I write to you from a coffee shop on the the shores of Yafo, in the old city part of Tel Aviv. The surf outside crashes on the rocks. The doors and windows are swinging in the breeze as the laughter of children wafts in. Latin samba music hums in the background. You cannot imagine a calmer place, were it not for the fact that people are seated at their tables like statues, each staring at headlines that foretell of an imminent armageddon here.