What I think is a Highlight of the article:
I'm struck by the fact that very little coverage of the killing of Yassin has made any mention of the missed attempt on his life in September. It's because, I think, the reason that we missed reveals a dimension of this conflict that most of the world doesn't want to see. It upends the moral equivalence that the international press broadcasts. It suggests that some people in this conflict still do think about what's "acceptable" and "just." It reminds the world that there's more than one people in this region that has needed to be liberated.
A couple of years ago, our office started using a new driver. The previous one, it turns out, couldn't make a living when the tourists abandoned the country, and left for the States. My secretary told me about Shlomo, the new driver, right before I was to get picked up for a drive to a meeting, and I didn't think much of the news.
I got in the cab, sat in the back, introduced myself to Shlomo (who appeared to be in his mid-fifties) and told him where I was going. We set out on our way, and as we made our way across the city, I noticed a photograph on the dashboard. A young woman, probably in her twenties. An informal photo, in a Plexiglas frame glued to the dashboard. You don't often see things glued to the dashboards of luxury Mercedes cars, so I was curious. I leaned forward a little, and read the words at the bottom of the frame. "Limor, HYD." Limor -- May God Avenge Her Blood.
Now I was even more curious. This was clearly going to be a sensitive subject, but this is Israel, and subtlety has never been a strong suit of this society. So I just asked.
"Is that your daughter?"
"Limor. She was twenty-seven. And beautiful."
"She was killed at Moment Cafe."
I had no idea what to say. So for a moment, I said nothing, and then he continued.
"You know, they keep telling me that it will get easier with time. I'm still waiting."
He turned up the volume on the classical music station a bit, maybe to drown out the rest of the world. I don't know. He stared out the windshield, and I stared out the window, certain that anything I said would be absurdly trite. And, of course, I'd only met him a few minutes earlier. Even had I had anything to say, this probably wasn't the time.
We still have the same driver. Sometimes it's Shlomo who picks me up, but usually, it's Nir, his son, probably in his mid-twenties, too. Between the two of them, they keep the cab running almost 24 hours a day, or so it seems. Because most of my trips to the airport are late at night, it's Nir I usually see. It's Nir who picks me up from the airport, too.