Writing about losses seems so typical now. Everyone here has their own story, but the main point it always the same: some lost one parent, some lost the two of them, and others lost their whole family. After I had written a few stories that are probably presenting a slight percentage of the tragic scenes lots of children have witnessed I thought to myself" there are thousands and hundreds of thousands of the same plot, and of course many before me have written about them. Doesn't the world already know? Hasn't what happened two years ago told enough? Need I say more?

I can not say that when I write about these people and place myself in their little spots I can't say that it doesn't hurt. It does. It cuts so deep. And to me telling their stories is the only way I can help. Not them of course. No one can. They lost the most precious people that their minds can think of, precious to their hearts, to their senses, to their everything. Most of them will grow stronger. Some will feel lonely. Others will seek revenge.

I can tell a happy ending, but that will only happen the day every Palestinian's dream come true, the day when all of us stand under the shadow of justice. Peace. The day when every child sees that his father's dead body lying under this dusty ground has grown a victory so high. Staggering in the snowy land of Jerusalem in the midst of January is the dream.

Until then, my words will be slaved to the reality. Until we make a difference.