The women on the stage brought to life a Palestinian woman whose child had been killed. These women touched my heart with the commonality of our experiences. I, too, am the mother of children, grown now, but I still remember their smallness, their helplessness, their total dependence on me to keep them safe. But I never faced bombs, or bullets, or a soldier with a gun who could shoot whom he pleased, including my baby. The Dance Brigade brought Palestinian people to life for me.
Art touches one's heart, where denial is more difficult.
Now new dilemmas arose for me. This woman had lost her child to an air force which bombed their city, killing civilians indiscriminately, and most painful of all, deliberately. I knew that if I found lies among the explanations, and by then I knew I would, it would be a matter of starting all over in my Middle East education, beginning with the earliest Zionist movement. That is exactly what I had to do, ultimately. . . . I had not had the courage to examine.