I stand guard at the prime minister's office building during the cabinet meetings that take place every Sunday. As a uniformed volunteer, I do not get to handle demonstrators. I may be a police volunteer, but I'm not a cop. At least that's the policy.

Last week, arriving at the street where the prime minister's office building is, I could hear the demonstrators a block away, standing at my normal position near the exit to the Bank of Israel. So I told the Shabaknik, a secret service type, a kid in his twenties hefting an M16, that I was a volunteer and wasn't supposed to handle demonstrators. He pointed to a shady area to stand under, and I basically watched him do his job — searching cars and clicking a clicker that raised a barrier and allowed them to enter the street where the prime minister's office building is located.

Last week, I had to listen to demonstrators from the north of the country, angry over their treatment during the Lebanon War, furious at how the government ran away under the Katyusha assault of HizbAllah, and even angrier over the way the government had abandoned them afterwards.

Repeatedly, they screamed, "Where were the ministers? Where were you when we needed you?" Repeatedly, they made the point that in the twelve months after the war, the government had done nothing to make them whole, had done nothing to compensate them their losses, and that the government ministers hadn't even visited the north. Their basic message was "Time's up! We're here to settle accounts with you and we won't rest till you are thrown out of office!"

All this I absorbed from repetitive screaming in Hebrew over about four hours.

I should point out that this was a relatively small crowd, maybe thirty to fifty people all tolled, but they had one noisy megaphone, and there were at least as many cops and Border Guards as there were demonstrators. Frankly, I felt useless there.

But I could gauge the anger, hatred and resentment against the regime; it is deep and strong, an abiding hatred that comes from a justified sense of betrayal.