The wars have different names. For most Israelis, they feel like one long war that never ended.

As usual, last Sunday I gave Yaakov a ride to our community Hebrew-speaking improv session. For some strange reason, Israeli men seem to be more drawn to improv than women. Or at least, that is the case in Jerusalem. Of late, it’s been me and eight or more guys of various ages, and Benji is one of them. Yaakov is in his early thirties, but has a baby face. He made aliyah from Australia at the age of 19 and still speaks Hebrew with a soft accent (mine is more pronounced). He loves comedy, sings karaoke whenever he gets the chance, and has a large mongrel dog that needs frequent long walks. I often spot him on our street, trotting along behind his beloved canine.

Except come July, I won’t be driving him to improv for a while. He’ll be on reserve duty in Lebanon for four months. It won’t be his first time. He told me about his memories of his previous reserve duty in Lebanon, three years ago. He lost some good friends there, but doesn’t go into details.

“It’s a beautiful country,” he remarked. “It looks like Switzerland.” He recalled staying with his platoon in an abandoned multi-generational home where there were great books to read in English, including the entire Harry Potter series. The bookshelves were located not too far from a framed photo of Nasrallah. The basement housed missile launchers and a large array of weaponry. His description sounded almost fictitious. I wish it was.

This week I have not seen Julie. She’s the bookkeeper at our school. She is petite, with long, dark corkscrew curls, and loves wearing black. It’s hard to guess her age, but I know her kids aren’t young anymore. Julie is my essential go-to person, as I sadly have to run a budget for the extracurricular activities of the Diplomacy elective. Except Julie is now in the hospital in Haifa with her son, who was........

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