I grew up during the first Intifada. If you were a child in the late 1980s, you might remember images of Palestinian boys and young men hurling rocks at Israeli tanks and soldiers as they tried in vain to save their homes and families. I remember deeply; those images are etched in my brain because this was my first exposure to where my mother is from. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I would watch my mother watch the news and could tell how bad it was. She would sit on our couch, her hand gently tapping the wall above her head and sadness, fear and anger on her face. I never could understand how these young boys with their little rocks and stones could be considered terrorists and predators, while a well-armed and organized national military could be seen as the victims.
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