Israel vs Iran: The Hunt for Red October
Two dozen hours, one dozen drinks
It's 3AM on June 13th. I'm half awake.
My sleep schedule in Israel is the worst it's been anywhere, and I don't even know why.
I don't stress over rocket barrages and I'm getting a decent amount of exercise and sunlight. After a long day, I should be able to slam my head through a pillow's bosom into sweet oblivion. But I can’t. I quietly suspect it's because I don't actually know what I'm doing here.
I've been trying to sleep for over an hour, and have just decided to cease counting sheep in favour of killing them when an alarm sound I don't recognise starts blaring from my phone.
Until this point I've been using the RedAlert app for all my bombing notification needs. It tracks your location and pipes up when your area is being attacked using data from an Israeli government API.
Modes of attack are neatly categorised on-screen: 'Rocket fire', 'missile fire', 'hostile aircraft intrusion' (suicide drones in recent cases), and the highly unfortunate 'terrorist infiltration'.
But RedAlert lets you pick the ringtone you want (personally I stick with the classic Israeli lady saying Zeva Adom [Red Alert]), and this time my phone is emitting some kind of siren.
My friend Matt advised me to install an app called Home Front Command shortly before he shat himself a few days ago. Perhaps this is the source of the disturbance.
RedAlert is a third-party app, while Home Front Command comes directly from the Israeli government. You're drinking straight from the tap; a direct link to the hot IDF chicks running computer duties. Rumour has it they use their tits to press 'send' on every warning of imminent bombardment.
I unlock my phone, blue light irradiating my eyeballs and nuking any hope of slumber. A screed of Hebrew blocks everything else on my screen and requires me to press 'OK' before I can use my phone for anything else.
I screenshot the text and run it through Google translate:
Government alert
Home Front Command instructions must be followed.
Due to the preparation for a significant threat, the Home Front Command's instructions, which are currently being distributed throughout the media, must be immediately followed.
It's all kicking off, I think. Fantastic.
The occasion calls for a beer. Perhaps I can catch a free firework display at the beach.
I throw on shorts and a tshirt, slam on the flip flops and head outside. A group of four gay Americans from next door are worriedly discussing their next move. I ask them what's up.
"Iran has attacked us-" one starts, before being interrupted by his bedfellow:
"No, no, we're attacking Iran."
I ask them which bars will be open. None, they say — they'll be kicking everyone out because of the war.
I should have anticipated this. My flat is dry of booze, so no backup is available. But maybe they're wrong. I head on towards the beach.
Thursday nights sees peak nightlife activity here (the Israeli weekend is Friday-Saturday), but the bars are now ejecting their carousing young customers. Despite the circumstances their mood is jovial; laughter and cocktail dresses, raised voices and high heels.
I find a bar that's still open and buy an overpriced bottle of Asahi for 28 sheks. I'm not meant to leave the premises with it but I suspect everyone's preoccupied.
I walk out and head down a grassy pedestrianized path to the waterfront, and settle down on the rocks. The Asahi is crisp and cold.
The Japanese beer must have triggered something, for I've barely lowered the bottle from my lips when a friend in Nippon WhatsApps me to ask if I'm going to Iran. Not yet I respond, and send him a photo of the Asahi.
I expected an immediate military response. If not missiles from Iran then rockets from their proxies closer by. But despite the profound shift Israel has just initiated, the night is silent but for the chorus of the waves.
The mosquitoes are making short work of me, and I only have one beer. I neck it and head home restless.
Hangman
The following morning I head to Nabi Yuna, a popular coffee shop on Allenby Street for young Israelis working bullshit tech jobs. Iced latte, two sugars. "Regular milk?" Yes, regular milk.
Traveller’s trivia: In Tel Aviv, all tech work is referred to as 'High-Tech'. This implies the existence of 'Low-Tech' employment, but nobody ever uses this term, which should be applied to the myriad dodgy consumer electronics stores littering the city.
It's yet another gorgeous sunny day, and the heat has given me a thirst. I'm waiting by the water fountain to rehydrate when I notice the fat old guy filling up in front of me is wearing a rainbow Rolex Daytona in white gold (~$300k).
Perhaps he's wearing it for the now-cancelled Pride celebrations that were due to begin today. Or maybe he wants to go out like a Pharaoh, blinged to the max.
I forward the headline of Pride's cancellation to a biological weapons study raging homo friend in the Yookay. At least this war has a silver lining, I tease.
"Jesus. Bloody Israel," he responds.
I need to fix the dry fridge problem. I cross the road to WE DRINK, my favourite medical dispensary in town.
