A Conversation with Vanunu

-Graffiti scrawled on a wall in a Jerusalem hostel

Jerusalem - It was nine and we had finished watching

the BBC news in the hostel. Everyone was snickering

about the framing of the story by the British

broadcaster - some openly called it a colonial

broadcast. This was a young, progressive crowd who

wanted a more critical approach to the story that had

been unfolding for days.

Only a few days ago, my last memory of Haifa was standing near the Wadi Nisnas neighbourhood at noon on Sunday while an air raid siren went off before finding my way on to a taxi out of town. It seems so long ago now.

Mordechai Vanunu walked in. He poured some wine in to a glass coffee cup. We fought for the final Pringles chip that a woman from Jaffa had offered us.

He talked about his iPod and how he liked to listen to classical music on it. He was darker than when I had met him two years ago and said he had been keeping

in shape by swimming.

We walked down Nablus Road to the American Colony at

the outdoor bar. We laughed that since now there were

rockets falling all around, we had lost our politics

and become dilletantes.

I told him that I was thoroughly depressed with this

place - that I had no desire to come back here.

He said he couldn't understand why human beings still

go to war.

I told him that I thought that the settlers in Hebron

were insane.

We criticized Hezbollah and the Israeli military response.

We drank down a Taybeh while helicopters circled

overhead.

He said he still wants to leave the country but the

authorities won't let him.

We are waiting for this madness to the end. Nothing about this feels good. There is news of more civilian deaths every day in Gaza, Lebanon and northern Israel.

There is no inspiration left here. Maybe life is meant to be sad.