Monday, April 26, 2004

I remember kites.

I was a 19 year old infantry soldier, on a watch tower in Gibalia, in the first intifada.
It was a bright summer day. I was standing clad in my protective vest, armour and helmet. Gun in hand, looking at the refugee camp around me. The Gaza skyline stretched to the sea, and above it hexagon white kites. I thought of Albert Camus. I thought of a Saturday walk with my father, I'm 7 or 8, and he takes a pen knife out of his pocket to cut some reads. Later, at home, he will split them and dry them and show my how to tie three sections together to construct a kite frame.
I want to take my armour off. Take off my jacket. My uniform. I want to run barefoot in the sands, and fly a kite.
You can beat a stone, you can beat a gun. You can't beat a kite.

Dedicated with admiration to the brave non-violent protestors in Bidu, Beit Surik, and elsewhere.

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