I swear, that moment I was sure my heart had fallen out of my chest and rolled into the street. I couldn’t understand how I was suddenly seen. It’s true that I wanted someone to talk to me, but I always thought I’d have some time to get myself together before that happened. To do my hair, to put on something nice. That’s why I started to panic, and before he even managed to say another word, I ran away as fast as I could. I got home, out of breath, and didn’t leave the house for three days. Didn’t even dare to look out the window. And all that time I tried to understand how it was possible that I had suddenly been seen. At first I told myself I had probably imagined it, but as time went by I started thinking that maybe it had to do with the shouting. Maybe when you shout, even a person like me can be heard. And the more I thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make, and I actually felt like someone had given me an opportunity to reenter the world through the back door.

Anyway, I started going to all kinds of protests. I’d take a bus to wherever I needed to go. To the Golan Heights, Kiryat Shmona, the Dead Sea, and the factories down south. I went wherever they wanted me to go, figured out who’s against who and started shouting. Usually it was only a matter of minutes before people started looking admiringly, whispering to each other, Look at her shouting, look, and I’d blush and continue, wishing the whispers would never stop. At first I still made sure to check if I even agreed with the protesters, but very early on I realized I didn’t need to. I mean, not that it’s not important, obviously. It’s just that I’d get there and listen and they all always seemed so miserable and so right, that at a certain point I decided that if someone is in enough pain to scream his heart out, who am I to tell him he’s wrong?