+972 Magazine, July 15, 2011
I have to admit that, at first, I resented the Palestinian workers next door.
Not because they were Palestinian but because I no longer had any privacy. A writer and freelance journalist, I work at home. Most of the time, I wear my pajamas to work. Sometimes I wear a Santa Claus hat, a reminder to relax and not take myself—or my writing—too seriously. Sometimes my characters make me laugh out loud; sometimes they make me cry. And so I do that, openly, at my computer.
When I’m not at my desk, I’m watering and talking to my plants. I’m waving to my neighbors’ tabby cat. I’m doing jumping jacks. I’m dancing. I’m singing badly in English and worse in Hebrew. I’m eating with my hands.
But the shiputz, or renovation, next door brought all that to an end.
