Socks are the least of your problems when you’re living in a tank and risking your life just by sticking your head out, believe me.
“Do you know what a chermonit is?” the taxi driver asked me on the phone. “It’s a one-piece snowsuit. I’m driving a Mercedes and I’ll be wearing a chermonit, that’s how you’ll know it’s me.”
When the Mercedes pulled up, he was indeed wearing a chermonit, an olive-green version with TZAHAL in big yellow letters on the back. The outfit wasn’t the most likely match for his long white beard and big velvet yarmulke, but he wore it with pride.
“I just got out of Gaza,” he said as he started driving. “Ninety days. My wife doesn’t even know I’m coming home for Shabbat, I want to earn a few fares first and buy her a nice bouquet.”
For the rest of the ride, I didn’t say much, just an occasional “wai” and “b’emet?” and “lo ye’uman!” The driver did all the talking, and here is the gist of his earthy fusion of war reporting, security analysis, and bedrock faith.
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