes, and plant fresh flowers. Someone has stuffed a flag in the sculpture's hand, and it flutters there against the shrapnel-scarred backdrop.

I follow the city's main street, a wide, winding thoroughfare that runs like a backbone from the entrance of town all the way to our neighborhood. Everywhere I see activity; city crews are out by the dozens, sweeping, cleaning, and mending. Median strips and parks, overgrown and shaggy with neglect, are being groomed back into shape, and my nose prickles with the tangy smell of fresh-cut grass. As I climb the first hill and feel the breeze on my face, the smell becomes mingled with lavender and wild sage. What a beautiful place this is...

My muscles, stiff and uncoordinated at first, start to limber up, but I become aware that my face is aching. It takes me a few moments to realize that I am grinning like an idiot, and that these muscles, mostly unused for the past five weeks, are getting every bit the workout that my legs are.

Traffic darts past. Taxis and busses are once again impatiently zipping around traffic circles. Two little girls cross the street ahead of me, holding hands and chattering. As my walk progresses, I see more children, more families returning, more dogs being walked, more signs of life.

The shops are opening. As I pass the first commercial cluster, I watch shutters being raised, windows being washed, and goods being placed artfully in front displays. The nut and spice shop is open, and the smell of cumin and tumeric follows me down the sidewalk.

Karmiel is shaking off the dust and debris. I wait endlessly at the bank, but nothing can irritate me today. Even the cluster of hygiene-challenged old men who turn the mall into their impromptu social hall, blithely lighting their foul cigarettes under a large no smoking sign, look endearing. Tomorrow I'll probably loathe them again, but for today...