T
here was a sparse but slow line of cars waiting to pass through the Egyptian checkpoint at the intersection of the coastal highway and Road 65. To the east on Road 65, a long line of dusty crawling vehicles passed by an equally long line of abandoned or burnt out vehicles on the side of the road. To the west, I could see dozens of workers swarming over the giant, twisted frame of Orot Rabin, extracting entrails like some medieval disemboweling. The Egyptians, George said, had been systematically stripping and selling the plant’s metal piping. There was still a lot left, apparently. “There’s still a lot of everything left,” George said, ironically, “but they’ll get it all eventually. Building materials, consumer goods, cars, you name it. Remember the looting in Kuwait after the Iraqi invasion? The rape of Israel is biblical by comparison. In Kuwait, they were limited to what wasn’t tied down. Here, anything still in one piece after the quake is fair game. This is not a Protectorate, my friend, it’s a giant fire sale.” 
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