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I was sitting on my hospital bed, surrounded by people who could never understand, when I heard that the bodies of the three boys had been found. Tears streaming down my face, I stuffed my hand in my mouth to stop myself from keening. I was grateful no one had noticed my distress. How would I have explained that I was mourning three boys I’d never met, who lived in a country far from London, and who I knew only by name? The war hit us next.
Five lives ruptured by the cruel violence of Palestinian terrorists; five beacons of emunah during these challenging times.
I’ve always been intrigued by the ugly tin walls at the back of the Kosel Plaza. I’ve peeked between the slits, but the large, chalk-colored pit only whetted my appetite for an explanation. The earth was dry, but the history must be rich and real.