Moshe and Mordechai sat in Starbucks, chewing the fat.
Moshe sighed. “Mordechai, how do you know when you’re getting old?”
Mordechai rubbed his unshaven chin and replied, “You know you’re old when you’ve got a reputation for kvetching about every ache and pain—and when you travel with two Dopp kits. One for your toiletries, the other for your meds, hearing aids, and Ozempic pens.”
Moshe chuckled, nodding. “Since we’re on the subject of reputations, what do you think Bibi’s is these days?”
Mordechai leaned in, eyes narrowing as if he’d been waiting months for the question. Then, in one long breath, he let it spill:
“He’s a pit bull who doesn’t know how to unclench his jaws. To him, every hostage’s life is sacred—family, even. He craves justice and revenge at any cost. He mourns the fallen, but he won’t stop sharpening the spear. Bibi wants total victory over Hamas. Compromise, to him, is weakness. He believes Hamas is an existential threat, and he doesn’t give a damn what the world thinks. He’s a modern-day Spartan.”
Moshe took a long sip of his latte. “That’s some analysis of Bibi’s beliefs and character.”
But even as he spoke, Moshe wondered: Is Bibi really the right man to lead the nation in this time of crisis?
