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Hatzor Haglilit is a superfluous town, but even superfluous towns don't have superfluous people. I lived nearby, and every time I passed by, I wondered who was the genius who stuck it exactly there, between Kiryat Shmona, Safed and Rosh Pina.

Perhaps back in the early 1950s, they relied on Honi Hame'agel, the righteous man who, according to tradition, is buried nearby and whose prayers were usually answered. But prayer didn't help: Hatzor was and remains a small, forgotten town. More residents have left it than have stayed behind.

Nevertheless, it does have something - a factory called Pri Galil, which every so often must fight for its existence. The factory is Hatzor and Hatzor is the factory. Take the factory away and it will be ghost town.

Now, it once again hovers between life and death. Once again, the sword of closure is at its throat.

More than one town feeds off Pri Galil's meager table. Residents of Tuba-Zanghariya, too, have no other source of employment. But they are merely Bedouin Arabs, recalled only when the town's mosque is torched.

You don't have to be a scoundrel to take refuge in patriotism; you just have to suffer. "True, you're better for the education of our children and their future," Hatzor residents tell the left, "but we were born Likud."

How often we heard this explanation - even when we didn't ask.

Hatzor is not alone; this is what happens to everyone who ties their fate to politicians who only look eastward, to the territories - and never north or south. Pri Hashomron has never been threatened with closure, nor has Pri Yehuda. When was the last time you saw an abandoned factory in the settlements?

Just three weeks ago, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu visited Hatzor and was greeted like an emperor. Immediately thereafter, the first dismissal notices were sent out because the state couldn't come up with the NIS 18 million it had promised. So who's the naked one here - the emperor or his subjects?