The air in Jerusalem is different. My daughter complained of a headache as our bus climbed toward the heart of the city, but I told her it was just the change in elevation. I did not tell her that the air is thicker in Jerusalem,
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KADDISH OF A MOURNING SON
You have not killed her. Not the way you have murdered for honor under the open lip of a wound in the bleeding sun, head caught in the noose of a country’s ideals. Desperate to escape to leave the executioner’s mask on the front lines
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