Hear O

I. There’s a club in Tel Aviv near the dolphinarium. I know almost nothing about it— except one thing— about a decade ago, twenty-one teenagers died, when a man I know even less about decided that ending their lives was worth his own. There’s a new sign on the entrance. It says— lo nafsik likrod— We will not stop dancing. II. I was in a bomb shelter when I found out that Osama Bin Laden had died. Six tired twenty-year-olds Crowded under a staircase. “Maybe this is revenge,” a Canadian offered. The “for what” had happened while we were asleep. It wasn’t until I got dressed, prepared for an understanding of why I was late to work that I remembered I had been woken up for Memorial Day. III. The Florentine district is known to some as the seedy section of Tel Aviv. No one told me before I followed a relative stranger deeper into the narrowing, graffiti-walled labyrinth. I knew nothing of old suicide bombings when I was engulfed by the dancehall floor. The beat moved from the speakers, through the floor, forced my feet off the ground and you know at that moment, that you will not stop cannot—