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Twenty-seven years ago Arik Einstein wrote an apocalyptic song. It went: “Sitting in front of the paper, the pen in my hand like a sword / Sitting in front of the paper, want to pour it all out. / Sitting facing the paper, seeing you fall / Looking at the paper and cannot make a sound. / Oh my country my homeland, you’re going kaput / You broke my heart into little pieces / We had a...