It's headed by a charming young Israeli man called Sarh. His mum is there, and they are both jubilant at the intense success of the IDF the previous night.
It's straight out of a Bond movie, Sarh says. Commando units assembling drones deep behind enemy lines to cripple Iranian air-defences. Pinpoint assassinations of Iranian VIPs sleeping in their beds, minimal collateral damage. And utter humiliation for the Iranian military as the Israeli air force flies uncontested over Tehran itself. He hooks me up with some Israeli Telegram Groups for all the juicy foreign policy gossip.
"Fuck you Iran!" his mum yells, both middle fingers raised at the i24 newscast playing above the counter.
I mostly stick to beer, but I have been impressed by some Israeli wines. Their output has improved significantly in recent decades, moving from a bulk producer of cheap crud into something more sophisticated with the help of French expertise.
I get a bottle of Abaya, a 'biodynamic' natural wine made by hippies a couple hours’ drive from Tel Aviv. Each bottle and cork is marked with the astrological sign that was in heat when the grapes were pressed. It's exactly the kind of millennial post-secular neo-spiritual bullshit I go in for. Fuckin' yaldi.
Bizarrely, the Loch Lomond brewery of Scotland has been exporting their beers out here. An act of desperation, political conviction, or just good business? I buy a few cans — maybe I'll find out.
Sarh informs me that while the bars will be shut this evening, Dizengoff Square in the middle of town is a popular spot for boozy picnics. I thank him and am saying my goodbyes, but his mum has a proposition for me before I leave: Would I be interested in volunteering to work with her in the paramedics?
"When people hang themselves, I'm too short to cut them down! I need a tall man like you to do it!" she laughs. I give her my number and head out.
My pool of reliable drinking buddies has shrunk: Both Matt the pant-shitter and Stephan the Fuhrer are no longer in the country.
The timing is deeply suspect. The pair of them flew out on separate 'business trips' mere days before the Iran strike. What did they know?
Maybe they were foreign intelligence agents on some kind of assignment here. Was Matt's act of shitting himself in front of me some kind of test? I must not have passed, clearly.
I message Nick, a gooner in Israel assisting with an IPO if he fancies drinks on the grass in Dizengoff. But the situation has given him the willies; he fears the incoming firework show. Think of it, I say — you can tell your grandkids you were drinking in Dizengoff when the fate of the Middle East hung in the balance. But he's not in the mood to think long-term right now.
In the evening I head out in the direction of Dizengoff, armed with my Loch Lomonds.
I'm drawing close to the Square when my phone turns into a jukebox in my pocket. Home Front Command again: An attack is imminent.
The streets were already empty — no cars, few pedestrians — but now I can see people scampering for the shelters.
I round the corner. Dizengoff Square is deserted. And I don't see evidence of abandoned picnics either. The Persians really must have the populace spooked.
Oh well. At least I’ll have something to tell the grandkids. I get my choice of seating and pull the tab on my first beer as sirens fill the evening silence.
Bring me my bow of burning gold
The firework display begins.
The programme for the night is simple — a series of Roman Candles fired in concert. But there's a twist: They're actually Judean Candles, which are far too big for your dad's firework box and cannot be purchased at B&Q.
This a step up from your regular rocket-attack faire: Iron Dome won't work here. It's the premier league: Ballistic missile defence.
The Nimrods at the Homa Directorate are rolling out the big guns: 'David's Sling' and 'Arrow' interceptors. There will even be guest appearances from American 'Patriot' and 'THAAD' systems.
I take a sip of my Loch Lomond (‘Southern Summit' American Pale Ale, 4% ABV) as salvos of burning peach missiles curl into the sky to meet Persian fireballs in the heavens.
Interceptions above the atmosphere are silent, and look like blossoming nebulae from a Carl Sagan documentary.
Inside the atmosphere they light the whole sky up for a second — like lightning, but a much warmer colour. Clouds in the way flash from charcoal to gold and back again, lampshades over divine light. I've never seen so much taxpayer money at work.
What really sets the experience apart is the sound. Ballistic missiles in their terminal phase before impact scream and roar overhead, while explosions at low altitudes vibrate through your skull.
I turn to find I'm not alone after all. An old woman, possibly homeless, is sitting by herself with a blanket over her knees. She's either cursing or praying in Hebrew, I can't tell.
I take a clip of the action for my fawning admirers worldwide. You can hear her in the background if you listen close:
The sonic boom you can hear at the end of the video is from a ballistic missile that gets through the envelope. An explosion different from the others confirms the impact.
I walk in the direction of the smoke. Scores of emergency vehicles pass me on the way, confirming my route.
