The battery light started blinking wildly. “It looks like we’re losing power,” said Jennifer, pointing to the flickering dashboard. “I don’t know what the problem is,” replied my father. “But it looks like we’re coming to a stop.” “Pull over to the shoulder,” I urged him, hoping to make use of the last bit of motion at our disposal.

Once the car had finally stopped, Elie put his finger on the source of our problem. “We’re out of gas,” he declared. You could hear the frustration in his voice. “I can’t believe it. The tank is empty.” Fortunately, we were less than a kilometer from the house, and even closer to a friend, who ended up taking my dad to get a jerrycan full of gas.

Luckily, there was a copy of the weekend edition Haaretz to read while I waited for Elie to return. Featuring a cover story on how Israel’s new Prime Minister had brought the country closer than ever to war with Iran, I found myself strangely enjoying the article. Not because I agreed with the analysis. But because I was reading the piece sitting in a stalled car around the corner from Netanyahu’s own home.