Driving in Israel is back. Not “back” like your favorite café finally reopened. Back like a toddler with a marker next to a white leather couch. The ceasefire arrives, and immediately the traffic returns to its natural ecosystem consisting of a loud, impatient, deeply personal argument conducted at 90 km/h with turn signals considered as an optional extra.

There are two additional types of drivers now, and both of them are a biproduct of the crazy times we’re living in.

First, the ballistic missiles dodgers. These drivers have looked at the post-ceasefire roads and decided, ‘yes, this is a modern-day Frogger and I am the frog’. They drive like the car is a secret classified mission and everyone else is either an obstacle or a suspicious collaborator. They weave from lane to lane at superhuman speed, not because they’re late (even though they are), but because the lane they’re in has simply become too slow. They flash the car in front like they’re sending Morse code. Move. Move now. Move because I have decided my destiny is one lane to the left and your existence is administrative.

It’s incredible to watch, in the same way it’s incredible to watch someone carry a full pot of soup down a staircase while texting. You don’t want to look, but you can’t not look.

Then you have the cautious driver. This person drives with the quiet knowledge of where the nearest bomb shelter is at all times, which means they’re ready to stop at minimal notice, ideally at zero notice, preferably in the middle of whatever you were doing. They don’t brake, they prepare. They leave space, they scan, they sit upright like they’re steering the Titanic. Their hazard lights are basically a second personality. Their car is not a vehicle, it’s a rolling contingency plan with an 80’s playlist.

The ballistic missile dodgers treat the cautious driver like a traffic cone that somehow got a license. The cautious driver treats the dodger like a personal threat assessment exercise.

And then there’s the lack of signaling, which is not a flaw in the system. It’s our theological history.

In Israel, no one indicates because living in the Holy Land there’s really no need. After all, our people have a history of prophecy. Why would I reveal my intention to turn when you should have sensed it spiritually? This is not Europe with its “predictability” and “shared expectations.” Here, the road is a live negotiation. If you didn’t foresee me coming into your lane, maybe your connection to the divine needs a software update.

Signals are also dangerously close to admitting uncertainty. Indicating implies, “I am going to do something, please be aware.” That’s already too vulnerable. Here, you do the thing and let the other driver experience it in real time. Surprise is part of the culture. We’ve had enough warning sirens in our lives. The blinker is for tourists and people with feelings.

Now let’s talk about “safe stopping distance.” Remember those numbers they forced you to memorize for the driving test? The little chart that told you how many car lengths you should keep from the car in front at X km/h or mph, depending on where and when you learned how to drive. You repeated it like multiplication tables, convinced the examiner would ask, and then you never thought about it again because life is short and someone is honking.

In Israel, the safe stopping distance is no longer the safe space between you and the car in front. It’s the gap that allows the ballistic missile dodgers to use to weave from lane to lane. You leave two car lengths, because you’re a responsible adult, and immediately a white Tesla appears inside that space as if summoned by your naivety. Not even slowly. It doesn’t merge into the gap. It occupies it, like it always belonged there and you were just babysitting it until the rightful owner arrived.

You watch it happen, you leave distance, a car slides in, you create distance again, another car slides in. It’s like feeding pigeons. The more you try to do the right thing, the more the universe provides you with additional responsibilities.

And while we’re talking about weaving, the lines on the road, those cute little lane separators, are really just there as a guide. A suggestion. Decorative. They’re like the “Serving suggestion” photo on a microwave food box. Nobody thinks the food is actually going to look like that. The dashed lines are a mood. The solid lines are a stronger mood. But moods can be overridden by urgency, entitlement, or a feeling that Waze is just disappointed in you.

Israel has this beautiful local belief that lanes are not fixed. They are flexible spaces you borrow based on confidence. If there’s enough room for half a car, then there’s enough room for a whole car. Physics is negotiable if you commit.

And don’t get me started about texting.

On toll roads like the 6, the middle lane is actually reserved for these drivers. The left lane is for people who ultimately feel the need for speed. The right lane is for trucks and quiet suffering. The middle lane? That’s your mobile office. Forgot to email a work colleague? Don’t worry, there’s time to do it on the 6. The country’s infrastructure has provided you with a dedicated workspace at 110 km/h.

You’ll see them, head down, phone up, drifting slightly like a shopping cart with one bad wheel. Their speed is either 70 or 140, nothing in between. Every few seconds they correct the steering with the casualness of someone stirring coffee. Everyone else will just drive around you.

And the wild part is how normal it all feels. A ceasefire happens and people don’t exhale into peace. They exhale into driving. The chaos doesn’t disappear, it just changes venue. The national stress migrates from the news alerts to the Ayalon.

So yes, traffic is back to a chaotic level. But look on the bright side, you can always tell when Israel is functioning again. The roads are full, nobody indicates, everyone is in a hurry to get absolutely nowhere, and every “safe stopping distance” is just a generous donation to the ballistic missiles dodgers’ weaving fund.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)