It takes me about fifteen minutes to walk there. I finish my first beer en route.
Boomers and their consequences
A nightclub of flashing lights tells me I'm close. The missile has struck the commercial district, the kind of steel and glass Tetris zone you find in every big city.
I can't see much of the impact site — the fire brigade have already taped everything off.
An old guy with a flat cap asks me why I'm looking at this street, and not another one. I ask him what his problem is. He apologises, and says he's just angry about the war.
"I don't know why they're attacking us," he says in bitter jest. "We're such a peaceful people!"
I'm curious to hear his views. Turns out he's an Israeli in his 70s whose hatred for Israel is matched only by self-indulgent nihilism. He tells me he wants either of two things to become of Israel: For it become a Palestinian state, or for the country to collapse on itself.
His name is Ben. He's spent a total of one year of his life outside of Israel (surprise, surprise — America).
I generally give Israeli baby boomers a pass. Unlike many of their Western counterparts, they have faced numerous wars and deep economic adversity in their lifetimes.
But as Ben keeps going and tells me straight-up that he wishes to be killed by terrorists, I realise there are always exceptions to the rule.
Another alert rings out on my phone. More missiles.
I want to keep walking, but the fire brigade aren't having it. Ben and myself are directed into one of the office blocks over the road from the blast site.
We're a fair distance away from the crater now, but the shockwave from the explosion has smashed out dozens of windows and stripped large tiles from the building's exterior. Impressive.
We stride over pools of crunchy glass and arrive in the lobby of a generic 9-5 factory.
I offer Ben a beer, but he says no. He's in some celibate yoga cult where he stretches all day and can't consume meat, dairy or coffee.
No wonder you're so bleak and bitter, I say. You can't eat steak or get laid. He cracks the first genuine smile of our encounter as I snap the tab on a Loch Lomond.
The fireworks resume outside. I ask him how he got to be this way.
He tells me of his childhood in an ultra-Zionist settler community. He was the most zealous of his peers, but his world view flipped when his best mate got a gun and opened fire on Palestinian civilians. Thankfully nobody was killed.
I enquire after his family. He says he hasn't spoken to any of his six kids in 14 years, after two of his daughters accused him of sexually abusing them when they were children. He claims his ex-wife put the girls up to it after their divorce, which was in turn motivated by his changed politics. A court dismissed the allegations.
We've known each other for less than twenty minutes as he volunteers this information. His tone is deadpan, lacking all the vigour politics inspired in him a minute before.
I'm beginning to wonder if it's just alcohol I've been drinking. Maybe I got blown up back in Dizengoff Square and this is some mezzanine level of the afterlife.
The fireworks have paused once more. I bid Ben adieu and leave him preaching the gospel of intifada to the firemen.
Divine Comedy
I'm walking in the vague direction of my flat when I catch a glimpse of the divine: Light streaming onto the pavement from an open bar. This must be my path out of limbo and into heaven.
I head inside and start drinking seriously. They have Guinness, and I'm thirsty for something familiar.
The establishment is called Red October, and is abundantly decorated with busts of Lenin. I'm shocked to discover not a single customer or Omer the barman has heard of the Sean Conn classic The Hunt for Red October. The lights keep going out, making everyone wonder if the grid has been hit — turns out the circuitry in the building is simply of Israeli standard.
Omer is a solid bartender, pouring free shots for everyone roughly in sync with my drinking cadence: One shot per pint. I don't fancy Maker's Mark, so he gives me Bushmills instead. Guess I'm going full Irish tonight.
Omer wants to know if their Guinness is any good. I tell him all Guinness in Israel sucks but this isn't the worst of the bunch; he's happy enough with that.
Given the amount of anti-Israel sentiment in the emerald isle, I'm surprised you can still find these drinks out here. Perhaps the free Free Palestine crowd is tee-total.
I'm on my fourth pint when Home Front Command rings my phone again, like the wife I don’t have pestering me to come home. I tail Omer with my pint as he shepherds his clientele into an underground car park, and we stay outside to watch the action.
The firework show resumes, interval over. We watch three ballistic missiles in succession get through the defence envelope and slam home at a low angle. It's hard to tell in the darkness, but I would guess they're three miles away. Perhaps the interceptor batteries for that zone were exhausted, or the Iranians got clever with the trajectory.
"Close. That was close." Omer repeats. I finish my Guinness as the sirens play another encore.
A few minutes pass until the streets return to silence. I haven't eaten anything today, but I feel only thirst. It's time for another round in paradise.
We return to the bar and walk back up the steps to heaven.
Until next time,
Jim Hawkins
The Treasure Island Times