Exactly two years ago, literally to the minute as I type these words, I was lying on the couch in our living room listening to my husband's last real lucid conversation of his life. He was in his wheelchair in a sunny spot outside the front door, getting a healing, pain-alleviating massage from a cousin. Sara Finn, our angel-in-disguise-as-a-physiotherapist, was chatting to Mart about the upcoming elections, and I heard my husband's calm, competent, utterly adult voice explaining why he might consider voting for Naftali Bennett, the then-up-and-coming superstar. Martin was a left-of-center man; in different times I would have challenged his choice. But I heard him praising Bennett's compromise-embracing stance, his inclusiveness of all brothers and sisters, his fresh approach. Maybe, said Martin, he's what the country needs. Martin died four days later, too soon to see Bennett slide inexorably into a hard-line intransigence as his cheery, too-loud laugh became increasingly forced and infuriating. But I see how Mart could have been misled; even Yair Lapid was initially taken in. Now, two years down the line as we go – too soon! way too soon! – back into another mess of posters and jingles and unnecessary drama, I just wish and wish Martin was here to tell me that everything will be okay in the end, and that this time Bibi will be chucked out at last. Thinking of our prime minister always catapults me back into happier times, when our children were tiny and we spent lovely, lazy Shabbatot at a country club near Kfar Saba, lounging with friends on the grass by the kiddie pool. But one particular Saturday, in June 1996, the sun didn't seem quite as mellow. Rabin had been killed less than a year earlier, and in the tumultuous aftermath of the assassination, it seemed as if Netanyahu had won the election. We lay in our swimsuits eating pita and discussing the prospects; I remember it like yesterday. “The soldiers' vote will swing it, you'll see, Peres will take it in the end,” said one optimistic soul… and we prayed he was right. The next day, as I was backing into my garage, the final results came through – Bibi had been crowned our king. I cried so hard I rammed the car into a pole. Luckily, I had the fender fixed a few weeks later; reneging on my threat to leave the dent there until Netanyahu was ousted. Had I not done so, I would still be driving a damaged car. At the time – do you remember? – half the country was mourning an assassinated father figure, the other half was trying to abrogate any responsibility for the craziness in the run-up to his murder. Half the electorate remembered the vicious demonstrations and the boos, and we shuddered as we recalled the infamous balcony scene where the Likud's elite stood and watched as wild hooligans depicted Rabin in all manner of despicable ways. Bibi squeaked to victory after that, and 48 percent of all of Israel's citizens waited for his conciliatory, restorative speech – something expressing joy at the election outcome, but sorrow that it came on the heels of a national tragedy. Something comforting, something heartfelt. We are still waiting. But half the country loves Benjamin Netanyahu – they have voted him into power three times (the only person apart from David Ben-Gurion to hold that record). Through wars; repeated in-your-face announcements of more building in contested areas just when some important American is visiting; crippling poverty that seems insurmountable; and an ever-widening religious schism… through it all, the people reward our leader and bring him back to give us more. I'm not a politician, and this is not a political column, but I would have thought that given 50 days of bombardment, and botched intelligence about the tunnels (or, if we did know, why didn't we destroy them before the war?) and the fact that Hamas seems to be arming again towards the next conflict, most prime ministers would have been forced to resign. No? No: Seems like in Israel, the leader stands again to give us more of the same. And go figure, the electorate votes him in once more. Of our voters, 1.6 million are reportedly so poor they have to choose between food and winter clothes. Wouldn't they want to try a different track, different priorities, a different budget, as they choose which slip to deposit in the envelope? Our prime minister proposes more same old, same old. New roads to new settlements. Funding for schools that scoff at the core curriculum, and discourage their bochers from defending the country. Bibi and his natural partners, the ultra-religious: Are we going to give him a fourth chance? So now it's Hanukka, as I write this column, a hag that has kind of lost its luster for me. Martin died after we lit the fourth candle, the layered colored wax in the shining glasses glowing softly in the hanukkia that he fashioned out of a Galilee rock. I hear his beautiful British accent as someone else intones the blessings, and I long for his incandescent smile and the way he winked at me as our babies cooed, delighted with their NIS 10 gift of gelt. Oh, oh, oh: Life is so short, and so sweet. I suppose that after the March elections, we'll still muddle along, regardless of who leads the Knesset. The benign winter sun will start to burn us again as spring segues into summer, Maccabi Tel Aviv will win most of its matches but lose a few, prices of gas will drop lower, then go up. And we'll get older and grayer and more cantankerous, and political nuances will lose their meaning as we creep towards the next life – where the King of Kings reigns for term after term, with no elections. In the meantime we'll watch the hoopla evolve, and we'll emote about the parties as we eat, and we'll wait for the outcome. Who knows? By next Hanukka we might have a brand-new set of priorities in our fractured land, if we are proactive enough to give change a chance. Martin had this inherent yoga-esque mind-set: What's gone is gone, so worrying won't help; what's coming is coming, so worrying won't help; and what's happening now is happening anyway, so worrying won't help. I'm going to pretend he's weeding the lawn right now and reminding me of that message. Que sera, sera, as they say. Maybe this time, sanity will prevail. The writer lectures at the IDC and Beit Berl; peledpam@gmail.com.
