Arrow lng not to proceed”. “They don’t think we’re very good enough to go to war”, he added with a slight shrug. “We just want to live our lives”, I replied, as I walked to the kitchen. As we ate my brother told me that “if the war were to become public, it’d mean that I lost my daughter to some terrorist”. I thought about what he said. It was a little too close to my own heart.
I was a member of a tiny militia, just like the small band of people who had gathered across a stretch of gravel in the middle of a riverbank to fight a small and local war. The war was fought under the name of the National Front of Israel, which wanted the destruction of our country. However, despite being active in the 바카라사이트NFI, it had its beginnings in a different country: Gaza. There, I had the pleasure of spending many nights in a small hut we rented in a house that the locals called a house of terror. The next morning I would spend time with some of those same people. There was바카라 a man with a tattoo of an Israeli flag over his right shoulder, the same one that he had been wearijarvees.comng since the war. I would spend the day with these people because they were people who shared my love of the IDF, but most of the time I had the feeling that they never thought about the people and issues we had fought for in Gaza.
Over the years I went back to Israel every two weeks to see if my brother or any other friends were still alive. He died in his mid-60’s of an attack from a Palestinian on the edge of the Israeli towns of Qalqiliya and Gaza City, but it was only during my visits back home that I finally discovered them. For many of us the experience of seeing our brothers die was one of the saddest moments of our lives; our loss became, for a brief moment in our childhood, the first and only time we had seen such things happen in our own country. At first they were only a few of my friends. Then as I spoke to my brother’s family, I felt that their loss was part of the fabric of his life and that their story had meaning to me; to my family and my community.
My brother died after being shot from a distance by a Palestinian with a knife in his hand (although I was shocked and devastated when this had not happened during my time in Gaza). He was a victim of what is commonly called “the knife incident