April 25, 2026, 17:42. Jerusalem, rooftop of the Austrian Hospice on Ha-Gai Street, Muslim Quarter. I was supposed to meet at four o'clock with Professor Jonathan Garb, the Kabbalah scholar at the Hebrew University, at a café near the Temple Mount. He didn't show, didn't answer the phone. I waited an hour and a half, then went up to the hospice rooftop to smoke. I took the attached photograph at 17:42. A girl about twelve years old, gray checked dress, barefoot, eyes closed.

There's an image I once read in the Zohar, fairly near the beginning. Something with stones, something with the first thing, the foundation, the most ancient. Avnei Bohu. Bohu Stones. I imagined stones smooth like the ones on the seashore, elongated, smooth, but enormous, lying scattered. There are gaps between them. Through the gaps you see the primordial ocean, the waters of the deep, and in them the Leviathan swims. The water below is black. It feels like before the defini

This rare photograph shows my beloved Uncle Mitya (Mattityahu) Abramov. Sadly, in the picture you can see only Uncle Mitya's hand, feeding an unidentified kitten, and behind him a smiling man whom I no longer recognize. It is the only photograph of Uncle Mitya cleared for publication. In 1983, armed KGB forces raided our old neighborhood, where Jewish, Muslim, Armenian, and Russian families lived, all of them barely scraping by. During the search of Uncle Mitya's basement apa

Until this moment I'm still not sure whether it's even advisable, or permitted, to speak about this — but in light of the way recent events have unfolded, I have no choice but to gather what remains of my courage and try to call things by their names. At least so as not to lose my self-respect as a human being. I've already accepted that, as things stand, my physical life is worth nothing and isn't really important either. It all started at the beginning of my work in cinema,