Scottsdale is a city where the wealthiest residents of Arizona have found refuge. The owners of enormous houses are doctors, jewelers, engineers, and political functionaries. Although it borders Phoenix, the people of Scottsdale are proud of their ZIP code and look down with disdain at the “poor folks” from the neighboring city. Desert Peace is one of many gated communities. At the entrance, there’s a barrier and an armed guard, so any traveler without an invitation is not a welcome guest. “You shall not pass!” the head of the homeowners’ association would shout if he happened to spot a random passerby near the gate.
In the community’s meeting room, the HOA was in session. After a fruitful discussion, it was time to summarize and make decisions. The president, a chubby man in his early seventies, with suspenders partially covering a T-shirt reading Make America Great Again and a pistol hanging loosely on his ample right hip, took the floor to deliver the summary:
“By majority vote, the homeowners’ association rules that the owner of property number 1988 on Understanding Lane must compensate his neighbor at number 1948 for damages and finance the rebuilding of the shared wall that was destroyed during the recent storm. If this is not done within seven days, the HOA will cover the repair costs and move the property line two meters into the responsible party’s yard. Meeting adjourned!”
Even the wealthy are not immune to small human flaws, but on Understanding Lane, the situation was growing more serious by the day—starting with the house numbers. In villa 1988 lived the family of retired botanist Amir Gazavi; next door, the house of jeweler Aron Schwartz bore the number 1948, followed immediately by 1990, 1992… When the local mailman complained about this inconsistency, he was immediately threatened with reassignment and labeled an anti-Semite. According to the zoning plan, backyards were separated by two-meter-high walls so that residents—whether they wanted to or not—minded their own business. The residents obeyed the strict rules set by the wealthiest among them—everyone except Gazavi and Schwartz.
Amir moved in first, living out his retirement peacefully with his wife and their dog Yasser, until the day Englishman Charles Attlee sold the house next door to jeweler Aron. From that day on, the stone-block fence turned into a wall of trouble and lament. The new neighbor immediately raised an Israeli flag, positioned so it fluttered directly above the Gazavi family’s living room. The next morning, neighbors noticed Amir armed with a ladder, tinkering on his roof. By noon, a flag with Palestinian symbols was flying.
Having handed the jewelry shop over to his son, Mr. Schwartz, in his later years, took an interest in computers and artificial intelligence. He completed various online courses and became fairly skilled. Amir, on the other hand, loved flowers, grass, and trees, turning his yard into a lush oasis in the Arizona desert. He had even trained his dog to respect the garden, so Yasser never soiled it. When Aron first peeked over the wall, he burned with jealousy. He waited until Amir went on vacation, sat down at his computer, and hacked into the irrigation system. When Amir returned, his botanical pride resembled his homeland: shriveled plants, withered flowers, a dried-up lemon tree—only the palms had survived. Yasser looked at him sorrowfully, as if apologizing for failing to protect his master’s handiwork.
Amir wasted no time. He ordered a drone from Amazon and paid extra for same-day delivery. After a crash course on YouTube, he learned to “pilot” the marvelous device. On Saturday, when Aron and his family went to synagogue, Amir launched the drone and destroyed the neighbor’s menorah-shaped fountain.
The next day, loud commotion came from 1948. Workers were busy repairing the fountain, while technicians installed a massive video screen aimed at the Gazavi home. When night fell, fiery speeches from Bibi Netanyahu blared first, followed by footage any reasonable court would declare genocidal. Aron, however, was proud of his “countrymen’s work” in Gaza. The noise agitated Yasser, who leaped over the wall and tore the screen’s fabric in seconds. The picture was gone, but not the sound—Hava Nagila Ve-Nismeha still blared from the speakers. Aron had had enough. He pulled out a taser and incapacitated his neighbor’s dog. Hours later, Yasser appeared at his master’s front door draped in a black-and-white checkered keffiyeh.
