An Open Letter to Boaz Kantor
Earlier today I read your “Open Letter to Khalil from Gaza,” the one in which you imagined a Palestinian like yourself — a loving husband and father, trying to do right by his family — and informed him that tonight his seven-year-old daughter would die.
“You’ll wake up in the middle of the night,” you wrote, “to a deafening explosion. Your whole house will tremble. Parts of the ceiling will fall on you. You’ll run to your daughter’s bedroom, and find the northern wall gone, your daughter lying on the broken floor, a charred husk.”
Your piece went on to explain how although it will be your government, the Israeli government, that fires the missile that perpetrates the atrocity you describe with such delectation, he can’t be mad at them, or you.
“You’ll wake up in the middle of the night,” you wrote, “to a deafening explosion. Your whole house will tremble. Parts of the ceiling will fall on you. You’ll run to your daughter’s bedroom, and find the northern wall gone, your daughter lying on the broken floor, a charred husk.”
Your piece went on to explain how although it will be your government, the Israeli government, that fires the missile that perpetrates the atrocity you describe with such delectation, he can’t be mad at them, or you.