Recently I had the honor of meeting a Jewish woman who lost her son who was killed when he went out for a hike with a friend, just a walk in the desert he loved. It was a hike that cost him, and his friend, their lives. Their bodies were found near a cave, left there after being stabbed and stoned to death by Palestinians. Senseless deaths. Like the death of the Palestinian boy in Jerusalem.
I covered those deaths. I sat in the office and tried to be objective and impartial and push down emotion.
And now, years later, that boy's mother sat across the table from me and I found it hard not to cry.
As a journalist, I cover these awful events, I write a few sentences and explain how these deaths will impact on the chances of peace. And I almost never have the chance to take the time to cry.
And now, I couldn't cry. I couldn't say words of condolence for a tragedy from years earlier. It wasn't the time. It wasn't the place.
The group we were in read together a piece about pain. She said she read it once, and planned to never read it again. Women like her, who are able to go on with their lives, try to put back meaning in a world rendered senseless, deserve medals of honor. And they deserve the time and efforts of others to work together to try and stop insensible violence.
