know there are many Palestinians out there who are sickened and ashamed by what happened in Gaza to the remains of the six dead Israeli soldiers.
I don't hold them responsible; I don't associate them with those acts just because they are Palestinians or Arabs, not in any way.
In fact, I think it's important now to remember Arabs like the Palestinian man who drowned in the Sea of Galilee a couple of years ago trying to save a drowning Israeli boy. I remember a Jaffa Arab who was killed in 1992, I think, trying to stop a wild man from Gaza who was slashing at Jewish children with a saber.
My father passed away this morning.
As I grieve quietly on an Air Canada nonstop to Montreal, there's a part of me that can't help but dread the next seven days. My parents' house will be inundated with visitors, many of whom will bend over backward trying to make me and my family feel better.
I don't begrudge them. I'd do the same thing. In fact, eight months ago when my father's identical twin brother passed away, I found myself caught up in that familiar whirlwind of chatty sympathy that often visits the solemn days of shiva.
It began with the first two human born into this world, the world's first brothers.