A friend of mine went to a clinic for something minor and came out much sicker than he went in. I asked if he had been treated in a hospital in Gaza. There, it is currently difficult to tell the Emergency Department and the mortuary apart.
“Both are next to Hamas’s rockets,” shouted another friend, who, like an accomplished Ronald Plasterk, justifies all of Israel’s war violence anyway. I kept silent because I knew that otherwise it would end in a bloodbath again. Before you know it you are an anti-Semite. And I’m not. Not even a Palestinian heuler.
I want peace! Nothing more, nothing less. On behalf of the hostages, the children, the civilians, the elderly. But I don’t want anything. I also know that I will never experience that again in my lifetime. For now it is ‘cruel’ there and it will remain so forever.
I notice that I zap more and more often when the war comes into the picture. And I don’t do that zapping alone.
For example, I read that a lady from The Hague was zapping this week Investigation Requested and saw her husband, who was sitting next to her on the couch, rob a Rotterdam jeweler. Half an hour later she delivered him to the police station. I find the latter particularly amusing. That she delivered him like a schoolboy to the hague beavers in The Hague. I don’t think it’s a cool story for a criminal in prison. How did you get arrested? Gunfight? Hostage? Spectacular chase? No, my wife recognized me on TV and took me to the police station. In the electric cargo bike.
In this case a well chosen word.
I think it would be a fascinating moment to see your loved one rob a jewelry store on TV and realize that you didn’t get any of the loot. No charm yet. Or maybe yes. That this lady only now understands how her lover came across that glittering necklace that he recently hung romantically around her empty neck on a sultry summer evening. Those sweet words he then stammered, that uncertain look in his faithful dog eyes, that shaking hand and that soft sigh. God, she loved him then. Always remained a shy boy.
Seeing your loved one on TV can be quite complicated. Mr. Tweebeeke must have seen his wife Pieter Omtzigt interviewed for News hour? Or did he put that off to prepare a peaceful homecoming for her? A pot of infused herbal tea, a jug that is not too hot, a listening ear, soft soothing music and dimmed lights. Because I think Mariëlle could use some loving guidance after Twentse Pietje had very calmly shown her all corners of the studio. It was wonderful television.
But Frans Timmermans also has family who had to watch on Thursday how things went wrong in that daycare center at SBS. That was of course a bit of my own fault with a big belly. Those too tight jackets and that stupid redundancy pay. Deadly. You will be caught for that, Frans. Especially if you are left-wing. Or plays.
Furthermore, the politicians do everything neatly and predictably. They play their games exemplary. The overly adored Saint Omtzigt is already called ‘Saint Peter’ at our house, while Geert simply wants to rule and will do so. Robje is the good altar boy who plays very well that he is childishly happy about a huge loss of seat and Caroline courageously realizes that she peaked too early. Dilan is the new Rutte who is doing away with Rutte’s old politics in a Rutte style. And everyone thinks that is logical at the VVD.
I sincerely feel sorry for poor Mona Keijzer, once the intended new Prime Minister of the Netherlands. She is the absolute failure of Caroline and associates. When this blonde was hoisted onto the shield, things went wrong. And wrong too. She has to do some zapping on Wednesday. There must be something about football or something. Or war. Nice if you like hospital series.