For the first few months, the petty hostilities ranged on an imaginary scale from harmlessly silly to risky and dangerous, but remained a secret between the two families on opposite sides of the wall. Then the neighborhood madness escalated…
The jeweler reported the professor for animal abuse, bringing the Humane Society to his door. Amir retaliated by accusing Aron of tax evasion, prompting auditors to spend days combing through the jewelry store’s books. Schwartz then sent an anonymous letter to environmental groups claiming his neighbor used excessive water to irrigate his restored garden; Gazavi responded with a letter to city hall alleging the fountain next door was built without a permit. Both dragged various institutions into their private war, but avoided the HOA, fearing expulsion from Desert Peace. These hostilities raged from October 2023 with no end in sight—until recently.
Every July 4th, America celebrates Independence Day. For the Gazavi family, it was a tradition to gather in full. Their son and daughter-in-law from Minnesota would come—and most importantly—bring their five-year-old grandson, Rami. Grandpa Amir prepared thoroughly for the visit. He chose toys carefully and stocked up on ice cream, cakes, halva, and kadaif. Rami played outside, eagerly awaiting nightfall for the surprise his grandfather had prepared—fireworks!
On the other side of the wall, preparations began by noon. Aron tidied the yard, arranged tables and chairs, and lit the grill early “just to let that villain stew in the smoke.” Fat dripped and sizzled, sending unpleasant-smelling smoke toward the neighbor’s yard, while Aron sat at his computer, meticulously preparing his holiday program. Around four, his son and six-year-old grandson Avi arrived. Though it was 113°F in the shade, the Schwartz’s wore dark jackets and black kippot. Father and son baked under the sun while the boy played near his grandfather’s fountain.
Mrs. Gazavi prepared a lavish spread: baba ghanoush and dolma to start, then roast lamb from “Yusuf’s Market,” tabbouleh salad, and fresh pita bread; baklava and tea to finish. Next door, the menu included matzah ball soup, kosher grilled beef, kugel, and challah bread; for dessert, babka cake and watermelon. The women set the tables, the men argued politics, and the kids—unplanned—began a peace mission. They met over the fence, quickly befriended each other, and agreed to meet out front.
They petted Yasser and played with Rami’s new toys (since Grandpa Aron rarely loosened his jeweler’s purse strings). They parted with a promise to watch the fireworks together after dinner. During the meal, the TV blared in the background—Al Jazeera at the Gazavis’, Channel Keshet 12 at the Schwartz’s’. At dusk, as the neighborhood erupted in celebratory firecrackers, grandfathers and grandsons stepped into their yards. Amir had set up his rockets and proudly asked his grandson’s permission to begin.
“Are you ready?”
“Like Paw Patrol before a mission!” the boy replied.
The barrage began: white, green, red… and again. With the first rocket, a little head peeked over the wall. Avi had taken his grandfather’s ladder to get a better view. As the neighbor’s fireworks ended, Aron launched his own show—a virtual display projected onto the Arizona night sky. Blue and white lines formed an expanded map of Israel, the Star of David, and finally the Israeli flag intertwined with the Stars and Stripes. Amir couldn’t believe his eyes. Looking down, he saw Rami on the ladder beside his new friend, both mesmerized.
The grandfathers soon erupted into another fierce argument, joined without hesitation by their sons. They all leaned over the wall like voyeurs in a public park. The boys ignored them at first, then whispered to each other and dashed off home. Minutes later, a racket erupted—Avi and Rami were banging pots with wooden spoons they had swiped from their grandmothers. Shocked by the boys’ protest, the old men fell silent, went indoors, and didn’t speak for the rest of the evening.
In the following days, the neighbors tried to mind their own business. One morning, as they were pulling out of their garages, the grandfathers even let a “good morning” slip. But, as Amir’s mother-in-law wisely said, “It’s not who you say it to—it’s who it’s meant for.”
At the end of the month, monsoon season began—rain, wind, then a big storm. The tempest swept through quickly and efficiently. Trees fell, cars were damaged, basements flooded, and on Understanding Lane, between 1988 and 1948, the wall collapsed. Unable to reach an agreement, they turned to the HOA.
And so, working backward, we return to the start of our story.
When the meeting ended and the decision took effect, Aron immediately filed an appeal, demanding that the Gazavi home be demolished because their dog had urinated on the wall, making it porous.
“Excellent idea!” the HOA president blurted. “We could put a gym there, with a nice restaurant.”
STORY TELLER 
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